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The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, by William Shakespeare This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: A Midsummer Night’s Dream Author: William Shakespeare Release Date: November, 1998 [eBook #1514] [Most recently updated: August 5, 2021] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 Produced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM *** cover A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM by William Shakespeare Contents ACT I Scene I. Athens. A room in the Palace of Theseus Scene II. The Same. A Room in a Cottage ACT II Scene I. A wood near Athens Scene II. Another part of the wood ACT III Scene I. The Wood. Scene II. Another part of the wood ACT IV Scene I. The Wood Scene II. Athens. A Room in Quince’s House ACT V Scene I. Athens. An Apartment in the Palace of Theseus Dramatis Personæ THESEUS, Duke of Athens HIPPOLYTA, Queen of the Amazons, bethrothed to Theseus EGEUS, Father to Hermia HERMIA, daughter to Egeus, in love with Lysander HELENA, in love with Demetrius LYSANDER, in love with Hermia DEMETRIUS, in love with Hermia PHILOSTRATE, Master of the Revels to Theseus QUINCE, the Carpenter SNUG, the Joiner BOTTOM, the Weaver FLUTE, the Bellows-mender SNOUT, the Tinker STARVELING, the Tailor OBERON, King of the Fairies TITANIA, Queen of the Fairies PUCK, or ROBIN GOODFELLOW, a Fairy PEASEBLOSSOM, Fairy COBWEB, Fairy MOTH, Fairy MUSTARDSEED, Fairy PYRAMUS, THISBE, WALL, MOONSHINE, LION; Characters in the Interlude performed by the Clowns Other Fairies attending their King and Queen Attendants on Theseus and Hippolyta SCENE: Athens, and a wood not far from it ACT I SCENE I. Athens. A room in the Palace of Theseus Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Philostrate and Attendants. THESEUS. Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour Draws on apace; four happy days bring in Another moon; but oh, methinks, how slow This old moon wanes! She lingers my desires, Like to a step-dame or a dowager, Long withering out a young man’s revenue. HIPPOLYTA. Four days will quickly steep themselves in night; Four nights will quickly dream away the time; And then the moon, like to a silver bow New bent in heaven, shall behold the night Of our solemnities. THESEUS. Go, Philostrate, Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments; Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth; Turn melancholy forth to funerals; The pale companion is not for our pomp. [_Exit Philostrate. _] Hippolyta, I woo’d thee with my sword, And won thy love doing thee injuries; But I will wed thee in another key, With pomp, with triumph, and with revelling. Enter Egeus, Hermia, Lysander and Demetrius. EGEUS. Happy be Theseus, our renownèd Duke! THESEUS. Thanks, good Egeus. What’s the news with thee? EGEUS. Full of vexation come I, with complaint Against my child, my daughter Hermia. Stand forth, Demetrius. My noble lord, This man hath my consent to marry her. Stand forth, Lysander. And, my gracious Duke, This man hath bewitch’d the bosom of my child. Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rhymes, And interchang’d love-tokens with my child. Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung, With feigning voice, verses of feigning love; And stol’n the impression of her fantasy With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gauds, conceits, Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats (messengers Of strong prevailment in unharden’d youth) With cunning hast thou filch’d my daughter’s heart, Turn’d her obedience (which is due to me) To stubborn harshness. And, my gracious Duke, Be it so she will not here before your grace Consent to marry with Demetrius, I beg the ancient privilege of Athens: As she is mine I may dispose of her; Which shall be either to this gentleman Or to her death, according to our law Immediately provided in that case. THESEUS. What say you, Hermia? Be advis’d, fair maid. To you your father should be as a god; One that compos’d your beauties, yea, and one To whom you are but as a form in wax By him imprinted, and within his power To leave the figure, or disfigure it. Demetrius is a worthy gentleman. HERMIA. So is Lysander. THESEUS. In himself he is. But in this kind, wanting your father’s voice, The other must be held the worthier. HERMIA. I would my father look’d but with my eyes. THESEUS. Rather your eyes must with his judgment look. HERMIA. I do entreat your Grace to pardon me. I know not by what power I am made bold, Nor how it may concern my modesty In such a presence here to plead my thoughts: But I beseech your Grace that I may know The worst that may befall me in this case, If I refuse to wed Demetrius. THESEUS. Either to die the death, or to abjure For ever the society of men. Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires, Know of your youth, examine well your blood, Whether, if you yield not to your father’s choice, You can endure the livery of a nun, For aye to be in shady cloister mew’d, To live a barren sister all your life, Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon. Thrice-blessèd they that master so their blood To undergo such maiden pilgrimage, But earthlier happy is the rose distill’d Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn, Grows, lives, and dies, in single blessedness.

HERMIA. So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord, Ere I will yield my virgin patent up Unto his lordship, whose unwishèd yoke My soul consents not to give sovereignty. THESEUS. Take time to pause; and by the next new moon The sealing-day betwixt my love and me For everlasting bond of fellowship, Upon that day either prepare to die For disobedience to your father’s will, Or else to wed Demetrius, as he would, Or on Diana’s altar to protest For aye austerity and single life. DEMETRIUS. Relent, sweet Hermia; and, Lysander, yield Thy crazèd title to my certain right. LYSANDER. You have her father’s love, Demetrius. Let me have Hermia’s. Do you marry him. EGEUS. Scornful Lysander, true, he hath my love; And what is mine my love shall render him; And she is mine, and all my right of her I do estate unto Demetrius. LYSANDER. I am, my lord, as well deriv’d as he, As well possess’d; my love is more than his; My fortunes every way as fairly rank’d, If not with vantage, as Demetrius’; And, which is more than all these boasts can be, I am belov’d of beauteous Hermia. Why should not I then prosecute my right? Demetrius, I’ll avouch it to his head, Made love to Nedar’s daughter, Helena, And won her soul; and she, sweet lady, dotes, Devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry, Upon this spotted and inconstant man. THESEUS. I must confess that I have heard so much, And with Demetrius thought to have spoke thereof; But, being over-full of self-affairs, My mind did lose it. —But, Demetrius, come, And come, Egeus; you shall go with me. I have some private schooling for you both. — For you, fair Hermia, look you arm yourself To fit your fancies to your father’s will, Or else the law of Athens yields you up (Which by no means we may extenuate) To death, or to a vow of single life. Come, my Hippolyta. What cheer, my love? Demetrius and Egeus, go along; I must employ you in some business Against our nuptial, and confer with you Of something nearly that concerns yourselves. EGEUS. With duty and desire we follow you. [_Exeunt all but Lysander and Hermia. _] LYSANDER. How now, my love? Why is your cheek so pale? How chance the roses there do fade so fast? HERMIA. Belike for want of rain, which I could well Beteem them from the tempest of my eyes. LYSANDER. Ay me! For aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth. But either it was different in blood— HERMIA. O cross! Too high to be enthrall’d to low. LYSANDER. Or else misgraffèd in respect of years— HERMIA. O spite! Too old to be engag’d to young. LYSANDER. Or else it stood upon the choice of friends— HERMIA. O hell! to choose love by another’s eyes! LYSANDER. Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it, Making it momentany as a sound, Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, Brief as the lightning in the collied night That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, And, ere a man hath power to say, ‘Behold! ’ The jaws of darkness do devour it up: So quick bright things come to confusion. HERMIA. If then true lovers have ever cross’d, It stands as an edict in destiny. Then let us teach our trial patience, Because it is a customary cross, As due to love as thoughts and dreams and sighs, Wishes and tears, poor fancy’s followers. LYSANDER. A good persuasion; therefore, hear me, Hermia. I have a widow aunt, a dowager Of great revenue, and she hath no child. From Athens is her house remote seven leagues, And she respects me as her only son. There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee, And to that place the sharp Athenian law Cannot pursue us. If thou lovest me then, Steal forth thy father’s house tomorrow night; And in the wood, a league without the town (Where I did meet thee once with Helena To do observance to a morn of May), There will I stay for thee. HERMIA. My good Lysander! I swear to thee by Cupid’s strongest bow, By his best arrow with the golden head, By the simplicity of Venus’ doves, By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves, And by that fire which burn’d the Carthage queen When the false Trojan under sail was seen, By all the vows that ever men have broke (In number more than ever women spoke), In that same place thou hast appointed me, Tomorrow truly will I meet with thee. LYSANDER. Keep promise, love. Look, here comes Helena. Enter Helena. HERMIA. God speed fair Helena! Whither away? HELENA. Call you me fair? That fair again unsay. Demetrius loves your fair. O happy fair! Your eyes are lode-stars and your tongue’s sweet air More tuneable than lark to shepherd’s ear, When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. Sickness is catching. O were favour so, Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go. My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye, My tongue should catch your tongue’s sweet melody. Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated, The rest I’d give to be to you translated. O, teach me how you look, and with what art You sway the motion of Demetrius’ heart! HERMIA. I frown upon him, yet he loves me still. HELENA. O that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill! HERMIA. I give him curses, yet he gives me love. HELENA. O that my prayers could such affection move! HERMIA. The more I hate, the more he follows me. HELENA. The more I love, the more he hateth me. HERMIA. His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine. HELENA. None but your beauty; would that fault were mine! HERMIA. Take comfort: he no more shall see my face; Lysander and myself will fly this place. Before the time I did Lysander see, Seem’d Athens as a paradise to me. O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, That he hath turn’d a heaven into hell! LYSANDER. Helen, to you our minds we will unfold: Tomorrow night, when Phoebe doth behold Her silver visage in the watery glass,

Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass (A time that lovers’ flights doth still conceal), Through Athens’ gates have we devis’d to steal. HERMIA. And in the wood where often you and I Upon faint primrose beds were wont to lie, Emptying our bosoms of their counsel sweet, There my Lysander and myself shall meet, And thence from Athens turn away our eyes, To seek new friends and stranger companies. Farewell, sweet playfellow. Pray thou for us, And good luck grant thee thy Demetrius! Keep word, Lysander. We must starve our sight From lovers’ food, till morrow deep midnight. LYSANDER. I will, my Hermia. [_Exit Hermia. _] Helena, adieu. As you on him, Demetrius dote on you! [_Exit Lysander. _] HELENA. How happy some o’er other some can be! Through Athens I am thought as fair as she. But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so; He will not know what all but he do know. And as he errs, doting on Hermia’s eyes, So I, admiring of his qualities. Things base and vile, holding no quantity, Love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; And therefore is wing’d Cupid painted blind. Nor hath love’s mind of any judgment taste. Wings, and no eyes, figure unheedy haste. And therefore is love said to be a child, Because in choice he is so oft beguil’d. As waggish boys in game themselves forswear, So the boy Love is perjur’d everywhere. For, ere Demetrius look’d on Hermia’s eyne, He hail’d down oaths that he was only mine; And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt, So he dissolv’d, and showers of oaths did melt. I will go tell him of fair Hermia’s flight. Then to the wood will he tomorrow night Pursue her; and for this intelligence If I have thanks, it is a dear expense. But herein mean I to enrich my pain, To have his sight thither and back again. [_Exit Helena. _] SCENE II. The Same. A Room in a Cottage Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout and Starveling. QUINCE. Is all our company here? BOTTOM. You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the scrip. QUINCE. Here is the scroll of every man’s name, which is thought fit through all Athens, to play in our interlude before the Duke and Duchess, on his wedding-day at night. BOTTOM. First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats on; then read the names of the actors; and so grow to a point. QUINCE. Marry, our play is _The most lamentable comedy and most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisbe_. BOTTOM. A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry. Now, good Peter Quince, call forth your actors by the scroll. Masters, spread yourselves. QUINCE. Answer, as I call you. Nick Bottom, the weaver. BOTTOM. Ready. Name what part I am for, and proceed. QUINCE. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus. BOTTOM. What is Pyramus—a lover, or a tyrant? QUINCE. A lover, that kills himself most gallantly for love. BOTTOM. That will ask some tears in the true performing of it. If I do it, let the audience look to their eyes. I will move storms; I will condole in some measure. To the rest—yet my chief humour is for a tyrant. I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make all split. The raging rocks And shivering shocks Shall break the locks Of prison gates, And Phibbus’ car Shall shine from far, And make and mar The foolish Fates. This was lofty. Now name the rest of the players. This is Ercles’ vein, a tyrant’s vein; a lover is more condoling. QUINCE. Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. FLUTE. Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE. Flute, you must take Thisbe on you. FLUTE. What is Thisbe? A wandering knight? QUINCE. It is the lady that Pyramus must love. FLUTE. Nay, faith, let not me play a woman. I have a beard coming. QUINCE. That’s all one. You shall play it in a mask, and you may speak as small as you will. BOTTOM. And I may hide my face, let me play Thisbe too. I’ll speak in a monstrous little voice; ‘Thisne, Thisne! ’—‘Ah, Pyramus, my lover dear! thy Thisbe dear! and lady dear! ’ QUINCE. No, no, you must play Pyramus; and, Flute, you Thisbe. BOTTOM. Well, proceed. QUINCE. Robin Starveling, the tailor. STARVELING. Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE. Robin Starveling, you must play Thisbe’s mother. Tom Snout, the tinker. SNOUT Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE. You, Pyramus’ father; myself, Thisbe’s father; Snug, the joiner, you, the lion’s part. And, I hope here is a play fitted. SNUG Have you the lion’s part written? Pray you, if it be, give it me, for I am slow of study. QUINCE. You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring. BOTTOM. Let me play the lion too. I will roar that I will do any man’s heart good to hear me. I will roar that I will make the Duke say ‘Let him roar again, let him roar again. ’ QUINCE. If you should do it too terribly, you would fright the Duchess and the ladies, that they would shriek; and that were enough to hang us all. ALL That would hang us every mother’s son. BOTTOM. I grant you, friends, if you should fright the ladies out of their wits, they would have no more discretion but to hang us. But I will aggravate my voice so, that I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove; I will roar you an ’twere any nightingale. QUINCE. You can play no part but Pyramus, for Pyramus is a sweet-faced man; a proper man as one shall see in a summer’s day; a most lovely gentleman-like man. Therefore you must needs play Pyramus.

BOTTOM. Well, I will undertake it. What beard were I best to play it in? QUINCE. Why, what you will. BOTTOM. I will discharge it in either your straw-colour beard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your French-crown-colour beard, your perfect yellow. QUINCE. Some of your French crowns have no hair at all, and then you will play bare-faced. But, masters, here are your parts, and I am to entreat you, request you, and desire you, to con them by tomorrow night; and meet me in the palace wood, a mile without the town, by moonlight; there will we rehearse, for if we meet in the city, we shall be dogg’d with company, and our devices known. In the meantime I will draw a bill of properties, such as our play wants. I pray you fail me not. BOTTOM. We will meet, and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courageously. Take pains, be perfect; adieu. QUINCE. At the Duke’s oak we meet. BOTTOM. Enough. Hold, or cut bow-strings. [_Exeunt. _] ACT II SCENE I. A wood near Athens Enter a Fairy at one door, and Puck at another. PUCK. How now, spirit! Whither wander you? FAIRY Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moon’s sphere; And I serve the Fairy Queen, To dew her orbs upon the green. The cowslips tall her pensioners be, In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favours, In those freckles live their savours. I must go seek some dew-drops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear. Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I’ll be gone. Our Queen and all her elves come here anon. PUCK. The King doth keep his revels here tonight; Take heed the Queen come not within his sight, For Oberon is passing fell and wrath, Because that she, as her attendant, hath A lovely boy, stol’n from an Indian king; She never had so sweet a changeling. And jealous Oberon would have the child Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild: But she perforce withholds the lovèd boy, Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy. And now they never meet in grove or green, By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen, But they do square; that all their elves for fear Creep into acorn cups, and hide them there. FAIRY Either I mistake your shape and making quite, Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite Call’d Robin Goodfellow. Are not you he That frights the maidens of the villagery, Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern, And bootless make the breathless housewife churn, And sometime make the drink to bear no barm, Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm? Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck, You do their work, and they shall have good luck. Are not you he? PUCK. Thou speak’st aright; I am that merry wanderer of the night. I jest to Oberon, and make him smile, When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile, Neighing in likeness of a filly foal; And sometime lurk I in a gossip’s bowl In very likeness of a roasted crab, And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob, And on her withered dewlap pour the ale. The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale, Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me; Then slip I from her bum, down topples she, And ‘tailor’ cries, and falls into a cough; And then the whole quire hold their hips and loffe And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear A merrier hour was never wasted there. But room, fairy. Here comes Oberon. FAIRY And here my mistress. Would that he were gone! Enter Oberon at one door, with his Train, and Titania at another, with hers. OBERON. Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania. TITANIA. What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence; I have forsworn his bed and company. OBERON. Tarry, rash wanton; am not I thy lord? TITANIA. Then I must be thy lady; but I know When thou hast stol’n away from fairyland, And in the shape of Corin sat all day Playing on pipes of corn, and versing love To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here, Come from the farthest steep of India, But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon, Your buskin’d mistress and your warrior love, To Theseus must be wedded; and you come To give their bed joy and prosperity? OBERON. How canst thou thus, for shame, Titania, Glance at my credit with Hippolyta, Knowing I know thy love to Theseus? Didst not thou lead him through the glimmering night From Perigenia, whom he ravished? And make him with fair Aegles break his faith, With Ariadne and Antiopa? TITANIA. These are the forgeries of jealousy: And never, since the middle summer’s spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By pavèd fountain, or by rushy brook, Or on the beachèd margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturb’d our sport. Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, As in revenge, have suck’d up from the sea Contagious fogs; which, falling in the land, Hath every pelting river made so proud That they have overborne their continents. The ox hath therefore stretch’d his yoke in vain, The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn Hath rotted ere his youth attain’d a beard. The fold stands empty in the drownèd field, And crows are fatted with the murrion flock; The nine-men’s-morris is fill’d up with mud, And the quaint mazes in the wanton green, For lack of tread, are undistinguishable. The human mortals want their winter here. No night is now with hymn or carol blest. Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger, washes all the air, That rheumatic diseases do abound. And thorough this distemperature we see The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose; And on old Hiems’ thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries; and the mazed world, By their increase, now knows not which is which. And this same progeny of evils comes From our debate, from our dissension; We are their parents and original. OBERON. Do you amend it, then. It lies in you. Why should Titania cross her Oberon? I do but beg a little changeling boy To be my henchman. TITANIA. Set your heart at rest; The fairyland buys not the child of me. His mother was a vot’ress of my order, And in the spicèd Indian air, by night,

Full often hath she gossip’d by my side; And sat with me on Neptune’s yellow sands, Marking th’ embarkèd traders on the flood, When we have laugh’d to see the sails conceive, And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind; Which she, with pretty and with swimming gait Following (her womb then rich with my young squire), Would imitate, and sail upon the land, To fetch me trifles, and return again, As from a voyage, rich with merchandise. But she, being mortal, of that boy did die; And for her sake do I rear up her boy, And for her sake I will not part with him. OBERON. How long within this wood intend you stay? TITANIA. Perchance till after Theseus’ wedding-day. If you will patiently dance in our round, And see our moonlight revels, go with us; If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts. OBERON. Give me that boy and I will go with thee. TITANIA. Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away. We shall chide downright if I longer stay. [_Exit Titania with her Train. _] OBERON. Well, go thy way. Thou shalt not from this grove Till I torment thee for this injury. — My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememb’rest Since once I sat upon a promontory, And heard a mermaid on a dolphin’s back Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath That the rude sea grew civil at her song And certain stars shot madly from their spheres To hear the sea-maid’s music. PUCK. I remember. OBERON. That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not), Flying between the cold moon and the earth, Cupid all arm’d: a certain aim he took At a fair vestal, thronèd by the west, And loos’d his love-shaft smartly from his bow As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts. But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft Quench’d in the chaste beams of the watery moon; And the imperial votress passed on, In maiden meditation, fancy-free. Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness. Fetch me that flower, the herb I showed thee once: The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid Will make or man or woman madly dote Upon the next live creature that it sees. Fetch me this herb, and be thou here again Ere the leviathan can swim a league. PUCK. I’ll put a girdle round about the earth In forty minutes. [_Exit Puck. _] OBERON. Having once this juice, I’ll watch Titania when she is asleep, And drop the liquor of it in her eyes: The next thing then she waking looks upon (Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull, On meddling monkey, or on busy ape) She shall pursue it with the soul of love. And ere I take this charm from off her sight (As I can take it with another herb) I’ll make her render up her page to me. But who comes here? I am invisible; And I will overhear their conference. Enter Demetrius, Helena following him. DEMETRIUS. I love thee not, therefore pursue me not. Where is Lysander and fair Hermia? The one I’ll slay, the other slayeth me. Thou told’st me they were stol’n into this wood, And here am I, and wode within this wood Because I cannot meet with Hermia. Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more. HELENA. You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant, But yet you draw not iron, for my heart Is true as steel. Leave you your power to draw, And I shall have no power to follow you. DEMETRIUS. Do I entice you? Do I speak you fair? Or rather do I not in plainest truth Tell you I do not, nor I cannot love you? HELENA. And even for that do I love you the more. I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius, The more you beat me, I will fawn on you. Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me, Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave, Unworthy as I am, to follow you. What worser place can I beg in your love, (And yet a place of high respect with me) Than to be usèd as you use your dog? DEMETRIUS. Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit; For I am sick when I do look on thee. HELENA. And I am sick when I look not on you. DEMETRIUS. You do impeach your modesty too much To leave the city and commit yourself Into the hands of one that loves you not, To trust the opportunity of night. And the ill counsel of a desert place, With the rich worth of your virginity. HELENA. Your virtue is my privilege: for that. It is not night when I do see your face, Therefore I think I am not in the night; Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company, For you, in my respect, are all the world. Then how can it be said I am alone When all the world is here to look on me? DEMETRIUS. I’ll run from thee and hide me in the brakes, And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts. HELENA. The wildest hath not such a heart as you. Run when you will, the story shall be chang’d; Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase; The dove pursues the griffin, the mild hind Makes speed to catch the tiger. Bootless speed, When cowardice pursues and valour flies! DEMETRIUS. I will not stay thy questions. Let me go, Or if thou follow me, do not believe But I shall do thee mischief in the wood. HELENA. Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field, You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius! Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex. We cannot fight for love as men may do. We should be woo’d, and were not made to woo. [_Exit Demetrius. _] I’ll follow thee, and make a heaven of hell, To die upon the hand I love so well. [_Exit Helena. _] OBERON. Fare thee well, nymph. Ere he do leave this grove, Thou shalt fly him, and he shall seek thy love. Enter Puck. Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer. PUCK. Ay, there it is. OBERON. I pray thee give it me. I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine. There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight; And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin, Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in. And with the juice of this I’ll streak her eyes, And make her full of hateful fantasies. Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove: A sweet Athenian lady is in love

With a disdainful youth. Anoint his eyes; But do it when the next thing he espies May be the lady. Thou shalt know the man By the Athenian garments he hath on. Effect it with some care, that he may prove More fond on her than she upon her love: And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow. PUCK. Fear not, my lord, your servant shall do so. [_Exeunt. _] SCENE II. Another part of the wood Enter Titania with her Train. TITANIA. Come, now a roundel and a fairy song; Then for the third part of a minute, hence; Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds; Some war with reremice for their leathern wings, To make my small elves coats; and some keep back The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots and wonders At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep; Then to your offices, and let me rest. Fairies sing. FIRST FAIRY. You spotted snakes with double tongue, Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; Newts and blind-worms do no wrong, Come not near our Fairy Queen: CHORUS. Philomel, with melody, Sing in our sweet lullaby: Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby. Never harm, nor spell, nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So good night, with lullaby. FIRST FAIRY. Weaving spiders, come not here; Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence. Beetles black, approach not near; Worm nor snail do no offence. CHORUS. Philomel with melody, &c. SECOND FAIRY. Hence away! Now all is well. One aloof stand sentinel. [_Exeunt Fairies. Titania sleeps. _] Enter Oberon. OBERON. What thou seest when thou dost wake, [_Squeezes the flower on Titania’s eyelids. _] Do it for thy true love take; Love and languish for his sake. Be it ounce, or cat, or bear, Pard, or boar with bristled hair, In thy eye that shall appear When thou wak’st, it is thy dear. Wake when some vile thing is near. [_Exit. _] Enter Lysander and Hermia. LYSANDER. Fair love, you faint with wand’ring in the wood. And, to speak troth, I have forgot our way. We’ll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good, And tarry for the comfort of the day. HERMIA. Be it so, Lysander: find you out a bed, For I upon this bank will rest my head. LYSANDER. One turf shall serve as pillow for us both; One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth. HERMIA. Nay, good Lysander; for my sake, my dear, Lie further off yet, do not lie so near. LYSANDER. O take the sense, sweet, of my innocence! Love takes the meaning in love’s conference. I mean that my heart unto yours is knit, So that but one heart we can make of it: Two bosoms interchainèd with an oath, So then two bosoms and a single troth. Then by your side no bed-room me deny; For lying so, Hermia, I do not lie. HERMIA. Lysander riddles very prettily. Now much beshrew my manners and my pride, If Hermia meant to say Lysander lied! But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy Lie further off, in human modesty, Such separation as may well be said Becomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid, So far be distant; and good night, sweet friend: Thy love ne’er alter till thy sweet life end! LYSANDER. Amen, amen, to that fair prayer say I; And then end life when I end loyalty! Here is my bed. Sleep give thee all his rest! HERMIA. With half that wish the wisher’s eyes be pressed! [_They sleep. _] Enter Puck. PUCK. Through the forest have I gone, But Athenian found I none, On whose eyes I might approve This flower’s force in stirring love. Night and silence! Who is here? Weeds of Athens he doth wear: This is he, my master said, Despisèd the Athenian maid; And here the maiden, sleeping sound, On the dank and dirty ground. Pretty soul, she durst not lie Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy. Churl, upon thy eyes I throw All the power this charm doth owe; When thou wak’st let love forbid Sleep his seat on thy eyelid. So awake when I am gone; For I must now to Oberon. [_Exit. _] Enter Demetrius and Helena, running. HELENA. Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius. DEMETRIUS. I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus. HELENA. O, wilt thou darkling leave me? Do not so. DEMETRIUS. Stay, on thy peril; I alone will go. [_Exit Demetrius. _] HELENA. O, I am out of breath in this fond chase! The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace. Happy is Hermia, wheresoe’er she lies, For she hath blessèd and attractive eyes. How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears. If so, my eyes are oftener wash’d than hers. No, no, I am as ugly as a bear, For beasts that meet me run away for fear: Therefore no marvel though Demetrius Do, as a monster, fly my presence thus. What wicked and dissembling glass of mine Made me compare with Hermia’s sphery eyne? But who is here? Lysander, on the ground! Dead or asleep? I see no blood, no wound. Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake. LYSANDER. [_Waking. _] And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake. Transparent Helena! Nature shows art, That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart. Where is Demetrius? O, how fit a word Is that vile name to perish on my sword! HELENA. Do not say so, Lysander, say not so. What though he love your Hermia? Lord, what though? Yet Hermia still loves you. Then be content. LYSANDER. Content with Hermia? No, I do repent The tedious minutes I with her have spent. Not Hermia, but Helena I love. Who will not change a raven for a dove?

The will of man is by his reason sway’d, And reason says you are the worthier maid. Things growing are not ripe until their season; So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason; And touching now the point of human skill, Reason becomes the marshal to my will, And leads me to your eyes, where I o’erlook Love’s stories, written in love’s richest book. HELENA. Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Is’t not enough, is’t not enough, young man, That I did never, no, nor never can Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius’ eye, But you must flout my insufficiency? Good troth, you do me wrong, good sooth, you do, In such disdainful manner me to woo. But fare you well; perforce I must confess, I thought you lord of more true gentleness. O, that a lady of one man refus’d, Should of another therefore be abus’d! [_Exit. _] LYSANDER. She sees not Hermia. Hermia, sleep thou there, And never mayst thou come Lysander near! For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings; Or as the heresies that men do leave Are hated most of those they did deceive; So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me! And, all my powers, address your love and might To honour Helen, and to be her knight! [_Exit. _] HERMIA. [_Starting. _] Help me, Lysander, help me! Do thy best To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast! Ay me, for pity! What a dream was here! Lysander, look how I do quake with fear. Methought a serpent eat my heart away, And you sat smiling at his cruel prey. Lysander! What, removed? Lysander! lord! What, out of hearing? Gone? No sound, no word? Alack, where are you? Speak, and if you hear; Speak, of all loves! I swoon almost with fear. No? Then I well perceive you are not nigh. Either death or you I’ll find immediately. [_Exit. _] ACT III SCENE I. The Wood. The Queen of Fairies still lying asleep. Enter Bottom, Quince, Snout, Starveling, Snug and Flute. BOTTOM. Are we all met? QUINCE. Pat, pat; and here’s a marvellous convenient place for our rehearsal. This green plot shall be our stage, this hawthorn brake our tiring-house; and we will do it in action, as we will do it before the Duke. BOTTOM. Peter Quince? QUINCE. What sayest thou, bully Bottom? BOTTOM. There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisbe that will never please. First, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself; which the ladies cannot abide. How answer you that? SNOUT By’r lakin, a parlous fear. STARVELING. I believe we must leave the killing out, when all is done. BOTTOM. Not a whit; I have a device to make all well. Write me a prologue, and let the prologue seem to say we will do no harm with our swords, and that Pyramus is not killed indeed; and for the more better assurance, tell them that I Pyramus am not Pyramus but Bottom the weaver. This will put them out of fear. QUINCE. Well, we will have such a prologue; and it shall be written in eight and six. BOTTOM. No, make it two more; let it be written in eight and eight. SNOUT Will not the ladies be afeard of the lion? STARVELING. I fear it, I promise you. BOTTOM. Masters, you ought to consider with yourselves, to bring in (God shield us! ) a lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing. For there is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living; and we ought to look to it. SNOUT Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion. BOTTOM. Nay, you must name his name, and half his face must be seen through the lion’s neck; and he himself must speak through, saying thus, or to the same defect: ‘Ladies,’ or, ‘Fair ladies, I would wish you,’ or, ‘I would request you,’ or, ’I would entreat you, not to fear, not to tremble: my life for yours. If you think I come hither as a lion, it were pity of my life. No, I am no such thing; I am a man as other men are’: and there, indeed, let him name his name, and tell them plainly he is Snug the joiner. QUINCE. Well, it shall be so. But there is two hard things: that is, to bring the moonlight into a chamber, for you know, Pyramus and Thisbe meet by moonlight. SNOUT Doth the moon shine that night we play our play? BOTTOM. A calendar, a calendar! Look in the almanack; find out moonshine, find out moonshine. QUINCE. Yes, it doth shine that night. BOTTOM. Why, then may you leave a casement of the great chamber window, where we play, open; and the moon may shine in at the casement. QUINCE. Ay; or else one must come in with a bush of thorns and a lantern, and say he comes to disfigure or to present the person of Moonshine. Then there is another thing: we must have a wall in the great chamber; for Pyramus and Thisbe, says the story, did talk through the chink of a wall. SNOUT You can never bring in a wall. What say you, Bottom? BOTTOM. Some man or other must present Wall. And let him have some plaster, or some loam, or some rough-cast about him, to signify wall; and let him hold his fingers thus, and through that cranny shall Pyramus and Thisbe whisper. QUINCE. If that may be, then all is well. Come, sit down, every mother’s son, and rehearse your parts. Pyramus, you begin: when you have spoken your speech, enter into that brake; and so everyone according to his cue. Enter Puck behind. PUCK. What hempen homespuns have we swaggering here, So near the cradle of the Fairy Queen? What, a play toward? I’ll be an auditor; An actor too perhaps, if I see cause. QUINCE. Speak, Pyramus. —Thisbe, stand forth. PYRAMUS. _Thisbe, the flowers of odious savours sweet_ QUINCE. Odours, odours. PYRAMUS. _. . . odours savours sweet. So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisbe dear. But hark, a voice!

Stay thou but here awhile, And by and by I will to thee appear. _ [_Exit. _] PUCK. A stranger Pyramus than e’er played here! [_Exit. _] THISBE. Must I speak now? QUINCE. Ay, marry, must you, For you must understand he goes but to see a noise that he heard, and is to come again. THISBE. _Most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white of hue, Of colour like the red rose on triumphant brier, Most brisky juvenal, and eke most lovely Jew, As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire, I’ll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny’s tomb. _ QUINCE. Ninus’ tomb, man! Why, you must not speak that yet. That you answer to Pyramus. You speak all your part at once, cues, and all. —Pyramus enter! Your cue is past; it is ‘never tire. ’ THISBE. O, _As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire. _ Enter Puck and Bottom with an ass’s head. PYRAMUS. _If I were fair, Thisbe, I were only thine. _ QUINCE. O monstrous! O strange! We are haunted. Pray, masters, fly, masters! Help! [_Exeunt Clowns. _] PUCK. I’ll follow you. I’ll lead you about a round, Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier; Sometime a horse I’ll be, sometime a hound, A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire; And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn, Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn. [_Exit. _] BOTTOM. Why do they run away? This is a knavery of them to make me afeard. Enter Snout. SNOUT O Bottom, thou art changed! What do I see on thee? BOTTOM. What do you see? You see an ass-head of your own, do you? [_Exit Snout. _] Enter Quince. QUINCE. Bless thee, Bottom! bless thee! Thou art translated. [_Exit. _] BOTTOM. I see their knavery. This is to make an ass of me, to fright me, if they could. But I will not stir from this place, do what they can. I will walk up and down here, and I will sing, that they shall hear I am not afraid. [_Sings. _] The ousel cock, so black of hue, With orange-tawny bill, The throstle with his note so true, The wren with little quill. TITANIA. [_Waking. _] What angel wakes me from my flowery bed? BOTTOM. [_Sings. _] The finch, the sparrow, and the lark, The plain-song cuckoo gray, Whose note full many a man doth mark, And dares not answer nay. for, indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish a bird? Who would give a bird the lie, though he cry ‘cuckoo’ never so? TITANIA. I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again. Mine ear is much enamour’d of thy note. So is mine eye enthrallèd to thy shape; And thy fair virtue’s force perforce doth move me, On the first view, to say, to swear, I love thee. BOTTOM. Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason for that. And yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays. The more the pity that some honest neighbours will not make them friends. Nay, I can gleek upon occasion. TITANIA. Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful. BOTTOM. Not so, neither; but if I had wit enough to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn. TITANIA. Out of this wood do not desire to go. Thou shalt remain here whether thou wilt or no. I am a spirit of no common rate. The summer still doth tend upon my state; And I do love thee: therefore, go with me. I’ll give thee fairies to attend on thee; And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep, And sing, while thou on pressèd flowers dost sleep. And I will purge thy mortal grossness so That thou shalt like an airy spirit go. — Peaseblossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustardseed! Enter four Fairies. PEASEBLOSSOM. Ready. COBWEB. And I. MOTH. And I. MUSTARDSEED. And I. ALL. Where shall we go? TITANIA. Be kind and courteous to this gentleman; Hop in his walks and gambol in his eyes; Feed him with apricocks and dewberries, With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries; The honey-bags steal from the humble-bees, And for night-tapers, crop their waxen thighs, And light them at the fiery glow-worm’s eyes, To have my love to bed and to arise; And pluck the wings from painted butterflies, To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes. Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies. PEASEBLOSSOM. Hail, mortal! COBWEB. Hail! MOTH. Hail! MUSTARDSEED. Hail! BOTTOM. I cry your worships mercy, heartily. —I beseech your worship’s name. COBWEB. Cobweb. BOTTOM. I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Cobweb. If I cut my finger, I shall make bold with you. —Your name, honest gentleman? PEASEBLOSSOM. Peaseblossom. BOTTOM. I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squash, your mother, and to Master Peascod, your father. Good Master Peaseblossom, I shall desire you of more acquaintance too. —Your name, I beseech you, sir? MUSTARDSEED.

Mustardseed. BOTTOM. Good Master Mustardseed, I know your patience well. That same cowardly giant-like ox-beef hath devoured many a gentleman of your house. I promise you, your kindred hath made my eyes water ere now. I desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Mustardseed. TITANIA. Come, wait upon him; lead him to my bower. The moon, methinks, looks with a watery eye, And when she weeps, weeps every little flower, Lamenting some enforced chastity. Tie up my love’s tongue, bring him silently. [_Exeunt. _] SCENE II. Another part of the wood Enter Oberon. OBERON. I wonder if Titania be awak’d; Then, what it was that next came in her eye, Which she must dote on in extremity. Enter Puck. Here comes my messenger. How now, mad spirit? What night-rule now about this haunted grove? PUCK. My mistress with a monster is in love. Near to her close and consecrated bower, While she was in her dull and sleeping hour, A crew of patches, rude mechanicals, That work for bread upon Athenian stalls, Were met together to rehearse a play Intended for great Theseus’ nuptial day. The shallowest thick-skin of that barren sort Who Pyramus presented in their sport, Forsook his scene and enter’d in a brake. When I did him at this advantage take, An ass’s nole I fixed on his head. Anon, his Thisbe must be answerèd, And forth my mimic comes. When they him spy, As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye, Or russet-pated choughs, many in sort, Rising and cawing at the gun’s report, Sever themselves and madly sweep the sky, So at his sight away his fellows fly, And at our stamp, here o’er and o’er one falls; He murder cries, and help from Athens calls. Their sense thus weak, lost with their fears, thus strong, Made senseless things begin to do them wrong; For briers and thorns at their apparel snatch; Some sleeves, some hats, from yielders all things catch. I led them on in this distracted fear, And left sweet Pyramus translated there. When in that moment, so it came to pass, Titania wak’d, and straightway lov’d an ass. OBERON. This falls out better than I could devise. But hast thou yet latch’d the Athenian’s eyes With the love-juice, as I did bid thee do? PUCK. I took him sleeping—that is finish’d too— And the Athenian woman by his side, That, when he wak’d, of force she must be ey’d. Enter Demetrius and Hermia. OBERON. Stand close. This is the same Athenian. PUCK. This is the woman, but not this the man. DEMETRIUS. O why rebuke you him that loves you so? Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe. HERMIA. Now I but chide, but I should use thee worse, For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse. If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep, Being o’er shoes in blood, plunge in the deep, And kill me too. The sun was not so true unto the day As he to me. Would he have stol’n away From sleeping Hermia? I’ll believe as soon This whole earth may be bor’d, and that the moon May through the centre creep and so displease Her brother’s noontide with th’ Antipodes. It cannot be but thou hast murder’d him. So should a murderer look, so dead, so grim. DEMETRIUS. So should the murder’d look, and so should I, Pierc’d through the heart with your stern cruelty. Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear, As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere. HERMIA. What’s this to my Lysander? Where is he? Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me? DEMETRIUS. I had rather give his carcass to my hounds. HERMIA. Out, dog! Out, cur! Thou driv’st me past the bounds Of maiden’s patience. Hast thou slain him, then? Henceforth be never number’d among men! O once tell true; tell true, even for my sake! Durst thou have look’d upon him, being awake, And hast thou kill’d him sleeping? O brave touch! Could not a worm, an adder, do so much? An adder did it; for with doubler tongue Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung. DEMETRIUS. You spend your passion on a mispris’d mood: I am not guilty of Lysander’s blood; Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell. HERMIA. I pray thee, tell me then that he is well. DEMETRIUS. And if I could, what should I get therefore? HERMIA. A privilege never to see me more. And from thy hated presence part I so: See me no more, whether he be dead or no. [_Exit. _] DEMETRIUS. There is no following her in this fierce vein. Here, therefore, for a while I will remain. So sorrow’s heaviness doth heavier grow For debt that bankrupt sleep doth sorrow owe; Which now in some slight measure it will pay, If for his tender here I make some stay. [_Lies down. _] OBERON. What hast thou done? Thou hast mistaken quite, And laid the love-juice on some true-love’s sight. Of thy misprision must perforce ensue Some true love turn’d, and not a false turn’d true. PUCK. Then fate o’er-rules, that, one man holding troth, A million fail, confounding oath on oath. OBERON. About the wood go swifter than the wind, And Helena of Athens look thou find. All fancy-sick she is, and pale of cheer With sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear. By some illusion see thou bring her here; I’ll charm his eyes against she do appear. PUCK. I go, I go; look how I go, Swifter than arrow from the Tartar’s bow. [_Exit. _] OBERON. Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid’s archery, Sink in apple of his eye. When his love he doth espy, Let her shine as gloriously As the Venus of the sky. — When thou wak’st, if she be by, Beg of her for remedy. Enter Puck. PUCK. Captain of our fairy band, Helena is here at hand, And the youth mistook by me, Pleading for a lover’s fee. Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be! OBERON. Stand aside. The noise they make Will cause Demetrius to awake. PUCK. Then will two at once woo one.

That must needs be sport alone; And those things do best please me That befall prepost’rously. Enter Lysander and Helena. LYSANDER. Why should you think that I should woo in scorn? Scorn and derision never come in tears. Look when I vow, I weep; and vows so born, In their nativity all truth appears. How can these things in me seem scorn to you, Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true? HELENA. You do advance your cunning more and more. When truth kills truth, O devilish-holy fray! These vows are Hermia’s: will you give her o’er? Weigh oath with oath, and you will nothing weigh: Your vows to her and me, put in two scales, Will even weigh; and both as light as tales. LYSANDER. I had no judgment when to her I swore. HELENA. Nor none, in my mind, now you give her o’er. LYSANDER. Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you. DEMETRIUS. [_Waking. _] O Helen, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine! To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne? Crystal is muddy. O how ripe in show Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow! That pure congealèd white, high Taurus’ snow, Fann’d with the eastern wind, turns to a crow When thou hold’st up thy hand. O, let me kiss This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss! HELENA. O spite! O hell! I see you all are bent To set against me for your merriment. If you were civil, and knew courtesy, You would not do me thus much injury. Can you not hate me, as I know you do, But you must join in souls to mock me too? If you were men, as men you are in show, You would not use a gentle lady so; To vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts, When I am sure you hate me with your hearts. You both are rivals, and love Hermia; And now both rivals, to mock Helena. A trim exploit, a manly enterprise, To conjure tears up in a poor maid’s eyes With your derision! None of noble sort Would so offend a virgin, and extort A poor soul’s patience, all to make you sport. LYSANDER. You are unkind, Demetrius; be not so, For you love Hermia; this you know I know. And here, with all good will, with all my heart, In Hermia’s love I yield you up my part; And yours of Helena to me bequeath, Whom I do love and will do till my death. HELENA. Never did mockers waste more idle breath. DEMETRIUS. Lysander, keep thy Hermia; I will none. If e’er I lov’d her, all that love is gone. My heart to her but as guest-wise sojourn’d; And now to Helen is it home return’d, There to remain. LYSANDER. Helen, it is not so. DEMETRIUS. Disparage not the faith thou dost not know, Lest to thy peril thou aby it dear. Look where thy love comes; yonder is thy dear. Enter Hermia. HERMIA. Dark night, that from the eye his function takes, The ear more quick of apprehension makes; Wherein it doth impair the seeing sense, It pays the hearing double recompense. Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found; Mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound. But why unkindly didst thou leave me so? LYSANDER. Why should he stay whom love doth press to go? HERMIA. What love could press Lysander from my side? LYSANDER. Lysander’s love, that would not let him bide, Fair Helena, who more engilds the night Than all yon fiery oes and eyes of light. Why seek’st thou me? Could not this make thee know The hate I bare thee made me leave thee so? HERMIA. You speak not as you think; it cannot be. HELENA. Lo, she is one of this confederacy! Now I perceive they have conjoin’d all three To fashion this false sport in spite of me. Injurious Hermia, most ungrateful maid! Have you conspir’d, have you with these contriv’d, To bait me with this foul derision? Is all the counsel that we two have shar’d, The sisters’ vows, the hours that we have spent, When we have chid the hasty-footed time For parting us—O, is all forgot? All school-days’ friendship, childhood innocence? We, Hermia, like two artificial gods, Have with our needles created both one flower, Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, Both warbling of one song, both in one key, As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds, Had been incorporate. So we grew together, Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, But yet a union in partition, Two lovely berries moulded on one stem; So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart; Two of the first, like coats in heraldry, Due but to one, and crownèd with one crest. And will you rent our ancient love asunder, To join with men in scorning your poor friend? It is not friendly, ’tis not maidenly. Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it, Though I alone do feel the injury. HERMIA. I am amazèd at your passionate words: I scorn you not; it seems that you scorn me. HELENA. Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn, To follow me, and praise my eyes and face? And made your other love, Demetrius, Who even but now did spurn me with his foot, To call me goddess, nymph, divine and rare, Precious, celestial? Wherefore speaks he this To her he hates? And wherefore doth Lysander Deny your love, so rich within his soul, And tender me, forsooth, affection, But by your setting on, by your consent? What though I be not so in grace as you, So hung upon with love, so fortunate, But miserable most, to love unlov’d? This you should pity rather than despise. HERMIA. I understand not what you mean by this. HELENA. Ay, do. Persever, counterfeit sad looks, Make mouths upon me when I turn my back, Wink each at other; hold the sweet jest up. This sport, well carried, shall be chronicled. If you have any pity, grace, or manners, You would not make me such an argument. But fare ye well. ’Tis partly my own fault, Which death, or absence, soon shall remedy. LYSANDER. Stay, gentle Helena; hear my excuse; My love, my life, my soul, fair Helena! HELENA. O excellent! HERMIA. Sweet, do not scorn her so. DEMETRIUS. If she cannot entreat, I can compel. LYSANDER. Thou canst compel no more than she entreat; Thy threats have no more strength than her weak prayers. Helen, I love thee, by my life I do; I swear by that which I will lose for thee To prove him false that says I love thee not. DEMETRIUS. I say I love thee more than he can do. LYSANDER. If thou say so, withdraw, and prove it too. DEMETRIUS. Quick, come. HERMIA.

Lysander, whereto tends all this? LYSANDER. Away, you Ethiope! DEMETRIUS. No, no. He will Seem to break loose. Take on as you would follow, But yet come not. You are a tame man, go! LYSANDER. Hang off, thou cat, thou burr! Vile thing, let loose, Or I will shake thee from me like a serpent. HERMIA. Why are you grown so rude? What change is this, Sweet love? LYSANDER. Thy love? Out, tawny Tartar, out! Out, loathèd medicine! O hated potion, hence! HERMIA. Do you not jest? HELENA. Yes, sooth, and so do you. LYSANDER. Demetrius, I will keep my word with thee. DEMETRIUS. I would I had your bond; for I perceive A weak bond holds you; I’ll not trust your word. LYSANDER. What, should I hurt her, strike her, kill her dead? Although I hate her, I’ll not harm her so. HERMIA. What, can you do me greater harm than hate? Hate me? Wherefore? O me! what news, my love? Am not I Hermia? Are not you Lysander? I am as fair now as I was erewhile. Since night you lov’d me; yet since night you left me. Why then, you left me—O, the gods forbid! — In earnest, shall I say? LYSANDER. Ay, by my life; And never did desire to see thee more. Therefore be out of hope, of question, of doubt; Be certain, nothing truer; ’tis no jest That I do hate thee and love Helena. HERMIA. O me! You juggler! You cankerblossom! You thief of love! What! have you come by night And stol’n my love’s heart from him? HELENA. Fine, i’ faith! Have you no modesty, no maiden shame, No touch of bashfulness? What, will you tear Impatient answers from my gentle tongue? Fie, fie, you counterfeit, you puppet, you! HERMIA. Puppet! Why so? Ay, that way goes the game. Now I perceive that she hath made compare Between our statures; she hath urg’d her height; And with her personage, her tall personage, Her height, forsooth, she hath prevail’d with him. And are you grown so high in his esteem Because I am so dwarfish and so low? How low am I, thou painted maypole? Speak, How low am I? I am not yet so low But that my nails can reach unto thine eyes. HELENA. I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen, Let her not hurt me. I was never curst; I have no gift at all in shrewishness; I am a right maid for my cowardice; Let her not strike me. You perhaps may think, Because she is something lower than myself, That I can match her. HERMIA. Lower! Hark, again. HELENA. Good Hermia, do not be so bitter with me. I evermore did love you, Hermia, Did ever keep your counsels, never wrong’d you, Save that, in love unto Demetrius, I told him of your stealth unto this wood. He follow’d you; for love I follow’d him; But he hath chid me hence, and threaten’d me To strike me, spurn me, nay, to kill me too: And now, so you will let me quiet go, To Athens will I bear my folly back, And follow you no further. Let me go: You see how simple and how fond I am. HERMIA. Why, get you gone. Who is’t that hinders you? HELENA. A foolish heart that I leave here behind. HERMIA. What! with Lysander? HELENA. With Demetrius. LYSANDER. Be not afraid; she shall not harm thee, Helena. DEMETRIUS. No, sir, she shall not, though you take her part. HELENA. O, when she’s angry, she is keen and shrewd. She was a vixen when she went to school, And though she be but little, she is fierce. HERMIA. Little again! Nothing but low and little? Why will you suffer her to flout me thus? Let me come to her. LYSANDER. Get you gone, you dwarf; You minimus, of hind’ring knot-grass made; You bead, you acorn. DEMETRIUS. You are too officious In her behalf that scorns your services. Let her alone. Speak not of Helena; Take not her part; for if thou dost intend Never so little show of love to her, Thou shalt aby it. LYSANDER. Now she holds me not. Now follow, if thou dar’st, to try whose right, Of thine or mine, is most in Helena. DEMETRIUS. Follow! Nay, I’ll go with thee, cheek by jole. [_Exeunt Lysander and Demetrius. _] HERMIA. You, mistress, all this coil is long of you. Nay, go not back. HELENA. I will not trust you, I, Nor longer stay in your curst company. Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray. My legs are longer though, to run away. [_Exit. _] HERMIA. I am amaz’d, and know not what to say. [_Exit, pursuing Helena. _] OBERON. This is thy negligence: still thou mistak’st, Or else commit’st thy knaveries willfully. PUCK. Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook. Did not you tell me I should know the man By the Athenian garments he had on? And so far blameless proves my enterprise That I have ’nointed an Athenian’s eyes: And so far am I glad it so did sort, As this their jangling I esteem a sport. OBERON. Thou seest these lovers seek a place to fight. Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night; The starry welkin cover thou anon With drooping fog, as black as Acheron,

And lead these testy rivals so astray As one come not within another’s way. Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue, Then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong; And sometime rail thou like Demetrius. And from each other look thou lead them thus, Till o’er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep With leaden legs and batty wings doth creep. Then crush this herb into Lysander’s eye, Whose liquor hath this virtuous property, To take from thence all error with his might And make his eyeballs roll with wonted sight. When they next wake, all this derision Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision; And back to Athens shall the lovers wend, With league whose date till death shall never end. Whiles I in this affair do thee employ, I’ll to my queen, and beg her Indian boy; And then I will her charmèd eye release From monster’s view, and all things shall be peace. PUCK. My fairy lord, this must be done with haste, For night’s swift dragons cut the clouds full fast; And yonder shines Aurora’s harbinger, At whose approach, ghosts wandering here and there Troop home to churchyards. Damnèd spirits all, That in cross-ways and floods have burial, Already to their wormy beds are gone; For fear lest day should look their shames upon, They wilfully themselves exile from light, And must for aye consort with black-brow’d night. OBERON. But we are spirits of another sort: I with the morning’s love have oft made sport; And, like a forester, the groves may tread Even till the eastern gate, all fiery-red, Opening on Neptune with fair blessèd beams, Turns into yellow gold his salt-green streams. But, notwithstanding, haste, make no delay. We may effect this business yet ere day. [_Exit Oberon. _] PUCK. Up and down, up and down, I will lead them up and down. I am fear’d in field and town. Goblin, lead them up and down. Here comes one. Enter Lysander. LYSANDER. Where art thou, proud Demetrius? Speak thou now. PUCK. Here, villain, drawn and ready. Where art thou? LYSANDER. I will be with thee straight. PUCK. Follow me then to plainer ground. [_Exit Lysander as following the voice. _] Enter Demetrius. DEMETRIUS. Lysander, speak again. Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled? Speak. In some bush? Where dost thou hide thy head? PUCK. Thou coward, art thou bragging to the stars, Telling the bushes that thou look’st for wars, And wilt not come? Come, recreant, come, thou child! I’ll whip thee with a rod. He is defil’d That draws a sword on thee. DEMETRIUS. Yea, art thou there? PUCK. Follow my voice; we’ll try no manhood here. [_Exeunt. _] Enter Lysander. LYSANDER. He goes before me, and still dares me on; When I come where he calls, then he is gone. The villain is much lighter-heel’d than I: I follow’d fast, but faster he did fly, That fallen am I in dark uneven way, And here will rest me. Come, thou gentle day! [_Lies down. _] For if but once thou show me thy grey light, I’ll find Demetrius, and revenge this spite. [_Sleeps. _] Enter Puck and Demetrius. PUCK. Ho, ho, ho! Coward, why com’st thou not? DEMETRIUS. Abide me, if thou dar’st; for well I wot Thou runn’st before me, shifting every place, And dar’st not stand, nor look me in the face. Where art thou? PUCK. Come hither; I am here. DEMETRIUS. Nay, then, thou mock’st me. Thou shalt buy this dear If ever I thy face by daylight see: Now go thy way. Faintness constraineth me To measure out my length on this cold bed. By day’s approach look to be visited. [_Lies down and sleeps. _] Enter Helena. HELENA. O weary night, O long and tedious night, Abate thy hours! Shine, comforts, from the east, That I may back to Athens by daylight, From these that my poor company detest. And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow’s eye, Steal me awhile from mine own company. [_Sleeps. _] PUCK. Yet but three? Come one more. Two of both kinds makes up four. Here she comes, curst and sad. Cupid is a knavish lad Thus to make poor females mad. Enter Hermia. HERMIA. Never so weary, never so in woe, Bedabbled with the dew, and torn with briers, I can no further crawl, no further go; My legs can keep no pace with my desires. Here will I rest me till the break of day. Heavens shield Lysander, if they mean a fray! [_Lies down. _] PUCK. On the ground Sleep sound. I’ll apply To your eye, Gentle lover, remedy. [_Squeezing the juice on Lysander’s eye. _] When thou wak’st, Thou tak’st True delight In the sight Of thy former lady’s eye. And the country proverb known, That every man should take his own, In your waking shall be shown: Jack shall have Jill; Nought shall go ill; The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well. [_Exit Puck. _] ACT IV SCENE I. The Wood Lysander, Demetrius, Helena and Hermia still asleep. Enter Titania and Bottom; Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, Mustardseed and other Fairies attending; Oberon behind, unseen. TITANIA. Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed, While I thy amiable cheeks do coy, And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head, And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy. BOTTOM. Where’s Peaseblossom? PEASEBLOSSOM. Ready. BOTTOM. Scratch my head, Peaseblossom. Where’s Monsieur Cobweb?

COBWEB. Ready. BOTTOM. Monsieur Cobweb; good monsieur, get you your weapons in your hand and kill me a red-hipped humble-bee on the top of a thistle; and, good monsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the action, monsieur; and, good monsieur, have a care the honey-bag break not; I would be loath to have you overflown with a honey-bag, signior. Where’s Monsieur Mustardseed? MUSTARDSEED. Ready. BOTTOM. Give me your neaf, Monsieur Mustardseed. Pray you, leave your courtesy, good monsieur. MUSTARDSEED. What’s your will? BOTTOM. Nothing, good monsieur, but to help Cavalery Cobweb to scratch. I must to the barber’s, monsieur, for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face; and I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch. TITANIA. What, wilt thou hear some music, my sweet love? BOTTOM. I have a reasonable good ear in music. Let us have the tongs and the bones. TITANIA. Or say, sweet love, what thou desirest to eat. BOTTOM. Truly, a peck of provender; I could munch your good dry oats. Methinks I have a great desire to a bottle of hay: good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow. TITANIA. I have a venturous fairy that shall seek The squirrel’s hoard, and fetch thee new nuts. BOTTOM. I had rather have a handful or two of dried peas. But, I pray you, let none of your people stir me; I have an exposition of sleep come upon me. TITANIA. Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms. Fairies, be gone, and be all ways away. So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle Gently entwist, the female ivy so Enrings the barky fingers of the elm. O, how I love thee! How I dote on thee! [_They sleep. _] Oberon advances. Enter Puck. OBERON. Welcome, good Robin. Seest thou this sweet sight? Her dotage now I do begin to pity. For, meeting her of late behind the wood, Seeking sweet favours for this hateful fool, I did upbraid her and fall out with her: For she his hairy temples then had rounded With coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers; And that same dew, which sometime on the buds Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls, Stood now within the pretty flouriets’ eyes, Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail. When I had at my pleasure taunted her, And she in mild terms begg’d my patience, I then did ask of her her changeling child; Which straight she gave me, and her fairy sent To bear him to my bower in fairyland. And now I have the boy, I will undo This hateful imperfection of her eyes. And, gentle Puck, take this transformèd scalp From off the head of this Athenian swain, That he awaking when the other do, May all to Athens back again repair, And think no more of this night’s accidents But as the fierce vexation of a dream. But first I will release the Fairy Queen. [_Touching her eyes with an herb. _] Be as thou wast wont to be; See as thou was wont to see. Dian’s bud o’er Cupid’s flower Hath such force and blessed power. Now, my Titania, wake you, my sweet queen. TITANIA. My Oberon, what visions have I seen! Methought I was enamour’d of an ass. OBERON. There lies your love. TITANIA. How came these things to pass? O, how mine eyes do loathe his visage now! OBERON. Silence awhile. —Robin, take off this head. Titania, music call; and strike more dead Than common sleep, of all these five the sense. TITANIA. Music, ho, music, such as charmeth sleep. PUCK. Now when thou wak’st, with thine own fool’s eyes peep. OBERON. Sound, music. [_Still mucic. _] Come, my queen, take hands with me, And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be. Now thou and I are new in amity, And will tomorrow midnight solemnly Dance in Duke Theseus’ house triumphantly, And bless it to all fair prosperity: There shall the pairs of faithful lovers be Wedded, with Theseus, all in jollity. PUCK. Fairy king, attend and mark. I do hear the morning lark. OBERON. Then, my queen, in silence sad, Trip we after night’s shade. We the globe can compass soon, Swifter than the wand’ring moon. TITANIA. Come, my lord, and in our flight, Tell me how it came this night That I sleeping here was found With these mortals on the ground. [_Exeunt. Horns sound within. _] Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus and Train. THESEUS. Go, one of you, find out the forester; For now our observation is perform’d; And since we have the vaward of the day, My love shall hear the music of my hounds. Uncouple in the western valley; let them go. Dispatch I say, and find the forester. [_Exit an Attendant. _] We will, fair queen, up to the mountain’s top, And mark the musical confusion Of hounds and echo in conjunction. HIPPOLYTA. I was with Hercules and Cadmus once, When in a wood of Crete they bay’d the bear With hounds of Sparta. Never did I hear Such gallant chiding; for, besides the groves, The skies, the fountains, every region near Seem’d all one mutual cry. I never heard So musical a discord, such sweet thunder. THESEUS. My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind, So flew’d, so sanded; and their heads are hung With ears that sweep away the morning dew; Crook-knee’d and dewlap’d like Thessalian bulls; Slow in pursuit, but match’d in mouth like bells, Each under each. A cry more tuneable Was never holla’d to, nor cheer’d with horn, In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly. Judge when you hear. —But, soft, what nymphs are these? EGEUS. My lord, this is my daughter here asleep, And this Lysander; this Demetrius is; This Helena, old Nedar’s Helena: I wonder of their being here together. THESEUS. No doubt they rose up early to observe The rite of May; and, hearing our intent, Came here in grace of our solemnity. But speak, Egeus; is not this the day That Hermia should give answer of her choice? EGEUS. It is, my lord. THESEUS.

Go, bid the huntsmen wake them with their horns. Horns, and shout within. Demetrius, Lysander, Hermia and Helena wake and start up. Good morrow, friends. Saint Valentine is past. Begin these wood-birds but to couple now? LYSANDER. Pardon, my lord. He and the rest kneel to Theseus. THESEUS. I pray you all, stand up. I know you two are rival enemies. How comes this gentle concord in the world, That hatred is so far from jealousy To sleep by hate, and fear no enmity? LYSANDER. My lord, I shall reply amazedly, Half sleep, half waking; but as yet, I swear, I cannot truly say how I came here. But, as I think (for truly would I speak) And now I do bethink me, so it is: I came with Hermia hither. Our intent Was to be gone from Athens, where we might be, Without the peril of the Athenian law. EGEUS. Enough, enough, my lord; you have enough. I beg the law, the law upon his head. They would have stol’n away, they would, Demetrius, Thereby to have defeated you and me: You of your wife, and me of my consent, Of my consent that she should be your wife. DEMETRIUS. My lord, fair Helen told me of their stealth, Of this their purpose hither to this wood; And I in fury hither follow’d them, Fair Helena in fancy following me. But, my good lord, I wot not by what power, (But by some power it is) my love to Hermia, Melted as the snow, seems to me now As the remembrance of an idle gaud Which in my childhood I did dote upon; And all the faith, the virtue of my heart, The object and the pleasure of mine eye, Is only Helena. To her, my lord, Was I betroth’d ere I saw Hermia. But like a sickness did I loathe this food. But, as in health, come to my natural taste, Now I do wish it, love it, long for it, And will for evermore be true to it. THESEUS. Fair lovers, you are fortunately met. Of this discourse we more will hear anon. Egeus, I will overbear your will; For in the temple, by and by with us, These couples shall eternally be knit. And, for the morning now is something worn, Our purpos’d hunting shall be set aside. Away with us to Athens. Three and three, We’ll hold a feast in great solemnity. Come, Hippolyta. [_Exeunt Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus and Train. _] DEMETRIUS. These things seem small and undistinguishable, Like far-off mountains turnèd into clouds. HERMIA. Methinks I see these things with parted eye, When everything seems double. HELENA. So methinks. And I have found Demetrius like a jewel, Mine own, and not mine own. DEMETRIUS. Are you sure That we are awake? It seems to me That yet we sleep, we dream. Do not you think The Duke was here, and bid us follow him? HERMIA. Yea, and my father. HELENA. And Hippolyta. LYSANDER. And he did bid us follow to the temple. DEMETRIUS. Why, then, we are awake: let’s follow him, And by the way let us recount our dreams. [_Exeunt. _] BOTTOM. [_Waking. _] When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer. My next is ‘Most fair Pyramus. ’ Heigh-ho! Peter Quince! Flute, the bellows-mender! Snout, the tinker! Starveling! God’s my life! Stol’n hence, and left me asleep! I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was. Man is but an ass if he go about to expound this dream. Methought I was—there is no man can tell what. Methought I was, and methought I had—but man is but a patched fool if he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man’s hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream: it shall be called ‘Bottom’s Dream’, because it hath no bottom; and I will sing it in the latter end of a play, before the Duke. Peradventure, to make it the more gracious, I shall sing it at her death. [_Exit. _] SCENE II. Athens. A Room in Quince’s House Enter Quince, Flute, Snout and Starveling. QUINCE. Have you sent to Bottom’s house? Is he come home yet? STARVELING. He cannot be heard of. Out of doubt he is transported. FLUTE. If he come not, then the play is marred. It goes not forward, doth it? QUINCE. It is not possible. You have not a man in all Athens able to discharge Pyramus but he. FLUTE. No, he hath simply the best wit of any handicraft man in Athens. QUINCE. Yea, and the best person too, and he is a very paramour for a sweet voice. FLUTE. You must say paragon. A paramour is, God bless us, a thing of naught. Enter Snug. SNUG Masters, the Duke is coming from the temple, and there is two or three lords and ladies more married. If our sport had gone forward, we had all been made men. FLUTE. O sweet bully Bottom! Thus hath he lost sixpence a day during his life; he could not have ’scaped sixpence a day. An the Duke had not given him sixpence a day for playing Pyramus, I’ll be hanged. He would have deserved it: sixpence a day in Pyramus, or nothing. Enter Bottom. BOTTOM. Where are these lads? Where are these hearts? QUINCE. Bottom! O most courageous day! O most happy hour! BOTTOM. Masters, I am to discourse wonders: but ask me not what; for if I tell you, I am not true Athenian. I will tell you everything, right as it fell out. QUINCE. Let us hear, sweet Bottom. BOTTOM. Not a word of me. All that I will tell you is, that the Duke hath dined. Get your apparel together, good strings to your beards, new

ribbons to your pumps; meet presently at the palace; every man look o’er his part. For the short and the long is, our play is preferred. In any case, let Thisbe have clean linen; and let not him that plays the lion pare his nails, for they shall hang out for the lion’s claws. And most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlick, for we are to utter sweet breath; and I do not doubt but to hear them say it is a sweet comedy. No more words. Away! Go, away! [_Exeunt. _] ACT V SCENE I. Athens. An Apartment in the Palace of Theseus Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Philostrate, Lords and Attendants. HIPPOLYTA. ’Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of. THESEUS. More strange than true. I never may believe These antique fables, nor these fairy toys. Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends. The lunatic, the lover, and the poet Are of imagination all compact: One sees more devils than vast hell can hold; That is the madman: the lover, all as frantic, Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt: The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name. Such tricks hath strong imagination, That if it would but apprehend some joy, It comprehends some bringer of that joy. Or in the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush supposed a bear? HIPPOLYTA. But all the story of the night told over, And all their minds transfigur’d so together, More witnesseth than fancy’s images, And grows to something of great constancy; But, howsoever, strange and admirable. Enter lovers: Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia and Helena. THESEUS. Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth. Joy, gentle friends, joy and fresh days of love Accompany your hearts! LYSANDER. More than to us Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed! THESEUS. Come now; what masques, what dances shall we have, To wear away this long age of three hours Between our after-supper and bed-time? Where is our usual manager of mirth? What revels are in hand? Is there no play To ease the anguish of a torturing hour? Call Philostrate. PHILOSTRATE. Here, mighty Theseus. THESEUS. Say, what abridgment have you for this evening? What masque? What music? How shall we beguile The lazy time, if not with some delight? PHILOSTRATE. There is a brief how many sports are ripe. Make choice of which your Highness will see first. [_Giving a paper. _] THESEUS. [_Reads_] ‘The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung By an Athenian eunuch to the harp. ’ We’ll none of that. That have I told my love In glory of my kinsman Hercules. ‘The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals, Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage? ’ That is an old device, and it was play’d When I from Thebes came last a conqueror. ‘The thrice three Muses mourning for the death Of learning, late deceas’d in beggary. ’ That is some satire, keen and critical, Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony. ‘A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus And his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth. ’ Merry and tragical? Tedious and brief? That is hot ice and wondrous strange snow. How shall we find the concord of this discord? PHILOSTRATE. A play there is, my lord, some ten words long, Which is as brief as I have known a play; But by ten words, my lord, it is too long, Which makes it tedious. For in all the play There is not one word apt, one player fitted. And tragical, my noble lord, it is. For Pyramus therein doth kill himself, Which, when I saw rehears’d, I must confess, Made mine eyes water; but more merry tears The passion of loud laughter never shed. THESEUS. What are they that do play it? PHILOSTRATE. Hard-handed men that work in Athens here, Which never labour’d in their minds till now; And now have toil’d their unbreath’d memories With this same play against your nuptial. THESEUS. And we will hear it. PHILOSTRATE. No, my noble lord, It is not for you: I have heard it over, And it is nothing, nothing in the world; Unless you can find sport in their intents, Extremely stretch’d and conn’d with cruel pain To do you service. THESEUS. I will hear that play; For never anything can be amiss When simpleness and duty tender it. Go, bring them in: and take your places, ladies. [_Exit Philostrate. _] HIPPOLYTA. I love not to see wretchedness o’ercharged, And duty in his service perishing. THESEUS. Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing. HIPPOLYTA. He says they can do nothing in this kind. THESEUS. The kinder we, to give them thanks for nothing. Our sport shall be to take what they mistake: And what poor duty cannot do, noble respect Takes it in might, not merit. Where I have come, great clerks have purposed To greet me with premeditated welcomes; Where I have seen them shiver and look pale, Make periods in the midst of sentences, Throttle their practis’d accent in their fears, And, in conclusion, dumbly have broke off, Not paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet, Out of this silence yet I pick’d a welcome; And in the modesty of fearful duty I read as much as from the rattling tongue Of saucy and audacious eloquence. Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity In least speak most to my capacity. Enter Philostrate. PHILOSTRATE. So please your grace, the Prologue is address’d. THESEUS. Let him approach. Flourish of trumpets. Enter the Prologue. PROLOGUE If we offend, it is with our good will. That you should think, we come not to offend, But with good will. To show our simple skill, That is the true beginning of our end. Consider then, we come but in despite. We do not come, as minding to content you, Our true intent is. All for your delight We are not here. That you should here repent you, The actors are at hand, and, by their show,

You shall know all that you are like to know. THESEUS. This fellow doth not stand upon points. LYSANDER. He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt; he knows not the stop. A good moral, my lord: it is not enough to speak, but to speak true. HIPPOLYTA. Indeed he hath played on this prologue like a child on a recorder; a sound, but not in government. THESEUS. His speech was like a tangled chain; nothing impaired, but all disordered. Who is next? Enter Pyramus and Thisbe, Wall, Moonshine and Lion as in dumb show. PROLOGUE Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show; But wonder on, till truth make all things plain. This man is Pyramus, if you would know; This beauteous lady Thisbe is certain. This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth present Wall, that vile wall which did these lovers sunder; And through Wall’s chink, poor souls, they are content To whisper, at the which let no man wonder. This man, with lanthern, dog, and bush of thorn, Presenteth Moonshine, for, if you will know, By moonshine did these lovers think no scorn To meet at Ninus’ tomb, there, there to woo. This grisly beast (which Lion hight by name) The trusty Thisbe, coming first by night, Did scare away, or rather did affright; And as she fled, her mantle she did fall; Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain. Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth, and tall, And finds his trusty Thisbe’s mantle slain; Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade, He bravely broach’d his boiling bloody breast; And Thisbe, tarrying in mulberry shade, His dagger drew, and died. For all the rest, Let Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and lovers twain, At large discourse while here they do remain. [_Exeunt Prologue, Pyramus, Thisbe, Lion and Moonshine. _] THESEUS. I wonder if the lion be to speak. DEMETRIUS. No wonder, my lord. One lion may, when many asses do. WALL. In this same interlude it doth befall That I, one Snout by name, present a wall: And such a wall as I would have you think That had in it a crannied hole or chink, Through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisbe, Did whisper often very secretly. This loam, this rough-cast, and this stone, doth show That I am that same wall; the truth is so: And this the cranny is, right and sinister, Through which the fearful lovers are to whisper. THESEUS. Would you desire lime and hair to speak better? DEMETRIUS. It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard discourse, my lord. THESEUS. Pyramus draws near the wall; silence. Enter Pyramus. PYRAMUS. O grim-look’d night! O night with hue so black! O night, which ever art when day is not! O night, O night, alack, alack, alack, I fear my Thisbe’s promise is forgot! And thou, O wall, O sweet, O lovely wall, That stand’st between her father’s ground and mine; Thou wall, O wall, O sweet and lovely wall, Show me thy chink, to blink through with mine eyne. [_Wall holds up his fingers. _] Thanks, courteous wall: Jove shield thee well for this! But what see I? No Thisbe do I see. O wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss, Curs’d be thy stones for thus deceiving me! THESEUS. The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again. PYRAMUS. No, in truth, sir, he should not. ‘Deceiving me’ is Thisbe’s cue: she is to enter now, and I am to spy her through the wall. You shall see it will fall pat as I told you. Yonder she comes. Enter Thisbe. THISBE. O wall, full often hast thou heard my moans, For parting my fair Pyramus and me. My cherry lips have often kiss’d thy stones, Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee. PYRAMUS. I see a voice; now will I to the chink, To spy an I can hear my Thisbe’s face. Thisbe? THISBE. My love thou art, my love I think. PYRAMUS. Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover’s grace; And like Limander am I trusty still. THISBE. And I like Helen, till the fates me kill. PYRAMUS. Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true. THISBE. As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you. PYRAMUS. O kiss me through the hole of this vile wall. THISBE. I kiss the wall’s hole, not your lips at all. PYRAMUS. Wilt thou at Ninny’s tomb meet me straightway? THISBE. ’Tide life, ’tide death, I come without delay. WALL. Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so; And, being done, thus Wall away doth go. [_Exeunt Wall, Pyramus and Thisbe. _] THESEUS. Now is the mural down between the two neighbours. DEMETRIUS. No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful to hear without warning. HIPPOLYTA. This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard. THESEUS. The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them. HIPPOLYTA. It must be your imagination then, and not theirs. THESEUS. If we imagine no worse of them than they of themselves, they may pass for excellent men. Here come two noble beasts in, a man and a lion. Enter Lion and Moonshine. LION. You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do fear The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor, May now, perchance, both quake and tremble here, When lion rough in wildest rage doth roar. Then know that I, one Snug the joiner, am A lion fell, nor else no lion’s dam; For if I should as lion come in strife Into this place, ’twere pity on my life. THESEUS. A very gentle beast, and of a good conscience. DEMETRIUS. The very best at a beast, my lord, that e’er I saw. LYSANDER. This lion is a very fox for his valour. THESEUS. True; and a goose for his discretion. DEMETRIUS. Not so, my lord, for his valour cannot carry his discretion, and the fox carries the goose. THESEUS. His discretion, I am sure, cannot carry his valour; for the goose carries not the fox. It is well; leave it to his discretion, and let us listen to the moon. MOONSHINE. This lanthorn doth the hornèd moon present. DEMETRIUS. He should have worn the horns on his head. THESEUS. He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible within the circumference. MOONSHINE. This lanthorn doth the hornèd moon present; Myself the man i’ the moon do seem to be. THESEUS. This is the greatest error of all the rest; the man should be put into the lantern. How is it else the man i’ the moon? DEMETRIUS. He dares not come there for the candle, for you see, it is already in snuff.

HIPPOLYTA. I am aweary of this moon. Would he would change! THESEUS. It appears by his small light of discretion that he is in the wane; but yet, in courtesy, in all reason, we must stay the time. LYSANDER. Proceed, Moon. MOON All that I have to say, is to tell you that the lantern is the moon; I the man i’ the moon; this thorn-bush my thorn-bush; and this dog my dog. DEMETRIUS. Why, all these should be in the lantern, for all these are in the moon. But silence; here comes Thisbe. Enter Thisbe. THISBE. This is old Ninny’s tomb. Where is my love? LION. Oh! [_The Lion roars, Thisbe runs off. _] DEMETRIUS. Well roared, Lion. THESEUS. Well run, Thisbe. HIPPOLYTA. Well shone, Moon. Truly, the moon shines with a good grace. [_The Lion tears Thisbe’s mantle, and exit. _] THESEUS. Well moused, Lion. DEMETRIUS. And then came Pyramus. LYSANDER. And so the lion vanished. Enter Pyramus. PYRAMUS. Sweet Moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams; I thank thee, Moon, for shining now so bright; For, by thy gracious golden, glittering gleams, I trust to take of truest Thisbe sight. But stay! O spite! But mark, poor knight, What dreadful dole is here! Eyes, do you see? How can it be? O dainty duck! O dear! Thy mantle good, What, stained with blood? Approach, ye Furies fell! O Fates, come, come; Cut thread and thrum; Quail, rush, conclude, and quell! THESEUS. This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad. HIPPOLYTA. Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man. PYRAMUS. O wherefore, Nature, didst thou lions frame, Since lion vile hath here deflower’d my dear? Which is—no, no—which was the fairest dame That liv’d, that lov’d, that lik’d, that look’d with cheer. Come, tears, confound! Out, sword, and wound The pap of Pyramus; Ay, that left pap, Where heart doth hop: Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, Now am I fled; My soul is in the sky. Tongue, lose thy light! Moon, take thy flight! Now die, die, die, die, die. [_Dies. Exit Moonshine. _] DEMETRIUS. No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one. LYSANDER. Less than an ace, man; for he is dead, he is nothing. THESEUS. With the help of a surgeon he might yet recover and prove an ass. HIPPOLYTA. How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisbe comes back and finds her lover? THESEUS. She will find him by starlight. Enter Thisbe. Here she comes, and her passion ends the play. HIPPOLYTA. Methinks she should not use a long one for such a Pyramus. I hope she will be brief. DEMETRIUS. A mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which Thisbe, is the better: he for a man, God warrant us; she for a woman, God bless us! LYSANDER. She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes. DEMETRIUS. And thus she means, _videlicet_— THISBE. Asleep, my love? What, dead, my dove? O Pyramus, arise, Speak, speak. Quite dumb? Dead, dead? A tomb Must cover thy sweet eyes. These lily lips, This cherry nose, These yellow cowslip cheeks, Are gone, are gone! Lovers, make moan; His eyes were green as leeks. O Sisters Three, Come, come to me, With hands as pale as milk; Lay them in gore, Since you have shore With shears his thread of silk. Tongue, not a word: Come, trusty sword, Come, blade, my breast imbrue; And farewell, friends. Thus Thisbe ends. Adieu, adieu, adieu. [_Dies. _] THESEUS. Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead. DEMETRIUS. Ay, and Wall too. BOTTOM. No, I assure you; the wall is down that parted their fathers. Will it please you to see the epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance between two of our company? THESEUS. No epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs no excuse. Never excuse; for when the players are all dead there need none to be blamed. Marry, if he that writ it had played Pyramus, and hanged himself in Thisbe’s garter, it would have been a fine tragedy; and so it is, truly; and very notably discharged. But come, your Bergomask; let your epilogue alone. [_Here a dance of Clowns. _] The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve. Lovers, to bed; ’tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall outsleep the coming morn As much as we this night have overwatch’d. This palpable-gross play hath well beguil’d The heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed. A fortnight hold we this solemnity In nightly revels and new jollity. [_Exeunt. _] Enter Puck. PUCK. Now the hungry lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon; Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, All with weary task fordone. Now the wasted brands do glow, Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night That the graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite, In the church-way paths to glide. And we fairies, that do run By the triple Hecate’s team From the presence of the sun,

Following darkness like a dream, Now are frolic; not a mouse Shall disturb this hallow’d house. I am sent with broom before, To sweep the dust behind the door. Enter Oberon and Titania with their Train. OBERON. Through the house give glimmering light, By the dead and drowsy fire. Every elf and fairy sprite Hop as light as bird from brier, And this ditty after me, Sing and dance it trippingly. TITANIA. First rehearse your song by rote, To each word a warbling note; Hand in hand, with fairy grace, Will we sing, and bless this place. [_Song and Dance. _] OBERON. Now, until the break of day, Through this house each fairy stray. To the best bride-bed will we, Which by us shall blessèd be; And the issue there create Ever shall be fortunate. So shall all the couples three Ever true in loving be; And the blots of Nature’s hand Shall not in their issue stand: Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar, Nor mark prodigious, such as are Despised in nativity, Shall upon their children be. With this field-dew consecrate, Every fairy take his gait, And each several chamber bless, Through this palace, with sweet peace; And the owner of it blest. Ever shall it in safety rest, Trip away. Make no stay; Meet me all by break of day. [_Exeunt Oberon, Titania and Train. _] PUCK. If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber’d here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend. If you pardon, we will mend. And, as I am an honest Puck, If we have unearnèd luck Now to ’scape the serpent’s tongue, We will make amends ere long; Else the Puck a liar call. So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends. [_Exit. _] *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM *** Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U. 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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Shakespearean Tragedy, by A. C. BradleyThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www. gutenberg. orgTitle: Shakespearean Tragedy Lectures on Hamlet, Othello, King Lear, MacbethAuthor: A. C. BradleyRelease Date: October 30, 2005 [EBook #16966]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHAKESPEAREAN TRAGEDY ***Produced by Suzanne Shell, Lisa Reigel and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www. pgdp. netSHAKESPEAREAN TRAGEDYMACMILLAN AND CO. , LIMITEDLONDON·BOMBAY·CALCUTTA·MADRAS·MELBOURNETHE MACMILLAN COMPANYNEW YORK·BOSTON·CHICAGO·DALLAS·SAN FRANCISCOTHE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. TORONTOSHAKESPEAREAN TRAGEDYLECTURES ONHAMLET, OTHELLO, KING LEARMACBETHBYA. C. BRADLEYLL. D. LITT. D. , FORMERLY PROFESSOR OF POETRY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD_SECOND EDITION_ (_THIRTEENTH IMPRESSION_)MACMILLAN AND CO. , LIMITED ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON1919_COPYRIGHT. _First Edition 1904. Second Edition March 1905. Reprinted August 1905, 1906, 1908, 1910, 1911, 1912, 1914, 1915, 1916,1918, 1919. GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD. TO MY STUDENTSPREFACEThese lectures are based on a selection from materials used in teachingat Liverpool, Glasgow, and Oxford; and I have for the most partpreserved the lecture form. The point of view taken in them is explainedin the Introduction. I should, of course, wish them to be read in theirorder, and a knowledge of the first two is assumed in the remainder; butreaders who may prefer to enter at once on the discussion of the severalplays can do so by beginning at page 89. Any one who writes on Shakespeare must owe much to his predecessors. Where I was conscious of a particular obligation, I have acknowledgedit; but most of my reading of Shakespearean criticism was done manyyears ago, and I can only hope that I have not often reproduced as myown what belongs to another. Many of the Notes will be of interest only to scholars, who may find, Ihope, something new in them. I have quoted, as a rule, from the Globe edition, and have referredalways to its numeration of acts, scenes, and lines. _November, 1904. _ * * * * *NOTE TO SECOND AND SUBSEQUENT IMPRESSIONSIn these impressions I have confined myself to making some formalimprovements, correcting indubitable mistakes, and indicating here andthere my desire to modify or develop at some future time statementswhich seem to me doubtful or open to misunderstanding. The changes,where it seemed desirable, are shown by the inclusion of sentences insquare brackets. CONTENTS PAGEINTRODUCTION 1LECTURE I. THE SUBSTANCE OF SHAKESPEAREAN TRAGEDY 5LECTURE II. CONSTRUCTION IN SHAKESPEARE'S TRAGEDIES 40LECTURE III. SHAKESPEARE'S TRAGIC PERIOD--HAMLET 79LECTURE IV. HAMLET 129LECTURE V. OTHELLO 175LECTURE VI. OTHELLO 207LECTURE VII. KING LEAR 243LECTURE VIII. KING LEAR 280LECTURE IX. MACBETH 331LECTURE X. MACBETH 366NOTE A. Events before the opening of the action in _Hamlet_ 401NOTE B. Where was Hamlet at the time of his father's death? 403NOTE C. Hamlet's age 407NOTE D. 'My tables--meet it is I set it down' 409NOTE E. The Ghost in the cellarage 412NOTE F. The Player's speech in _Hamlet_ 413NOTE G. Hamlet's apology to Laertes 420NOTE H. The exchange of rapiers 422NOTE I. The duration of the action in _Othello_ 423NOTE J. The 'additions' in the Folio text of _Othello_. The Pontic sea 429NOTE K. Othello's courtship 432NOTE L. Othello in the Temptation scene 434NOTE M. Questions as to _Othello_, IV. i. 435NOTE N. Two passages in the last scene of _Othello_ 437NOTE O. Othello on Desdemona's last words 438NOTE P. Did Emilia suspect Iago? 439NOTE Q. Iago's suspicion regarding Cassio and Emilia 441NOTE R. Reminiscences of _Othello_ in _King Lear_ 441NOTE S. _King Lear_ and _Timon of Athens_ 443NOTE T. Did Shakespeare shorten _King Lear_? 445NOTE U. Movements of the _dramatis personæ_ in _King Lear_, II 448NOTE V. Suspected interpolations in _King Lear_ 450NOTE W. The staging of the scene of Lear's reunion with Cordelia 453NOTE X. The Battle in _King Lear_ 456NOTE Y. Some difficult passages in _King Lear_ 458NOTE Z. Suspected interpolations in _Macbeth_ 466NOTE AA. Has _Macbeth_ been abridged? 467NOTE BB. The date of _Macbeth_. Metrical Tests 470NOTE CC. When was the murder of Duncan first plotted? 480NOTE DD. Did Lady Macbeth really faint? 484NOTE EE. Duration of the action in _Macbeth_. Macbeth's age. 'He has no children' 486NOTE FF. The Ghost of Banquo 492INDEX 494INTRODUCTIONIn these lectures I propose to consider the four principal tragedies ofShakespeare from a single point of view. Nothing will be said ofShakespeare's place in the history either of English literature or ofthe drama in general. No attempt will be made to compare him with otherwriters. I shall leave untouched, or merely glanced at, questionsregarding his life and character, the development of his genius and art,the genuineness, sources, texts, inter-relations of his various works. Even what may be called, in a restricted sense, the 'poetry' of the fourtragedies--the beauties of style, diction, versification--I shall passby in silence. Our one object will be what, again in a restricted sense,may be called dramatic appreciation; to increase our understanding andenjoyment of these works as dramas; to learn to apprehend the action andsome of the personages of each with a somewhat greater truth andintensity, so that they may assume in our imaginations a shape a littleless unlike the shape they wore in the imagination of their creator. Forthis end all those studies that were mentioned just now, of literaryhistory and the like, are useful and even in various degrees necessary. But an overt pursuit of them is not necessary here, nor is any one ofthem so indispensable to our object as that close familiarity with theplays, that native strength and justice of perception, and that habit ofreading with an eager mind, which make many an unscholarly lover ofShakespeare a far better critic than many a Shakespeare scholar. Such lovers read a play more or less as if they were actors who had tostudy all the parts. They do not need, of course, to imagine whereaboutsthe persons are to stand, or what gestures they ought to use; but theywant to realise fully and exactly the inner movements which producedthese words and no other, these deeds and no other, at each particularmoment. This, carried through a drama, is the right way to read thedramatist Shakespeare; and the prime requisite here is therefore a vividand intent imagination. But this alone will hardly suffice. It isnecessary also, especially to a true conception of the whole, tocompare, to analyse, to dissect. And such readers often shrink from thistask, which seems to them prosaic or even a desecration. Theymisunderstand, I believe. They would not shrink if they remembered twothings. In the first place, in this process of comparison and analysis,it is not requisite, it is on the contrary ruinous, to set imaginationaside and to substitute some supposed 'cold reason'; and it is only wantof practice that makes the concurrent use of analysis and of poeticperception difficult or irksome. And, in the second place, thesedissecting processes, though they are also imaginative, are still, andare meant to be, nothing but means to an end. When they have finishedtheir work (it can only be finished for the time) they give place to theend, which is that same imaginative reading or re-creation of the dramafrom which they set out, but a reading now enriched by the products ofanalysis, and therefore far more adequate and enjoyable. This, at any rate, is the faith in the strength of which I venture, withmerely personal misgivings, on the path of analytic interpretation. Andso, before coming to the first of the four tragedies, I propose todiscuss some preliminary matters which concern them all. Though each isindividual through and through, they have, in a sense, one and the samesubstance; for in all of them Shakespeare represents the tragic aspectof life, the tragic fact. They have, again, up to a certain point, acommon form or structure. This substance and this structure, which wouldbe found to distinguish them, for example, from Greek tragedies, may, todiminish repetition, be considered once for all; and in considering themwe shall also be able to observe characteristic differences among thefour plays. And to this may be added the little that it seems necessaryto premise on the position of these dramas in Shakespeare's literarycareer. Much that is said on our main preliminary subjects will naturally holdgood, within certain limits, of other dramas of Shakespeare beside_Hamlet_, _Othello_, _King Lear_, and _Macbeth_. But it will often applyto these other works only in part, and to some of them more fully thanto others. _Romeo and Juliet_, for instance, is a pure tragedy, but itis an early work, and in some respects an immature one. _Richard III. _and _Richard II. _, _Julius Caesar_, _Antony and Cleopatra_, and_Coriolanus_ are tragic histories or historical tragedies, in whichShakespeare acknowledged in practice a certain obligation to follow hisauthority, even when that authority offered him an undramatic material. Probably he himself would have met some criticisms to which these playsare open by appealing to their historical character, and by denying thatsuch works are to be judged by the standard of pure tragedy. In anycase, most of these plays, perhaps all, do show, as a matter of fact,considerable deviations from that standard; and, therefore, what is saidof the pure tragedies must be applied to them with qualifications whichI shall often take for granted without mention. There remain _TitusAndronicus_ and _Timon of Athens_. The former I shall leave out ofaccount, because, even if Shakespeare wrote the whole of it, he did sobefore he had either a style of his own or any characteristic tragicconception. _Timon_ stands on a different footing. Parts of it areunquestionably Shakespeare's, and they will be referred to in one of thelater lectures. But much of the writing is evidently not his, and as itseems probable that the conception and construction of the whole tragedyshould also be attributed to some other writer, I shall omit this worktoo from our preliminary discussions. LECTURE ITHE SUBSTANCE OF SHAKESPEAREAN TRAGEDYThe question we are to consider in this lecture may be stated in avariety of ways. We may put it thus: What is the substance of aShakespearean tragedy, taken in abstraction both from its form and fromthe differences in point of substance between one tragedy and another? Or thus: What is the nature of the tragic aspect of life as representedby Shakespeare? What is the general fact shown now in this tragedy andnow in that? And we are putting the same question when we ask: What isShakespeare's tragic conception, or conception of tragedy? These expressions, it should be observed, do not imply that Shakespearehimself ever asked or answered such a question; that he set himself toreflect on the tragic aspects of life, that he framed a tragicconception, and still less that, like Aristotle or Corneille, he had atheory of the kind of poetry called tragedy. These things are allpossible; how far any one of them is probable we need not discuss; butnone of them is presupposed by the question we are going to consider. This question implies only that, as a matter of fact, Shakespeare inwriting tragedy did represent a certain aspect of life in a certain way,and that through examination of his writings we ought to be able, tosome extent, to describe this aspect and way in terms addressed to theunderstanding. Such a description, so far as it is true and adequate,may, after these explanations, be called indifferently an account of thesubstance of Shakespearean tragedy, or an account of Shakespeare'sconception of tragedy or view of the tragic fact. Two further warnings may be required. In the first place, we mustremember that the tragic aspect of life is only one aspect. We cannotarrive at Shakespeare's whole dramatic way of looking at the world fromhis tragedies alone, as we can arrive at Milton's way of regardingthings, or at Wordsworth's or at Shelley's, by examining almost any oneof their important works. Speaking very broadly, one may say that thesepoets at their best always look at things in one light; but _Hamlet_ and_Henry IV. _ and _Cymbeline_ reflect things from quite distinctpositions, and Shakespeare's whole dramatic view is not to be identifiedwith any one of these reflections. And, in the second place, I mayrepeat that in these lectures, at any rate for the most part, we are tobe content with his _dramatic_ view, and are not to ask whether itcorresponded exactly with his opinions or creed outside his poetry--theopinions or creed of the being whom we sometimes oddly call 'Shakespearethe man. ' It does not seem likely that outside his poetry he was a verysimple-minded Catholic or Protestant or Atheist, as some havemaintained; but we cannot be sure, as with those other poets we can,that in his works he expressed his deepest and most cherishedconvictions on ultimate questions, or even that he had any. And in hisdramatic conceptions there is enough to occupy us. 1In approaching our subject it will be best, without attempting toshorten the path by referring to famous theories of the drama, to startdirectly from the facts, and to collect from them gradually an idea ofShakespearean Tragedy. And first, to begin from the outside, such atragedy brings before us a considerable number of persons (many morethan the persons in a Greek play, unless the members of the Chorus arereckoned among them); but it is pre-eminently the story of one person,the 'hero,'[1] or at most of two, the 'hero' and 'heroine. ' Moreover, itis only in the love-tragedies, _Romeo and Juliet_ and _Antony andCleopatra_, that the heroine is as much the centre of the action as thehero. The rest, including _Macbeth_, are single stars. So that, havingnoticed the peculiarity of these two dramas, we may henceforth, for thesake of brevity, ignore it, and may speak of the tragic story as beingconcerned primarily with one person. The story, next, leads up to, and includes, the _death_ of the hero. Onthe one hand (whatever may be true of tragedy elsewhere), no play at theend of which the hero remains alive is, in the full Shakespearean sense,a tragedy; and we no longer class _Troilus and Cressida_ or _Cymbeline_as such, as did the editors of the Folio. On the other hand, the storydepicts also the troubled part of the hero's life which precedes andleads up to his death; and an instantaneous death occurring by'accident' in the midst of prosperity would not suffice for it. It is,in fact, essentially a tale of suffering and calamity conducting todeath. The suffering and calamity are, moreover, exceptional. They befall aconspicuous person. They are themselves of some striking kind. They arealso, as a rule, unexpected, and contrasted with previous happiness orglory. A tale, for example, of a man slowly worn to death by disease,poverty, little cares, sordid vices, petty persecutions, however piteousor dreadful it might be, would not be tragic in the Shakespearean sense. Such exceptional suffering and calamity, then, affecting the hero,and--we must now add--generally extending far and wide beyond him, so asto make the whole scene a scene of woe, are an essential ingredient intragedy and a chief source of the tragic emotions, and especially ofpity. But the proportions of this ingredient, and the direction taken bytragic pity, will naturally vary greatly. Pity, for example, has a muchlarger part in _King Lear_ than in _Macbeth_, and is directed in the onecase chiefly to the hero, in the other chiefly to minor characters. Let us now pause for a moment on the ideas we have so far reached. Theywould more than suffice to describe the whole tragic fact as itpresented itself to the mediaeval mind. To the mediaeval mind a tragedymeant a narrative rather than a play, and its notion of the matter ofthis narrative may readily be gathered from Dante or, still better, fromChaucer. Chaucer's _Monk's Tale_ is a series of what he calls'tragedies'; and this means in fact a series of tales _de CasibusIllustrium Virorum_,--stories of the Falls of Illustrious Men, such asLucifer, Adam, Hercules and Nebuchadnezzar. And the Monk ends the taleof Croesus thus: Anhanged was Cresus, the proudè kyng; His roial tronè myghte hym nat availle. Tragédie is noon oother maner thyng, Ne kan in syngyng criè ne biwaille But for that Fortune alwey wole assaile With unwar strook the regnès that been proude; For whan men trusteth hire, thanne wol she faille, And covere hire brighte facè with a clowde. A total reverse of fortune, coming unawares upon a man who 'stood inhigh degree,' happy and apparently secure,--such was the tragic fact tothe mediaeval mind. It appealed strongly to common human sympathy andpity; it startled also another feeling, that of fear. It frightened menand awed them. It made them feel that man is blind and helpless, theplaything of an inscrutable power, called by the name of Fortune or someother name,--a power which appears to smile on him for a little, andthen on a sudden strikes him down in his pride. Shakespeare's idea of the tragic fact is larger than this idea and goesbeyond it; but it includes it, and it is worth while to observe theidentity of the two in a certain point which is often ignored. Tragedywith Shakespeare is concerned always with persons of 'high degree';often with kings or princes; if not, with leaders in the state likeCoriolanus, Brutus, Antony; at the least, as in _Romeo and Juliet_, withmembers of great houses, whose quarrels are of public moment. There is adecided difference here between _Othello_ and our three other tragedies,but it is not a difference of kind. Othello himself is no mere privateperson; he is the General of the Republic. At the beginning we see himin the Council-Chamber of the Senate. The consciousness of his highposition never leaves him. At the end, when he is determined to live nolonger, he is as anxious as Hamlet not to be misjudged by the greatworld, and his last speech begins, Soft you; a word or two before you go. I have done the state some service, and they know it. [2]And this characteristic of Shakespeare's tragedies, though not the mostvital, is neither external nor unimportant. The saying that everydeath-bed is the scene of the fifth act of a tragedy has its meaning,but it would not be true if the word 'tragedy' bore its dramatic sense. The pangs of despised love and the anguish of remorse, we say, are thesame in a peasant and a prince; but, not to insist that they cannot beso when the prince is really a prince, the story of the prince, thetriumvir, or the general, has a greatness and dignity of its own. Hisfate affects the welfare of a whole nation or empire; and when he fallssuddenly from the height of earthly greatness to the dust, his fallproduces a sense of contrast, of the powerlessness of man, and of theomnipotence--perhaps the caprice--of Fortune or Fate, which no tale ofprivate life can possibly rival. Such feelings are constantly evoked by Shakespeare's tragedies,--againin varying degrees. Perhaps they are the very strongest of the emotionsawakened by the early tragedy of _Richard II. _, where they receive aconcentrated expression in Richard's famous speech about the anticDeath, who sits in the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king,grinning at his pomp, watching till his vanity and his fancied securityhave wholly encased him round, and then coming and boring with a littlepin through his castle wall. And these feelings, though theirpredominance is subdued in the mightiest tragedies, remain powerfulthere. In the figure of the maddened Lear we see A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch, Past speaking of in a king;and if we would realise the truth in this matter we cannot do betterthan compare with the effect of _King Lear_ the effect of Tourgénief'sparallel and remarkable tale of peasant life, _A King Lear of theSteppes_. 2A Shakespearean tragedy as so far considered may be called a story ofexceptional calamity leading to the death of a man in high estate. Butit is clearly much more than this, and we have now to regard it fromanother side. No amount of calamity which merely befell a man,descending from the clouds like lightning, or stealing from the darknesslike pestilence, could alone provide the substance of its story. Job wasthe greatest of all the children of the east, and his afflictions werewell-nigh more than he could bear; but even if we imagined them wearinghim to death, that would not make his story tragic. Nor yet would itbecome so, in the Shakespearean sense, if the fire, and the great windfrom the wilderness, and the torments of his flesh were conceived assent by a supernatural power, whether just or malignant. The calamitiesof tragedy do not simply happen, nor are they sent; they proceed mainlyfrom actions, and those the actions of men. We see a number of human beings placed in certain circumstances; and wesee, arising from the co-operation of their characters in thesecircumstances, certain actions. These actions beget others, and theseothers beget others again, until this series of inter-connected deedsleads by an apparently inevitable sequence to a catastrophe. The effectof such a series on imagination is to make us regard the sufferingswhich accompany it, and the catastrophe in which it ends, not only orchiefly as something which happens to the persons concerned, but equallyas something which is caused by them. This at least may be said of theprincipal persons, and, among them, of the hero, who always contributesin some measure to the disaster in which he perishes. This second aspect of tragedy evidently differs greatly from the first. Men, from this point of view, appear to us primarily as agents,'themselves the authors of their proper woe'; and our fear and pity,though they will not cease or diminish, will be modified accordingly. Weare now to consider this second aspect, remembering that it too is onlyone aspect, and additional to the first, not a substitute for it. The 'story' or 'action' of a Shakespearean tragedy does not consist, ofcourse, solely of human actions or deeds; but the deeds are thepredominant factor. And these deeds are, for the most part, actions inthe full sense of the word; not things done ''tween asleep and wake,'but acts or omissions thoroughly expressive of the doer,--characteristicdeeds. The centre of the tragedy, therefore, may be said with equaltruth to lie in action issuing from character, or in character issuingin action. Shakespeare's main interest lay here. To say that it lay in _mere_character, or was a psychological interest, would be a great mistake,for he was dramatic to the tips of his fingers. It is possible to findplaces where he has given a certain indulgence to his love of poetry,and even to his turn for general reflections; but it would be verydifficult, and in his later tragedies perhaps impossible, to detectpassages where he has allowed such freedom to the interest in characterapart from action. But for the opposite extreme, for the abstraction ofmere 'plot' (which is a very different thing from the tragic 'action'),for the kind of interest which predominates in a novel like _The Womanin White_, it is clear that he cared even less. I do not mean that thisinterest is absent from his dramas; but it is subordinate to others, andis so interwoven with them that we are rarely conscious of it apart, andrarely feel in any great strength the half-intellectual, half-nervousexcitement of following an ingenious complication. What we do feelstrongly, as a tragedy advances to its close, is that the calamities andcatastrophe follow inevitably from the deeds of men, and that the mainsource of these deeds is character. The dictum that, with Shakespeare,'character is destiny' is no doubt an exaggeration, and one that maymislead (for many of his tragic personages, if they had not met withpeculiar circumstances, would have escaped a tragic end, and might evenhave lived fairly untroubled lives); but it is the exaggeration of avital truth. This truth, with some of its qualifications, will appear more clearly ifwe now go on to ask what elements are to be found in the 'story' or'action,' occasionally or frequently, beside the characteristic deeds,and the sufferings and circumstances, of the persons. I will refer tothree of these additional factors. (_a_) Shakespeare, occasionally and for reasons which need not bediscussed here, represents abnormal conditions of mind; insanity, forexample, somnambulism, hallucinations. And deeds issuing from these arecertainly not what we called deeds in the fullest sense, deedsexpressive of character. No; but these abnormal conditions are neverintroduced as the origin of deeds of any dramatic moment. Lady Macbeth'ssleep-walking has no influence whatever on the events that follow it. Macbeth did not murder Duncan because he saw a dagger in the air: he sawthe dagger because he was about to murder Duncan. Lear's insanity is notthe cause of a tragic conflict any more than Ophelia's; it is, likeOphelia's, the result of a conflict; and in both cases the effect ismainly pathetic. If Lear were really mad when he divided his kingdom, ifHamlet were really mad at any time in the story, they would cease to betragic characters. (_b_) Shakespeare also introduces the supernatural into some of histragedies; he introduces ghosts, and witches who have supernaturalknowledge. This supernatural element certainly cannot in most cases, ifin any, be explained away as an illusion in the mind of one of thecharacters. And further, it does contribute to the action, and is inmore than one instance an indispensable part of it: so that to describehuman character, with circumstances, as always the _sole_ motive forcein this action would be a serious error. But the supernatural is alwaysplaced in the closest relation with character. It gives a confirmationand a distinct form to inward movements already present and exerting aninfluence; to the sense of failure in Brutus, to the stifled workings ofconscience in Richard, to the half-formed thought or the horrifiedmemory of guilt in Macbeth, to suspicion in Hamlet. Moreover, itsinfluence is never of a compulsive kind. It forms no more than anelement, however important, in the problem which the hero has to face;and we are never allowed to feel that it has removed his capacity orresponsibility for dealing with this problem. So far indeed are we fromfeeling this, that many readers run to the opposite extreme, and openlyor privately regard the supernatural as having nothing to do with thereal interest of the play. (_c_) Shakespeare, lastly, in most of his tragedies allows to 'chance'or 'accident' an appreciable influence at some point in the action. Chance or accident here will be found, I think, to mean any occurrence(not supernatural, of course) which enters the dramatic sequence neitherfrom the agency of a character, nor from the obvious surroundingcircumstances. [3] It may be called an accident, in this sense, thatRomeo never got the Friar's message about the potion, and that Julietdid not awake from her long sleep a minute sooner; an accident thatEdgar arrived at the prison just too late to save Cordelia's life; anaccident that Desdemona dropped her handkerchief at the most fatal ofmoments; an accident that the pirate ship attacked Hamlet's ship, sothat he was able to return forthwith to Denmark. Now this operation ofaccident is a fact, and a prominent fact, of human life. To exclude it_wholly_ from tragedy, therefore, would be, we may say, to fail intruth. And, besides, it is not merely a fact. That men may start acourse of events but can neither calculate nor control it, is a _tragic_fact. The dramatist may use accident so as to make us feel this; andthere are also other dramatic uses to which it may be put. Shakespeareaccordingly admits it. On the other hand, any _large_ admission ofchance into the tragic sequence[4] would certainly weaken, and mightdestroy, the sense of the causal connection of character, deed, andcatastrophe. And Shakespeare really uses it very sparingly. We seldomfind ourselves exclaiming, 'What an unlucky accident! ' I believe mostreaders would have to search painfully for instances. It is, further,frequently easy to see the dramatic intention of an accident; and somethings which look like accidents have really a connection withcharacter, and are therefore not in the full sense accidents. Finally, Ibelieve it will be found that almost all the prominent accidents occurwhen the action is well advanced and the impression of the causalsequence is too firmly fixed to be impaired. Thus it appears that these three elements in the 'action' aresubordinate, while the dominant factor consists in deeds which issuefrom character. So that, by way of summary, we may now alter our firststatement, 'A tragedy is a story of exceptional calamity leading to thedeath of a man in high estate,' and we may say instead (what in its turnis one-sided, though less so), that the story is one of human actionsproducing exceptional calamity and ending in the death of such a man. [5] * * * * *Before we leave the 'action,' however, there is another question thatmay usefully be asked. Can we define this 'action' further by describingit as a conflict? The frequent use of this idea in discussions on tragedy is ultimatelydue, I suppose, to the influence of Hegel's theory on the subject,certainly the most important theory since Aristotle's. But Hegel's viewof the tragic conflict is not only unfamiliar to English readers anddifficult to expound shortly, but it had its origin in reflections onGreek tragedy and, as Hegel was well aware, applies only imperfectly tothe works of Shakespeare. [6] I shall, therefore, confine myself to theidea of conflict in its more general form. In this form it is obviouslysuitable to Shakespearean tragedy; but it is vague, and I will try tomake it more precise by putting the question, Who are the combatants inthis conflict? Not seldom the conflict may quite naturally be conceived as lyingbetween two persons, of whom the hero is one; or, more fully, as lyingbetween two parties or groups, in one of which the hero is the leadingfigure. Or if we prefer to speak (as we may quite well do if we knowwhat we are about) of the passions, tendencies, ideas, principles,forces, which animate these persons or groups, we may say that two ofsuch passions or ideas, regarded as animating two persons or groups, arethe combatants. The love of Romeo and Juliet is in conflict with thehatred of their houses, represented by various other characters. Thecause of Brutus and Cassius struggles with that of Julius, Octavius andAntony. In _Richard II. _ the King stands on one side, Bolingbroke andhis party on the other. In _Macbeth_ the hero and heroine are opposed tothe representatives of Duncan. In all these cases the great majority ofthe _dramatis personae_ fall without difficulty into antagonisticgroups, and the conflict between these groups ends with the defeat ofthe hero. Yet one cannot help feeling that in at least one of these cases,_Macbeth_, there is something a little external in this way of lookingat the action. And when we come to some other plays this feelingincreases. No doubt most of the characters in _Hamlet_, _King Lear_,_Othello_, or _Antony and Cleopatra_ can be arranged in opposedgroups;[7] and no doubt there is a conflict; and yet it seems misleadingto describe this conflict as one _between these groups_. It cannot besimply this. For though Hamlet and the King are mortal foes, yet thatwhich engrosses our interest and dwells in our memory at least as muchas the conflict between them, is the conflict _within_ one of them. Andso it is, though not in the same degree, with _Antony and Cleopatra_ andeven with _Othello_; and, in fact, in a certain measure, it is so withnearly all the tragedies. There is an outward conflict of persons andgroups, there is also a conflict of forces in the hero's soul; and evenin _Julius Caesar_ and _Macbeth_ the interest of the former can hardlybe said to exceed that of the latter. The truth is, that the type of tragedy in which the hero opposes to ahostile force an undivided soul, is not the Shakespearean type. Thesouls of those who contend with the hero may be thus undivided; theygenerally are; but, as a rule, the hero, though he pursues his fatedway, is, at least at some point in the action, and sometimes at many,torn by an inward struggle; and it is frequently at such points thatShakespeare shows his most extraordinary power. If further we comparethe earlier tragedies with the later, we find that it is in the latter,the maturest works, that this inward struggle is most emphasised. In thelast of them, _Coriolanus_, its interest completely eclipses towards theclose of the play that of the outward conflict. _Romeo and Juliet_,_Richard III. _, _Richard II. _, where the hero contends with an outwardforce, but comparatively little with himself, are all early plays. If we are to include the outer and the inner struggle in a conceptionmore definite than that of conflict in general, we must employ some suchphrase as 'spiritual force. ' This will mean whatever forces act in thehuman spirit, whether good or evil, whether personal passion orimpersonal principle; doubts, desires, scruples, ideas--whatever cananimate, shake, possess, and drive a man's soul. In a Shakespeareantragedy some such forces are shown in conflict. They are shown acting inmen and generating strife between them. They are also shown, lessuniversally, but quite as characteristically, generating disturbance andeven conflict in the soul of the hero. Treasonous ambition in Macbethcollides with loyalty and patriotism in Macduff and Malcolm: here is theoutward conflict. But these powers or principles equally collide in thesoul of Macbeth himself: here is the inner. And neither by itself couldmake the tragedy. [8]We shall see later the importance of this idea. Here we need onlyobserve that the notion of tragedy as a conflict emphasises the factthat action is the centre of the story, while the concentration ofinterest, in the greater plays, on the inward struggle emphasises thefact that this action is essentially the expression of character. 3Let us turn now from the 'action' to the central figure in it; and,ignoring the characteristics which distinguish the heroes from oneanother, let us ask whether they have any common qualities which appearto be essential to the tragic effect. One they certainly have. They are exceptional beings. We have seenalready that the hero, with Shakespeare, is a person of high degree orof public importance, and that his actions or sufferings are of anunusual kind. But this is not all. His nature also is exceptional, andgenerally raises him in some respect much above the average level ofhumanity. This does not mean that he is an eccentric or a paragon. Shakespeare never drew monstrosities of virtue; some of his heroes arefar from being 'good'; and if he drew eccentrics he gave them asubordinate position in the plot. His tragic characters are made of thestuff we find within ourselves and within the persons who surround them. But, by an intensification of the life which they share with others,they are raised above them; and the greatest are raised so far that, ifwe fully realise all that is implied in their words and actions, webecome conscious that in real life we have known scarcely any oneresembling them. Some, like Hamlet and Cleopatra, have genius. Others,like Othello, Lear, Macbeth, Coriolanus, are built on the grand scale;and desire, passion, or will attains in them a terrible force. In almostall we observe a marked one-sidedness, a predisposition in someparticular direction; a total incapacity, in certain circumstances, ofresisting the force which draws in this direction; a fatal tendency toidentify the whole being with one interest, object, passion, or habit ofmind. This, it would seem, is, for Shakespeare, the fundamental tragictrait. It is present in his early heroes, Romeo and Richard II. ,infatuated men, who otherwise rise comparatively little above theordinary level. It is a fatal gift, but it carries with it a touch ofgreatness; and when there is joined to it nobility of mind, or genius,or immense force, we realise the full power and reach of the soul, andthe conflict in which it engages acquires that magnitude which stirs notonly sympathy and pity, but admiration, terror, and awe. The easiest way to bring home to oneself the nature of the tragiccharacter is to compare it with a character of another kind. Dramas like_Cymbeline_ and the _Winter's Tale_, which might seem destined to endtragically, but actually end otherwise, owe their happy ending largelyto the fact that the principal characters fail to reach tragicdimensions. And, conversely, if these persons were put in the place ofthe tragic heroes, the dramas in which they appeared would cease to betragedies. Posthumus would never have acted as Othello did; Othello, onhis side, would have met Iachimo's challenge with something more thanwords. If, like Posthumus, he had remained convinced of his wife'sinfidelity, he would not have repented her execution; if, like Leontes,he had come to believe that by an unjust accusation he had caused herdeath, he would never have lived on, like Leontes. In the same way thevillain Iachimo has no touch of tragic greatness. But Iago comes nearerto it, and if Iago had slandered Imogen and had supposed his slanders tohave led to her death, he certainly would not have turned melancholy andwished to die. One reason why the end of the _Merchant of Venice_ failsto satisfy us is that Shylock is a tragic character, and that we cannotbelieve in his accepting his defeat and the conditions imposed on him. This was a case where Shakespeare's imagination ran away with him, sothat he drew a figure with which the destined pleasant ending would notharmonise. In the circumstances where we see the hero placed, his tragic trait,which is also his greatness, is fatal to him. To meet thesecircumstances something is required which a smaller man might havegiven, but which the hero cannot give. He errs, by action or omission;and his error, joining with other causes, brings on him ruin. This isalways so with Shakespeare. As we have seen, the idea of the tragic heroas a being destroyed simply and solely by external forces is quite aliento him; and not less so is the idea of the hero as contributing to hisdestruction only by acts in which we see no flaw. But the fatalimperfection or error, which is never absent, is of different kinds anddegrees. At one extreme stands the excess and precipitancy of Romeo,which scarcely, if at all, diminish our regard for him; at the other themurderous ambition of Richard III. In most cases the tragic errorinvolves no conscious breach of right; in some (_e. g. _ that of Brutus orOthello) it is accompanied by a full conviction of right. In Hamletthere is a painful consciousness that duty is being neglected; in Antonya clear knowledge that the worse of two courses is being pursued; butRichard and Macbeth are the only heroes who do what they themselvesrecognise to be villainous. It is important to observe that Shakespearedoes admit such heroes,[9] and also that he appears to feel, and exertshimself to meet, the difficulty that arises from their admission. Thedifficulty is that the spectator must desire their defeat and even theirdestruction; and yet this desire, and the satisfaction of it, are nottragic feelings. Shakespeare gives to Richard therefore a power whichexcites astonishment, and a courage which extorts admiration. He givesto Macbeth a similar, though less extraordinary, greatness, and adds toit a conscience so terrifying in its warnings and so maddening in itsreproaches that the spectacle of inward torment compels a horrifiedsympathy and awe which balance, at the least, the desire for the hero'sruin. The tragic hero with Shakespeare, then, need not be 'good,' thoughgenerally he is 'good' and therefore at once wins sympathy in his error. But it is necessary that he should have so much of greatness that in hiserror and fall we may be vividly conscious of the possibilities of humannature. [10] Hence, in the first place, a Shakespearean tragedy is never,like some miscalled tragedies, depressing. No one ever closes the bookwith the feeling that man is a poor mean creature. He may be wretchedand he may be awful, but he is not small. His lot may be heart-rendingand mysterious, but it is not contemptible. The most confirmed of cynicsceases to be a cynic while he reads these plays. And with this greatnessof the tragic hero (which is not always confined to him) is connected,secondly, what I venture to describe as the centre of the tragicimpression. This central feeling is the impression of waste. WithShakespeare, at any rate, the pity and fear which are stirred by thetragic story seem to unite with, and even to merge in, a profound senseof sadness and mystery, which is due to this impression of waste. 'Whata piece of work is man,' we cry; 'so much more beautiful and so muchmore terrible than we knew! Why should he be so if this beauty andgreatness only tortures itself and throws itself away? ' We seem to havebefore us a type of the mystery of the whole world, the tragic factwhich extends far beyond the limits of tragedy. Everywhere, from thecrushed rocks beneath our feet to the soul of man, we see power,intelligence, life and glory, which astound us and seem to call for ourworship. And everywhere we see them perishing, devouring one another anddestroying themselves, often with dreadful pain, as though they cameinto being for no other end. Tragedy is the typical form of thismystery, because that greatness of soul which it exhibits oppressed,conflicting and destroyed, is the highest existence in our view. Itforces the mystery upon us, and it makes us realise so vividly the worthof that which is wasted that we cannot possibly seek comfort in thereflection that all is vanity. 4In this tragic world, then, where individuals, however great they may beand however decisive their actions may appear, are so evidently not theultimate power, what is this power? What account can we give of it whichwill correspond with the imaginative impressions we receive? This willbe our final question. The variety of the answers given to this question shows how difficult itis. And the difficulty has many sources. Most people, even among thosewho know Shakespeare well and come into real contact with his mind, areinclined to isolate and exaggerate some one aspect of the tragic fact. Some are so much influenced by their own habitual beliefs that theyimport them more or less into their interpretation of every author whois 'sympathetic' to them. And even where neither of these causes oferror appears to operate, another is present from which it is probablyimpossible wholly to escape. What I mean is this. Any answer we give tothe question proposed ought to correspond with, or to represent in termsof the understanding, our imaginative and emotional experience inreading the tragedies. We have, of course, to do our best by study andeffort to make this experience true to Shakespeare; but, that done tothe best of our ability, the experience is the matter to be interpreted,and the test by which the interpretation must be tried. But it isextremely hard to make out exactly what this experience is, because, inthe very effort to make it out, our reflecting mind, full of everydayideas, is always tending to transform it by the application of theseideas, and so to elicit a result which, instead of representing thefact, conventionalises it. And the consequence is not only mistakentheories; it is that many a man will declare that he feels in reading atragedy what he never really felt, while he fails to recognise what heactually did feel. It is not likely that we shall escape all thesedangers in our effort to find an answer to the question regarding thetragic world and the ultimate power in it. It will be agreed, however, first, that this question must not beanswered in 'religious' language. For although this or that _dramatispersona_ may speak of gods or of God, of evil spirits or of Satan, ofheaven and of hell, and although the poet may show us ghosts fromanother world, these ideas do not materially influence hisrepresentation of life, nor are they used to throw light on the mysteryof its tragedy. The Elizabethan drama was almost wholly secular; andwhile Shakespeare was writing he practically confined his view to theworld of non-theological observation and thought, so that he representsit substantially in one and the same way whether the period of the storyis pre-Christian or Christian. [11] He looked at this 'secular' worldmost intently and seriously; and he painted it, we cannot but conclude,with entire fidelity, without the wish to enforce an opinion of his own,and, in essentials, without regard to anyone's hopes, fears, or beliefs. His greatness is largely due to this fidelity in a mind of extraordinarypower; and if, as a private person, he had a religious faith, his tragicview can hardly have been in contradiction with this faith, but musthave been included in it, and supplemented, not abolished, by additionalideas. Two statements, next, may at once be made regarding the tragic fact ashe represents it: one, that it is and remains to us something piteous,fearful and mysterious; the other, that the representation of it doesnot leave us crushed, rebellious or desperate. These statements will beaccepted, I believe, by any reader who is in touch with Shakespeare'smind and can observe his own. Indeed such a reader is rather likely tocomplain that they are painfully obvious. But if they are true as wellas obvious, something follows from them in regard to our presentquestion. From the first it follows that the ultimate power in the tragic world isnot adequately described as a law or order which we can see to be justand benevolent,--as, in that sense, a 'moral order': for in that casethe spectacle of suffering and waste could not seem to us so fearful andmysterious as it does. And from the second it follows that this ultimatepower is not adequately described as a fate, whether malicious andcruel, or blind and indifferent to human happiness and goodness: for inthat case the spectacle would leave us desperate or rebellious. Yet oneor other of these two ideas will be found to govern most accounts ofShakespeare's tragic view or world. These accounts isolate andexaggerate single aspects, either the aspect of action or that ofsuffering; either the close and unbroken connection of character, will,deed and catastrophe, which, taken alone, shows the individual simply assinning against, or failing to conform to, the moral order and drawinghis just doom on his own head; or else that pressure of outward forces,that sway of accident, and those blind and agonised struggles, which,taken alone, show him as the mere victim of some power which caresneither for his sins nor for his pain. Such views contradict oneanother, and no third view can unite them; but the several aspects fromwhose isolation and exaggeration they spring are both present in thefact, and a view which would be true to the fact and to the whole of ourimaginative experience must in some way combine these aspects. Let us begin, then, with the idea of fatality and glance at some of theimpressions which give rise to it, without asking at present whetherthis idea is their natural or fitting expression. There can be no doubtthat they do arise and that they ought to arise. If we do not feel attimes that the hero is, in some sense, a doomed man; that he and othersdrift struggling to destruction like helpless creatures borne on anirresistible flood towards a cataract; that, faulty as they may be,their fault is far from being the sole or sufficient cause of all theysuffer; and that the power from which they cannot escape is relentlessand immovable, we have failed to receive an essential part of the fulltragic effect. The sources of these impressions are various, and I will refer only to afew. One of them is put into words by Shakespeare himself when he makesthe player-king in _Hamlet_ say: Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own;'their ends' are the issues or outcomes of our thoughts, and these, saysthe speaker, are not our own. The tragic world is a world of action, andaction is the translation of thought into reality. We see men and womenconfidently attempting it. They strike into the existing order of thingsin pursuance of their ideas. But what they achieve is not what theyintended; it is terribly unlike it. They understand nothing, we say toourselves, of the world on which they operate. They fight blindly in thedark, and the power that works through them makes them the instrument ofa design which is not theirs. They act freely, and yet their actionbinds them hand and foot. And it makes no difference whether they meantwell or ill. No one could mean better than Brutus, but he contrivesmisery for his country and death for himself. No one could mean worsethan Iago, and he too is caught in the web he spins for others. Hamlet,recoiling from the rough duty of revenge, is pushed intoblood-guiltiness he never dreamed of, and forced at last on the revengehe could not will. His adversary's murders, and no less his adversary'sremorse, bring about the opposite of what they sought. Lear follows anold man's whim, half generous, half selfish; and in a moment it loosesall the powers of darkness upon him. Othello agonises over an emptyfiction, and, meaning to execute solemn justice, butchers innocence andstrangles love. They understand themselves no better than the worldabout them. Coriolanus thinks that his heart is iron, and it melts likesnow before a fire. Lady Macbeth, who thought she could dash out her ownchild's brains, finds herself hounded to death by the smell of astranger's blood. Her husband thinks that to gain a crown he would jumpthe life to come, and finds that the crown has brought him all thehorrors of that life. Everywhere, in this tragic world, man's thought,translated into act, is transformed into the opposite of itself. Hisact, the movement of a few ounces of matter in a moment of time, becomesa monstrous flood which spreads over a kingdom. And whatsoever he dreamsof doing, he achieves that which he least dreamed of, his owndestruction. All this makes us feel the blindness and helplessness of man. Yet byitself it would hardly suggest the idea of fate, because it shows man asin some degree, however slight, the cause of his own undoing. But otherimpressions come to aid it. It is aided by everything which makes usfeel that a man is, as we say, terribly unlucky; and of this there is,even in Shakespeare, not a little. Here come in some of the accidentsalready considered, Juliet's waking from her trance a minute too late,Desdemona's loss of her handkerchief at the only moment when the losswould have mattered, that insignificant delay which cost Cordelia'slife. Again, men act, no doubt, in accordance with their characters; butwhat is it that brings them just the one problem which is fatal to themand would be easy to another, and sometimes brings it to them just whenthey are least fitted to face it? How is it that Othello comes to be thecompanion of the one man in the world who is at once able enough, braveenough, and vile enough to ensnare him? By what strange fatality does ithappen that Lear has such daughters and Cordelia such sisters? Evencharacter itself contributes to these feelings of fatality. How couldmen escape, we cry, such vehement propensities as drive Romeo, Antony,Coriolanus, to their doom? And why is it that a man's virtues help todestroy him, and that his weakness or defect is so intertwined witheverything that is admirable in him that we can hardly separate themeven in imagination? If we find in Shakespeare's tragedies the source of impressions likethese, it is important, on the other hand, to notice what we do _not_find there. We find practically no trace of fatalism in its moreprimitive, crude and obvious forms. Nothing, again, makes us think ofthe actions and sufferings of the persons as somehow arbitrarily fixedbeforehand without regard to their feelings, thoughts and resolutions. Nor, I believe, are the facts ever so presented that it seems to us asif the supreme power, whatever it may be, had a special spite against afamily or an individual. Neither, lastly, do we receive the impression(which, it must be observed, is not purely fatalistic) that a family,owing to some hideous crime or impiety in early days, is doomed in laterdays to continue a career of portentous calamities and sins. Shakespeare, indeed, does not appear to have taken much interest inheredity, or to have attached much importance to it. (See, however,'heredity' in the Index. )What, then, is this 'fate' which the impressions already considered leadus to describe as the ultimate power in the tragic world? It appears tobe a mythological expression for the whole system or order, of which theindividual characters form an inconsiderable and feeble part; whichseems to determine, far more than they, their native dispositions andtheir circumstances, and, through these, their action; which is so vastand complex that they can scarcely at all understand it or control itsworkings; and which has a nature so definite and fixed that whateverchanges take place in it produce other changes inevitably and withoutregard to men's desires and regrets. And whether this system or order isbest called by the name of fate or no,[12] it can hardly be denied thatit does appear as the ultimate power in the tragic world, and that ithas such characteristics as these. But the name 'fate' may be intendedto imply something more--to imply that this order is a blank necessity,totally regardless alike of human weal and of the difference betweengood and evil or right and wrong. And such an implication many readerswould at once reject. They would maintain, on the contrary, that thisorder shows characteristics of quite another kind from those which madeus give it the name of fate, characteristics which certainly should notinduce us to forget those others, but which would lead us to describe itas a moral order and its necessity as a moral necessity. 5Let us turn, then, to this idea. It brings into the light those aspectsof the tragic fact which the idea of fate throws into the shade. And theargument which leads to it in its simplest form may be stated brieflythus: 'Whatever may be said of accidents, circumstances and the like,human action is, after all, presented to us as the central fact intragedy, and also as the main cause of the catastrophe. That necessitywhich so much impresses us is, after all, chiefly the necessaryconnection of actions and consequences. For these actions we, withouteven raising a question on the subject, hold the agents responsible; andthe tragedy would disappear for us if we did not. The critical actionis, in greater or less degree, wrong or bad. The catastrophe is, in themain, the return of this action on the head of the agent. It is anexample of justice; and that order which, present alike within theagents and outside them, infallibly brings it about, is therefore just. The rigour of its justice is terrible, no doubt, for a tragedy is aterrible story; but, in spite of fear and pity, we acquiesce, becauseour sense of justice is satisfied. 'Now, if this view is to hold good, the 'justice' of which it speaks mustbe at once distinguished from what is called 'poetic justice. ' 'Poeticjustice' means that prosperity and adversity are distributed inproportion to the merits of the agents. Such 'poetic justice' is inflagrant contradiction with the facts of life, and it is absent fromShakespeare's tragic picture of life; indeed, this very absence is aground of constant complaint on the part of Dr. Johnson. [Greek:Drasanti pathein], 'the doer must suffer'--this we find in Shakespeare. We also find that villainy never remains victorious and prosperous atthe last. But an assignment of amounts of happiness and misery, anassignment even of life and death, in proportion to merit, we do notfind. No one who thinks of Desdemona and Cordelia; or who remembers thatone end awaits Richard III. and Brutus, Macbeth and Hamlet; or who askshimself which suffered most, Othello or Iago; will ever accuseShakespeare of representing the ultimate power as 'poetically' just. And we must go further. I venture to say that it is a mistake to use atall these terms of justice and merit or desert. And this for tworeasons. In the first place, essential as it is to recognise theconnection between act and consequence, and natural as it may seem insome cases (_e. g. _ Macbeth's) to say that the doer only gets what hedeserves, yet in very many cases to say this would be quite unnatural. We might not object to the statement that Lear deserved to suffer forhis folly, selfishness and tyranny; but to assert that he deserved tosuffer what he did suffer is to do violence not merely to language butto any healthy moral sense. It is, moreover, to obscure the tragic factthat the consequences of action cannot be limited to that which wouldappear to us to follow 'justly' from them. And, this being so, when wecall the order of the tragic world just, we are either using the word insome vague and unexplained sense, or we are going beyond what is shownus of this order, and are appealing to faith. But, in the second place, the ideas of justice and desert are, it seemsto me, in _all_ cases--even those of Richard III. and of Macbeth andLady Macbeth--untrue to our imaginative experience. When we are immersedin a tragedy, we feel towards dispositions, actions, and persons suchemotions as attraction and repulsion, pity, wonder, fear, horror,perhaps hatred; but we do not _judge_. This is a point of view whichemerges only when, in reading a play, we slip, by our own fault or thedramatist's, from the tragic position, or when, in thinking about theplay afterwards, we fall back on our everyday legal and moral notions. But tragedy does not belong, any more than religion belongs, to thesphere of these notions; neither does the imaginative attitude inpresence of it. While we are in its world we watch what is, seeing thatso it happened and must have happened, feeling that it is piteous,dreadful, awful, mysterious, but neither passing sentence on the agents,nor asking whether the behaviour of the ultimate power towards them isjust. And, therefore, the use of such language in attempts to render ourimaginative experience in terms of the understanding is, to say theleast, full of danger. [13]Let us attempt then to re-state the idea that the ultimate power in thetragic world is a moral order. Let us put aside the ideas of justice andmerit, and speak simply of good and evil. Let us understand by thesewords, primarily, moral good and evil, but also everything else in humanbeings which we take to be excellent or the reverse. Let us understandthe statement that the ultimate power or order is 'moral' to mean thatit does not show itself indifferent to good and evil, or equallyfavourable or unfavourable to both, but shows itself akin to good andalien from evil. And, understanding the statement thus, let us ask whatgrounds it has in the tragic fact as presented by Shakespeare. Here, as in dealing with the grounds on which the idea of fate rests, Ichoose only two or three out of many. And the most important is this. InShakespearean tragedy the main source of the convulsion which producessuffering and death is never good: good contributes to this convulsiononly from its tragic implication with its opposite in one and the samecharacter. The main source, on the contrary, is in every case evil; and,what is more (though this seems to have been little noticed), it is inalmost every case evil in the fullest sense, not mere imperfection butplain moral evil. The love of Romeo and Juliet conducts them to deathonly because of the senseless hatred of their houses. Guilty ambition,seconded by diabolic malice and issuing in murder, opens the action in_Macbeth_. Iago is the main source of the convulsion in _Othello_;Goneril, Regan and Edmund in _King Lear_. Even when this plain moralevil is not the obviously prime source within the play, it lies behindit: the situation with which Hamlet has to deal has been formed byadultery and murder. _Julius Caesar_ is the only tragedy in which one iseven tempted to find an exception to this rule. And the inference isobvious. If it is chiefly evil that violently disturbs the order of theworld, this order cannot be friendly to evil or indifferent between eviland good, any more than a body which is convulsed by poison is friendlyto it or indifferent to the distinction between poison and food.

Again, if we confine our attention to the hero, and to those cases wherethe gross and palpable evil is not in him but elsewhere, we find thatthe comparatively innocent hero still shows some marked imperfection ordefect,--irresolution, precipitancy, pride, credulousness, excessivesimplicity, excessive susceptibility to sexual emotions, and the like. These defects or imperfections are certainly, in the wide sense of theword, evil, and they contribute decisively to the conflict andcatastrophe. And the inference is again obvious. The ultimate powerwhich shows itself disturbed by this evil and reacts against it, musthave a nature alien to it. Indeed its reaction is so vehement and'relentless' that it would seem to be bent on nothing short of good inperfection, and to be ruthless in its demand for it. To this must be added another fact, or another aspect of the same fact. Evil exhibits itself everywhere as something negative, barren,weakening, destructive, a principle of death. It isolates, disunites,and tends to annihilate not only its opposite but itself. That whichkeeps the evil man[14] prosperous, makes him succeed, even permits himto exist, is the good in him (I do not mean only the obviously 'moral'good). When the evil in him masters the good and has its way, itdestroys other people through him, but it also destroys _him_. At theclose of the struggle he has vanished, and has left behind him nothingthat can stand. What remains is a family, a city, a country, exhausted,pale and feeble, but alive through the principle of good which animatesit; and, within it, individuals who, if they have not the brilliance orgreatness of the tragic character, still have won our respect andconfidence. And the inference would seem clear. If existence in an orderdepends on good, and if the presence of evil is hostile to suchexistence, the inner being or soul of this order must be akin to good. These are aspects of the tragic world at least as clearly marked asthose which, taken alone, suggest the idea of fate. And the idea whichthey in their turn, when taken alone, may suggest, is that of an orderwhich does not indeed award 'poetic justice,' but which reacts throughthe necessity of its own 'moral' nature both against attacks made uponit and against failure to conform to it. Tragedy, on this view, is theexhibition of that convulsive reaction; and the fact that the spectacledoes not leave us rebellious or desperate is due to a more or lessdistinct perception that the tragic suffering and death arise fromcollision, not with a fate or blank power, but with a moral power, apower akin to all that we admire and revere in the charactersthemselves. This perception produces something like a feeling ofacquiescence in the catastrophe, though it neither leads us to passjudgment on the characters nor diminishes the pity, the fear, and thesense of waste, which their struggle, suffering and fall evoke. And,finally, this view seems quite able to do justice to those aspects ofthe tragic fact which give rise to the idea of fate. They would appearas various expressions of the fact that the moral order acts notcapriciously or like a human being, but from the necessity of itsnature, or, if we prefer the phrase, by general laws,--a necessity orlaw which of course knows no exception and is as 'ruthless' as fate. It is impossible to deny to this view a large measure of truth. And yetwithout some amendment it can hardly satisfy. For it does not includethe whole of the facts, and therefore does not wholly correspond withthe impressions they produce. Let it be granted that the system or orderwhich shows itself omnipotent against individuals is, in the senseexplained, moral. Still--at any rate for the eye of sight--the evilagainst which it asserts itself, and the persons whom this evilinhabits, are not really something outside the order, so that they canattack it or fail to conform to it; they are within it and a part of it. It itself produces them,--produces Iago as well as Desdemona, Iago'scruelty as well as Iago's courage. It is not poisoned, it poisonsitself. Doubtless it shows by its violent reaction that the poison _is_poison, and that its health lies in good. But one significant factcannot remove another, and the spectacle we witness scarcely warrantsthe assertion that the order is responsible for the good in Desdemona,but Iago for the evil in Iago. If we make this assertion we make it ongrounds other than the facts as presented in Shakespeare's tragedies. Nor does the idea of a moral order asserting itself against attack orwant of conformity answer in full to our feelings regarding the tragiccharacter. We do not think of Hamlet merely as failing to meet itsdemand, of Antony as merely sinning against it, or even of Macbeth assimply attacking it. What we feel corresponds quite as much to the ideathat they are _its_ parts, expressions, products; that in their defector evil _it_ is untrue to its soul of goodness, and falls into conflictand collision with itself; that, in making them suffer and wastethemselves, _it_ suffers and wastes itself; and that when, to save itslife and regain peace from this intestinal struggle, it casts them out,it has lost a part of its own substance,--a part more dangerous andunquiet, but far more valuable and nearer to its heart, than that whichremains,--a Fortinbras, a Malcolm, an Octavius. There is no tragedy inits expulsion of evil: the tragedy is that this involves the waste ofgood. Thus we are left at last with an idea showing two sides or aspects whichwe can neither separate nor reconcile. The whole or order against whichthe individual part shows itself powerless seems to be animated by apassion for perfection: we cannot otherwise explain its behaviourtowards evil. Yet it appears to engender this evil within itself, and inits effort to overcome and expel it it is agonised with pain, and drivento mutilate its own substance and to lose not only evil but pricelessgood. That this idea, though very different from the idea of a blankfate, is no solution of the riddle of life is obvious; but why should weexpect it to be such a solution? Shakespeare was not attempting tojustify the ways of God to men, or to show the universe as a DivineComedy. He was writing tragedy, and tragedy would not be tragedy if itwere not a painful mystery. Nor can he be said even to point distinctly,like some writers of tragedy, in any direction where a solution mightlie. We find a few references to gods or God, to the influence of thestars, to another life: some of them certainly, all of them perhaps,merely dramatic--appropriate to the person from whose lips they fall. Aghost comes from Purgatory to impart a secret out of the reach of itshearer--who presently meditates on the question whether the sleep ofdeath is dreamless. Accidents once or twice remind us strangely of thewords, 'There's a divinity that shapes our ends. ' More important areother impressions. Sometimes from the very furnace of affliction aconviction seems borne to us that somehow, if we could see it, thisagony counts as nothing against the heroism and love which appear in itand thrill our hearts. Sometimes we are driven to cry out that thesemighty or heavenly spirits who perish are too great for the little spacein which they move, and that they vanish not into nothingness but intofreedom. Sometimes from these sources and from others comes apresentiment, formless but haunting and even profound, that all the furyof conflict, with its waste and woe, is less than half the truth, evenan illusion, 'such stuff as dreams are made on. ' But these faint andscattered intimations that the tragic world, being but a fragment of awhole beyond our vision, must needs be a contradiction and no ultimatetruth, avail nothing to interpret the mystery. We remain confronted withthe inexplicable fact, or the no less inexplicable appearance, of aworld travailing for perfection, but bringing to birth, together withglorious good, an evil which it is able to overcome only by self-tortureand self-waste. And this fact or appearance is tragedy. [15]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 1: _Julius Caesar_ is not an exception to this rule. Caesar,whose murder comes in the Third Act, is in a sense the dominating figurein the story, but Brutus is the 'hero. '][Footnote 2: _Timon of Athens_, we have seen, was probably not designedby Shakespeare, but even _Timon_ is no exception to the rule. Thesub-plot is concerned with Alcibiades and his army, and Timon himself istreated by the Senate as a man of great importance. _Arden of Feversham_and _A Yorkshire Tragedy_ would certainly be exceptions to the rule; butI assume that neither of them is Shakespeare's; and if either is, itbelongs to a different species from his admitted tragedies. See, on thisspecies, Symonds, _Shakspere's Predecessors_, ch. xi. ][Footnote 3: Even a deed would, I think, be counted an 'accident,' if itwere the deed of a very minor person whose character had not beenindicated; because such a deed would not issue from the little world towhich the dramatist had confined our attention. ][Footnote 4: Comedy stands in a different position. The tricks played bychance often form a principal part of the comic action. ][Footnote 5: It may be observed that the influence of the three elementsjust considered is to strengthen the tendency, produced by thesufferings considered first, to regard the tragic persons as passiverather than as agents. ][Footnote 6: An account of Hegel's view may be found in _Oxford Lectureson Poetry_. ][Footnote 7: The reader, however, will find considerable difficulty inplacing some very important characters in these and other plays. I willgive only two or three illustrations. Edgar is clearly not on the sameside as Edmund, and yet it seems awkward to range him on Gloster's sidewhen Gloster wishes to put him to death. Ophelia is in love with Hamlet,but how can she be said to be of Hamlet's party against the King andPolonius, or of their party against Hamlet? Desdemona worships Othello,yet it sounds odd to say that Othello is on the same side with a personwhom he insults, strikes and murders. ][Footnote 8: I have given names to the 'spiritual forces' in _Macbeth_merely to illustrate the idea, and without any pretension to adequacy. Perhaps, in view of some interpretations of Shakespeare's plays, it willbe as well to add that I do not dream of suggesting that in any of hisdramas Shakespeare imagined two abstract principles or passionsconflicting, and incorporated them in persons; or that there is anynecessity for a reader to define for himself the particular forces whichconflict in a given case. ][Footnote 9: Aristotle apparently would exclude them. ][Footnote 10: Richard II. is perhaps an exception, and I must confessthat to me he is scarcely a tragic character, and that, if he isnevertheless a tragic figure, he is so only because his fall fromprosperity to adversity is so great. ][Footnote 11: I say substantially; but the concluding remarks on_Hamlet_ will modify a little the statements above. ][Footnote 12: I have raised no objection to the use of the idea of fate,because it occurs so often both in conversation and in books aboutShakespeare's tragedies that I must suppose it to be natural to manyreaders. Yet I doubt whether it would be so if Greek tragedy had neverbeen written; and I must in candour confess that to me it does not oftenoccur while I am reading, or when I have just read, a tragedy ofShakespeare. Wordsworth's lines, for example, about poor humanity's afflicted will Struggling in vain with ruthless destinydo not represent the impression I receive; much less do images whichcompare man to a puny creature helpless in the claws of a bird of prey. The reader should examine himself closely on this matter. ][Footnote 13: It is dangerous, I think, in reference to all really goodtragedies, but I am dealing here only with Shakespeare's. In not a fewGreek tragedies it is almost inevitable that we should think of justiceand retribution, not only because the _dramatis personae_ often speak ofthem, but also because there is something casuistical about the tragicproblem itself. The poet treats the story in such a way that thequestion, Is the hero doing right or wrong? is almost forced upon us. But this is not so with Shakespeare. _Julius Caesar_ is probably theonly one of his tragedies in which the question suggests itself to us,and this is one of the reasons why that play has something of a classicair. Even here, if we ask the question, we have no doubt at all aboutthe answer. ][Footnote 14: It is most essential to remember that an evil man is muchmore than the evil in him. I may add that in this paragraph I have, forthe sake of clearness, considered evil in its most pronounced form; butwhat is said would apply, _mutatis mutandis_, to evil as imperfection,etc. ][Footnote 15: Partly in order not to anticipate later passages, Iabstained from treating fully here the question why we feel, at thedeath of the tragic hero, not only pain but also reconciliation andsometimes even exultation. As I cannot at present make good this defect,I would ask the reader to refer to the word _Reconciliation_ in theIndex. See also, in _Oxford Lectures on Poetry_, _Hegel's Theory ofTragedy_, especially pp. 90, 91. ]LECTURE IICONSTRUCTION IN SHAKESPEARE'S TRAGEDIESHaving discussed the substance of a Shakespearean tragedy, we shouldnaturally go on to examine the form. And under this head many thingsmight be included; for example, Shakespeare's methods ofcharacterisation, his language, his versification, the construction ofhis plots. I intend, however, to speak only of the last of thesesubjects, which has been somewhat neglected;[16] and, as construction isa more or less technical matter, I shall add some general remarks onShakespeare as an artist. 1As a Shakespearean tragedy represents a conflict which terminates in acatastrophe, any such tragedy may roughly be divided into three parts. The first of these sets forth or expounds the situation,[17] or state ofaffairs, out of which the conflict arises; and it may, therefore, becalled the Exposition. The second deals with the definite beginning, thegrowth and the vicissitudes of the conflict. It forms accordingly thebulk of the play, comprising the Second, Third and Fourth Acts, andusually a part of the First and a part of the Fifth. The final sectionof the tragedy shows the issue of the conflict in a catastrophe. [18]The application of this scheme of division is naturally more or lessarbitrary. The first part glides into the second, and the second intothe third, and there may often be difficulty in drawing the linesbetween them. But it is still harder to divide spring from summer, andsummer from autumn; and yet spring is spring, and summer summer. The main business of the Exposition, which we will consider first, is tointroduce us into a little world of persons; to show us their positionsin life, their circumstances, their relations to one another, andperhaps something of their characters; and to leave us keenly interestedin the question what will come out of this condition of things. We areleft thus expectant, not merely because some of the persons interest usat once, but also because their situation in regard to one anotherpoints to difficulties in the future. This situation is not one ofconflict,[19] but it threatens conflict. For example, we see first thehatred of the Montagues and Capulets; and then we see Romeo ready tofall violently in love; and then we hear talk of a marriage betweenJuliet and Paris; but the exposition is not complete, and the conflicthas not definitely begun to arise, till, in the last scene of the FirstAct, Romeo the Montague sees Juliet the Capulet and becomes her slave. The dramatist's chief difficulty in the exposition is obvious, and it isillustrated clearly enough in the plays of unpractised writers; forexample, in _Remorse_, and even in _The Cenci_. He has to impart to theaudience a quantity of information about matters of which they generallyknow nothing and never know all that is necessary for his purpose. [20]But the process of merely acquiring information is unpleasant, and thedirect imparting of it is undramatic. Unless he uses a prologue,therefore, he must conceal from his auditors the fact that they arebeing informed, and must tell them what he wants them to know by meanswhich are interesting on their own account. These means, withShakespeare, are not only speeches but actions and events. From the verybeginning of the play, though the conflict has not arisen, things arehappening and being done which in some degree arrest, startle, andexcite; and in a few scenes we have mastered the situation of affairswithout perceiving the dramatist's designs upon us. Not that this isalways so with Shakespeare. In the opening scene of his early _Comedy ofErrors_, and in the opening speech of _Richard III. _, we feel that thespeakers are addressing us; and in the second scene of the _Tempest_(for Shakespeare grew at last rather negligent of technique) the purposeof Prospero's long explanation to Miranda is palpable. But in generalShakespeare's expositions are masterpieces. [21]His usual plan in tragedy is to begin with a short scene, or part of ascene, either full of life and stir, or in some other way arresting. Then, having secured a hearing, he proceeds to conversations at a lowerpitch, accompanied by little action but conveying much information. Forexample, _Romeo and Juliet_ opens with a street-fight, _Julius Caesar_and _Coriolanus_ with a crowd in commotion; and when this excitement hashad its effect on the audience, there follow quiet speeches, in whichthe cause of the excitement, and so a great part of the situation, aredisclosed. In _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_ this scheme is employed with greatboldness. In _Hamlet_ the first appearance of the Ghost occurs at thefortieth line, and with such effect that Shakespeare can afford tointroduce at once a conversation which explains part of the state ofaffairs at Elsinore; and the second appearance, having again increasedthe tension, is followed by a long scene, which contains no action butintroduces almost all the _dramatis personae_ and adds the informationleft wanting. The opening of _Macbeth_ is even more remarkable, forthere is probably no parallel to its first scene, where the senses andimagination are assaulted by a storm of thunder and supernatural alarm. This scene is only eleven lines long, but its influence is so great thatthe next can safely be occupied with a mere report of Macbeth'sbattles,--a narrative which would have won much less attention if it hadopened the play. When Shakespeare begins his exposition thus he generally at first makespeople talk about the hero, but keeps the hero himself for some time outof sight, so that we await his entrance with curiosity, and sometimeswith anxiety. On the other hand, if the play opens with a quietconversation, this is usually brief, and then at once the hero entersand takes action of some decided kind. Nothing, for example, can be lesslike the beginning of _Macbeth_ than that of _King Lear_. The tone ispitched so low that the conversation between Kent, Gloster, and Edmundis written in prose. But at the thirty-fourth line it is broken off bythe entrance of Lear and his court, and without delay the King proceedsto his fatal division of the kingdom. This tragedy illustrates another practice of Shakespeare's. _King Lear_has a secondary plot, that which concerns Gloster and his two sons. Tomake the beginning of this plot quite clear, and to mark it off from themain action, Shakespeare gives it a separate exposition. The great sceneof the division of Britain and the rejection of Cordelia and Kent isfollowed by the second scene, in which Gloster and his two sons appearalone, and the beginning of Edmund's design is disclosed. In _Hamlet_,though the plot is single, there is a little group of characterspossessing a certain independent interest,--Polonius, his son, and hisdaughter; and so the third scene is devoted wholly to them. And again,in _Othello_, since Roderigo is to occupy a peculiar position almostthroughout the action, he is introduced at once, alone with Iago, andhis position is explained before the other characters are allowed toappear. But why should Iago open the play? Or, if this seems too presumptuous aquestion, let us put it in the form, What is the effect of his openingthe play? It is that we receive at the very outset a strong impressionof the force which is to prove fatal to the hero's happiness, so that,when we see the hero himself, the shadow of fate already rests upon him. And an effect of this kind is to be noticed in other tragedies. We aremade conscious at once of some power which is to influence the wholeaction to the hero's undoing. In _Macbeth_ we see and hear the Witches,in _Hamlet_ the Ghost. In the first scene of _Julius Caesar_ and of_Coriolanus_ those qualities of the crowd are vividly shown which renderhopeless the enterprise of the one hero and wreck the ambition of theother. It is the same with the hatred between the rival houses in _Romeoand Juliet_, and with Antony's infatuated passion. We realise them atthe end of the first page, and are almost ready to regard the hero asdoomed. Often, again, at one or more points during the exposition thisfeeling is reinforced by some expression that has an ominous effect. Thefirst words we hear from Macbeth, 'So foul and fair a day I have notseen,' echo, though he knows it not, the last words we heard from theWitches, 'Fair is foul, and foul is fair. ' Romeo, on his way with hisfriends to the banquet, where he is to see Juliet for the first time,tells Mercutio that he has had a dream. What the dream was we neverlearn, for Mercutio does not care to know, and breaks into his speechabout Queen Mab; but we can guess its nature from Romeo's last speech inthe scene: My mind misgives Some consequence yet hanging in the stars Shall bitterly begin his fearful date With this night's revels. When Brabantio, forced to acquiesce in his daughter's stolen marriage,turns, as he leaves the council-chamber, to Othello, with the warning, Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see; She has deceived her father, and may thee,this warning, and no less Othello's answer, 'My life upon her faith,'make our hearts sink. The whole of the coming story seems to beprefigured in Antony's muttered words (I. ii. 120): These strong Egyptian fetters I must break, Or lose myself in dotage;and, again, in Hamlet's weary sigh, following so soon on the passionateresolution stirred by the message of the Ghost: The time is out of joint. Oh cursed spite, That ever I was born to set it right. These words occur at a point (the end of the First Act) which may beheld to fall either within the exposition or beyond it. I should takethe former view, though such questions, as we saw at starting, canhardly be decided with certainty. The dimensions of this first sectionof a tragedy depend on a variety of causes, of which the chief seems tobe the comparative simplicity or complexity of the situation from whichthe conflict arises. Where this is simple the exposition is short, as in_Julius Caesar_ and _Macbeth_. Where it is complicated the expositionrequires more space, as in _Romeo and Juliet_, _Hamlet_, and _KingLear_. Its completion is generally marked in the mind of the reader by afeeling that the action it contains is for the moment complete but hasleft a problem. The lovers have met, but their families are at deadlyenmity; the hero seems at the height of success, but has admitted thethought of murdering his sovereign; the old king has divided his kingdombetween two hypocritical daughters, and has rejected his true child; thehero has acknowledged a sacred duty of revenge, but is weary of life:and we ask, What will come of this? Sometimes, I may add, a certain timeis supposed to elapse before the events which answer our question maketheir appearance and the conflict begins; in _King Lear_, for instance,about a fortnight; in _Hamlet_ about two months. 2We come now to the conflict itself. And here one or two preliminaryremarks are necessary. In the first place, it must be remembered thatour point of view in examining the construction of a play will notalways coincide with that which we occupy in thinking of its wholedramatic effect. For example, that struggle in the hero's soul whichsometimes accompanies the outward struggle is of the highest importancefor the total effect of a tragedy; but it is not always necessary ordesirable to consider it when the question is merely one ofconstruction. And this is natural. The play is meant primarily for thetheatre; and theatrically the outward conflict, with its influence onthe fortunes of the hero, is the aspect which first catches, if it doesnot engross, attention. For the average play-goer of every period themain interest of _Hamlet_ has probably lain in the vicissitudes of hislong duel with the King; and the question, one may almost say, has beenwhich will first kill the other. And so, from the point of view ofconstruction, the fact that Hamlet spares the King when he finds himpraying, is, from its effect on the hero's fortunes, of great moment;but the cause of the fact, which lies within Hamlet's character, is notso. In the second place we must be prepared to find that, as the plays varyso much, no single way of regarding the conflict will answer preciselyto the construction of all; that it sometimes appears possible to lookat the construction of a tragedy in two quite different ways, and thatit is material to find the best of the two; and that thus, in any giveninstance, it is necessary first to define the opposing sides in theconflict. I will give one or two examples. In some tragedies, as we sawin our first lecture, the opposing forces can, for practical purposes,be identified with opposing persons or groups. So it is in _Romeo andJuliet_ and _Macbeth_. But it is not always so. The love of Othello maybe said to contend with another force, as the love of Romeo does; butOthello cannot be said to contend with Iago as Romeo contends with therepresentatives of the hatred of the houses, or as Macbeth contends withMalcolm and Macduff. Again, in _Macbeth_ the hero, however muchinfluenced by others, supplies the main driving power of the action; butin _King Lear_ he does not. Possibly, therefore, the conflict, and withit the construction, may best be regarded from different points of viewin these two plays, in spite of the fact that the hero is the centralfigure in each. But if we do not observe this we shall attempt to findthe same scheme in both, and shall either be driven to some unnaturalview or to a sceptical despair of perceiving any principle ofconstruction at all. With these warnings, I turn to the question whether we can trace anydistinct method or methods by which Shakespeare represents the rise anddevelopment of the conflict. (1) One at least is obvious, and indeed it is followed not merely duringthe conflict but from beginning to end of the play. There are, ofcourse, in the action certain places where the tension in the minds ofthe audience becomes extreme. We shall consider these presently. But, inaddition, there is, all through the tragedy, a constant alternation ofrises and falls in this tension or in the emotional pitch of the work, aregular sequence of more exciting and less exciting sections. Some kindof variation of pitch is to be found, of course, in all drama, for itrests on the elementary facts that relief must be given after emotionalstrain, and that contrast is required to bring out the full force of aneffect. But a good drama of our own time shows nothing approaching tothe _regularity_ with which in the plays of Shakespeare and of hiscontemporaries the principle is applied. And the main cause of thisdifference lies simply in a change of theatrical arrangements. InShakespeare's theatre, as there was no scenery, scene followed scenewith scarcely any pause; and so the readiest, though not the only, wayto vary the emotional pitch was to interpose a whole scene where thetension was low between scenes where it was high. In our theatres thereis a great deal of scenery, which takes a long time to set and change;and therefore the number of scenes is small, and the variations oftension have to be provided within the scenes, and still more by thepauses between them. With Shakespeare there are, of course, in any longscene variations of tension, but the scenes are numerous and, comparedwith ours, usually short, and variety is given principally by theirdifference in pitch. It may further be observed that, in a portion of the play which isrelatively unexciting, the scenes of lower tension may be as long asthose of higher; while in a portion of the play which is speciallyexciting the scenes of low tension are shorter, often much shorter, thanthe others. The reader may verify this statement by comparing the Firstor the Fourth Act in most of the tragedies with the Third; for, speakingvery roughly, we may say that the First and Fourth are relatively quietacts, the Third highly critical. A good example is the Third Act of_King Lear_, where the scenes of high tension (ii. , iv. , vi. ) arerespectively 95, 186 and 122 lines in length, while those of low tension(i. , iii. , v. ) are respectively 55, 26 and 26 lines long. Scene vii. ,the last of the Act, is, I may add, a very exciting scene, though itfollows scene vi. , and therefore the tone of scene vi. is greatlylowered during its final thirty lines. (2) If we turn now from the differences of tension to the sequence ofevents within the conflict, we shall find the principle of alternationat work again in another and a quite independent way. Let us for thesake of brevity call the two sides in the conflict A and B. Now,usually, as we shall see presently, through a considerable part of theplay, perhaps the first half, the cause of A is, on the whole,advancing; and through the remaining part it is retiring, while that ofB advances in turn. But, underlying this broad movement, all through theconflict we shall find a regular alternation of smaller advances andretirals; first A seeming to win some ground, and then thecounter-action of B being shown. And since we always more or lessdecidedly prefer A to B or B to A, the result of this oscillatingmovement is a constant alternation of hope and fear, or rather of amixed state predominantly hopeful and a mixed state predominantlyapprehensive. An example will make the point clear. In _Hamlet_ theconflict begins with the hero's feigning to be insane fromdisappointment in love, and we are shown his immediate success inconvincing Polonius. Let us call this an advance of A. The next sceneshows the King's great uneasiness about Hamlet's melancholy, and hisscepticism as to Polonius's explanation of its cause: advance of B. Hamlet completely baffles Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who have beensent to discover his secret, and he arranges for the test of theplay-scene: advance of A. But immediately before the play-scene hissoliloquy on suicide fills us with misgiving; and his words to Ophelia,overheard, so convince the King that love is _not_ the cause of hisnephew's strange behaviour, that he determines to get rid of him bysending him to England: advance of B. The play-scene proves a completesuccess: decided advance of A. Directly after it Hamlet spares the Kingat prayer, and in an interview with his mother unwittingly killsPolonius, and so gives his enemy a perfect excuse for sending him away(to be executed): decided advance of B. I need not pursue theillustration further. This oscillating movement can be traced withoutdifficulty in any of the tragedies, though less distinctly in one or twoof the earliest. (3) Though this movement continues right up to the catastrophe, itseffect does not disguise that much broader effect to which I havealready alluded, and which we have now to study. In all the tragedies,though more clearly in some than in others, one side is distinctly feltto be on the whole advancing up to a certain point in the conflict, andthen to be on the whole declining before the reaction of the other. There is therefore felt to be a critical point in the action, whichproves also to be a turning point. It is critical sometimes in the sensethat, until it is reached, the conflict is not, so to speak, clenched;one of the two sets of forces might subside, or a reconciliation mightsomehow be effected; while, as soon as it is reached, we feel this canno longer be. It is critical also because the advancing force hasapparently asserted itself victoriously, gaining, if not all it couldwish, still a very substantial advantage; whereas really it is on thepoint of turning downward towards its fall. This Crisis, as a rule,comes somewhere near the middle of the play; and where it is well markedit has the effect, as to construction, of dividing the play into fiveparts instead of three; these parts showing (1) a situation not yet oneof conflict, (2) the rise and development of the conflict, in which A orB advances on the whole till it reaches (3) the Crisis, on which follows(4) the decline of A or B towards (5) the Catastrophe. And it will beseen that the fourth and fifth parts repeat, though with a reversal ofdirection as regards A or B, the movement of the second and third,working towards the catastrophe as the second and third worked towardsthe crisis. In developing, illustrating and qualifying this statement, it will bebest to begin with the tragedies in which the movement is most clear andsimple. These are _Julius Caesar_ and _Macbeth_. In the former thefortunes of the conspiracy rise with vicissitudes up to the crisis ofthe assassination (III. i. ); they then sink with vicissitudes to thecatastrophe, where Brutus and Cassius perish. In the latter, Macbeth,hurrying, in spite of much inward resistance, to the murder of Duncan,attains the crown, the upward movement being extraordinarily rapid, andthe crisis arriving early: his cause then turns slowly downward, andsoon hastens to ruin. In both these tragedies the simplicity of theconstructional effect, it should be noticed, depends in part on the factthat the contending forces may quite naturally be identified withcertain persons, and partly again on the fact that the defeat of oneside is the victory of the other. Octavius and Antony, Malcolm andMacduff, are left standing over the bodies of their foes. This is not so in _Romeo and Juliet_ and _Hamlet_, because here,although the hero perishes, the side opposed to him, being the morefaulty or evil, cannot be allowed to triumph when he falls. Otherwisethe type of construction is the same. The fortunes of Romeo and Julietrise and culminate in their marriage (II. vi. ), and then begin todecline before the opposition of their houses, which, aided byaccidents, produces a catastrophe, but is thereupon converted into aremorseful reconciliation. Hamlet's cause reaches its zenith in thesuccess of the play-scene (III. ii. ). Thereafter the reaction makes way,and he perishes through the plot of the King and Laertes. But they arenot allowed to survive their success. The construction in the remaining Roman plays follows the same plan, butin both plays (as in _Richard II. _ and _Richard III. _) it suffers fromthe intractable nature of the historical material, and is alsoinfluenced by other causes. In _Coriolanus_ the hero reaches the topmostpoint of success when he is named consul (II. iii. ), and the rest of theplay shows his decline and fall; but in this decline he attains againfor a time extraordinary power, and triumphs, in a sense, over hisoriginal adversary, though he succumbs to another. In _Antony andCleopatra_ the advance of the hero's cause depends on his freeinghimself from the heroine, and he appears to have succeeded when hebecomes reconciled to Octavius and marries Octavia (III. ii. ); but hereturns to Egypt and is gradually driven to his death, which involvesthat of the heroine. There remain two of the greatest of the tragedies, and in both of them acertain difficulty will be felt. _King Lear_ alone among these plays hasa distinct double action. Besides this, it is impossible, I think, fromthe point of view of construction, to regard the hero as the leadingfigure. If we attempt to do so, we must either find the crisis in theFirst Act (for after it Lear's course is downward), and this is absurd;or else we must say that the usual movement is present but its directionis reversed, the hero's cause first sinking to the lowest point (in theStorm-scenes) and then rising again. But this also will not do; forthough his fortunes may be said to rise again for a time, they rise onlyto fall once more to a catastrophe. The truth is, that after the FirstAct, which is really filled by the exposition, Lear suffers but hardlyinitiates action at all; and the right way to look at the matter, _fromthe point of view of construction_, is to regard Goneril, Regan andEdmund as the leading characters. It is they who, in the conflict,initiate action. Their fortune mounts to the crisis, where the old Kingis driven out into the storm and loses his reason, and where Gloster isblinded and expelled from his home (III. vi. and vii. ). Then thecounter-action begins to gather force, and their cause to decline; and,although they win the battle, they are involved in the catastrophe whichthey bring on Cordelia and Lear. Thus we may still find in _King Lear_the usual scheme of an ascending and a descending movement of one sidein the conflict. The case of _Othello_ is more peculiar. In its whole constructionaleffect _Othello_ differs from the other tragedies, and the cause of thisdifference is not hard to find, and will be mentioned presently. Buthow, after it is found, are we to define the principle of theconstruction? On the one hand the usual method seems to show itself. Othello's fortune certainly advances in the early part of the play, andit may be considered to reach its topmost point in the exquisite joy ofhis reunion with Desdemona in Cyprus; while soon afterwards it begins toturn, and then falls to the catastrophe. But the topmost point thuscomes very early (II. i. ), and, moreover, is but faintly marked; indeed,it is scarcely felt as a crisis at all. And, what is still moresignificant, though reached by conflict, it is not reached by conflictwith the force which afterwards destroys it. Iago, in the early scenes,is indeed shown to cherish a design against Othello, but it is not Iagoagainst whom he has at first to assert himself, but Brabantio; and Iagodoes not even begin to poison his mind until the third scene of theThird Act. Can we then, on the other hand, following the precedent of _King Lear_,and remembering the probable chronological juxtaposition of the twoplays, regard Iago as the leading figure from the point of view ofconstruction? This might at first seem the right view; for it is thecase that _Othello_ resembles _King Lear_ in having a hero more actedupon than acting, or rather a hero driven to act by being acted upon. But then, if Iago is taken as the leading figure, the usual mode ofconstruction is plainly abandoned, for there will nowhere be a crisisfollowed by a descending movement. Iago's cause advances, at firstslowly and quietly, then rapidly, but it does nothing but advance untilthe catastrophe swallows his dupe and him together. And this way ofregarding the action does positive violence, I think, to our naturalimpressions of the earlier part of the play. I think, therefore, that the usual scheme is so far followed that thedrama represents first the rise of the hero, and then his fall. But,however this question may be decided, one striking peculiarity remains,and is the cause of the unique effect of _Othello_. In the first half ofthe play the main conflict is merely incubating; then it bursts intolife, and goes storming, without intermission or change of direction, toits close. Now, in this peculiarity _Othello_ is quite unlike the othertragedies; and in the consequent effect, which is that the second halfof the drama is immeasurably more exciting than the first, it isapproached only by _Antony and Cleopatra_. I shall therefore reserve itfor separate consideration, though in proceeding to speak further ofShakespeare's treatment of the tragic conflict I shall have to mentionsome devices which are used in _Othello_ as well as in the othertragedies. 3Shakespeare's general plan, we have seen, is to show one set of forcesadvancing, in secret or open opposition to the other, to some decisivesuccess, and then driven downward to defeat by the reaction it provokes. And the advantages of this plan, as seen in such a typical instance as_Julius Caesar_, are manifest. It conveys the movement of the conflictto the mind with great clearness and force. It helps to produce theimpression that in his decline and fall the doer's act is returning onhis own head. And, finally, as used by Shakespeare, it makes the firsthalf of the play intensely interesting and dramatic. Action whicheffects a striking change in an existing situation is naturally watchedwith keen interest; and this we find in some of these tragedies. And thespectacle, which others exhibit, of a purpose forming itself and, inspite of outward obstacles and often of inward resistance, forcing itsway onward to a happy consummation or a terrible deed, not only givesscope to that psychological subtlety in which Shakespeare is scarcelyrivalled, but is also dramatic in the highest degree. But when the crisis has been reached there come difficulties anddangers, which, if we put Shakespeare for the moment out of mind, areeasily seen. An immediate and crushing counter-action would, no doubt,sustain the interest, but it would precipitate the catastrophe, andleave a feeling that there has been too long a preparation for a finaleffect so brief. What seems necessary is a momentary pause, followed bya counter-action which mounts at first slowly, and afterwards, as itgathers force, with quickening speed. And yet the result of thisarrangement, it would seem, must be, for a time, a decided slackening oftension. Nor is this the only difficulty. The persons who represent thecounter-action and now take the lead, are likely to be comparativelyunfamiliar, and therefore unwelcome, to the audience; and, even iffamiliar, they are almost sure to be at first, if not permanently, lessinteresting than those who figured in the ascending movement, and onwhom attention has been fixed. Possibly, too, their necessary prominencemay crowd the hero into the back-ground. Hence the point of danger inthis method of construction seems to lie in that section of the playwhich follows the crisis and has not yet approached the catastrophe. Andthis section will usually comprise the Fourth Act, together, in somecases, with a part of the Third and a part of the Fifth. Shakespeare was so masterly a playwright, and had so wonderful a powerof giving life to unpromising subjects, that to a large extent he wasable to surmount this difficulty. But illustrations of it are easily tobe found in his tragedies, and it is not always surmounted. In almostall of them we are conscious of that momentary pause in the action,though, as we shall see, it does not generally occur _immediately_ afterthe crisis. Sometimes he allows himself to be driven to keep the herooff the stage for a long time while the counter-action is rising;Macbeth, Hamlet and Coriolanus during about 450 lines, Lear for nearly500, Romeo for about 550 (it matters less here, because Juliet is quiteas important as Romeo). How can a drama in which this happens compete,in its latter part, with _Othello_? And again, how can deliberationsbetween Octavius, Antony and Lepidus, between Malcolm and Macduff,between the Capulets, between Laertes and the King, keep us at thepitch, I do not say of the crisis, but even of the action which led upto it? Good critics--writers who have criticised Shakespeare's dramasfrom within, instead of applying to them some standard ready-made bythemselves or derived from dramas and a theatre of quite other kindsthan his--have held that some of his greatest tragedies fall off in theFourth Act, and that one or two never wholly recover themselves. And Ibelieve most readers would find, if they examined their impressions,that to their minds _Julius Caesar_, _Hamlet_, _King Lear_ and _Macbeth_have all a tendency to 'drag' in this section of the play, and that thefirst and perhaps also the last of these four fail even in thecatastrophe to reach the height of the greatest scenes that havepreceded the Fourth Act. I will not ask how far these impressions arejustified. The difficulties in question will become clearer and willgain in interest if we look rather at the means which have been employedto meet them, and which certainly have in part, at least, overcome them. (_a_) The first of these is always strikingly effective, sometimesmarvellously so. The crisis in which the ascending force reaches itszenith is followed quickly, or even without the slightest pause, by areverse or counter-blow not less emphatic and in some cases even moreexciting. And the effect is to make us feel a sudden and tragic changein the direction of the movement, which, after ascending more or lessgradually, now turns sharply downward. To the assassination of Caesar(III. i. ) succeeds the scene in the Forum (III. ii. ), where Antonycarries the people away in a storm of sympathy with the dead man and offury against the conspirators. We have hardly realised their victorybefore we are forced to anticipate their ultimate defeat and to take theliveliest interest in their chief antagonist. In _Hamlet_ the thrillingsuccess of the play-scene (III. ii. ) is met and undone at once by thecounter-stroke of Hamlet's failure to take vengeance (III. iii. ) and hismisfortune in killing Polonius (III. iv. ). Coriolanus has no soonergained the consulship than he is excited to frenzy by the tribunes anddriven into exile. On the marriage of Romeo follows immediately thebrawl which leads to Mercutio's death and the banishment of the hero(II. vi. and III. i. ). In all of these instances excepting that of_Hamlet_ the scene of the counter-stroke is at least as exciting as thatof the crisis, perhaps more so. Most people, if asked to mention thescene that occupies the _centre_ of the action in _Julius Caesar_ and in_Coriolanus_, would mention the scenes of Antony's speech andCoriolanus' banishment. Thus that apparently necessary pause in theaction does not, in any of these dramas, come directly after the crisis. It is deferred; and in several cases it is by various devices deferredfor some little time; _e. g. _ in _Romeo and Juliet_ till the hero hasleft Verona, and Juliet is told that her marriage with Paris is to takeplace 'next Thursday morn' (end of Act III. ); in _Macbeth_ till themurder of Duncan has been followed by that of Banquo, and this by thebanquet-scene. Hence the point where this pause occurs is very rarelyreached before the end of the Third Act. (_b_) Either at this point, or in the scene of the counter-stroke whichprecedes it, we sometimes find a peculiar effect. We are reminded of thestate of affairs in which the conflict began. The opening of _JuliusCaesar_ warned us that, among a people so unstable and so easily ledthis way or that, the enterprise of Brutus is hopeless; the days of theRepublic are done. In the scene of Antony's speech we see this samepeople again. At the beginning of _Antony and Cleopatra_ the hero isabout to leave Cleopatra for Rome. Where the play takes, as it were, afresh start after the crisis, he leaves Octavia for Egypt. In _Hamlet_,when the counter-stroke succeeds to the crisis, the Ghost, who hadappeared in the opening scenes, reappears. Macbeth's action in the firstpart of the tragedy followed on the prediction of the Witches whopromised him the throne. When the action moves forward again after thebanquet-scene the Witches appear once more, and make those freshpromises which again drive him forward. This repetition of a firsteffect produces a fateful feeling. It generally also stimulatesexpectation as to the new movement about to begin. In _Macbeth_ thescene is, in addition, of the greatest consequence from the purelytheatrical point of view. (_c_) It has yet another function. It shows, in Macbeth's furiousirritability and purposeless savagery, the internal reaction whichaccompanies the outward decline of his fortunes. And in other plays alsothe exhibition of such inner changes forms a means by which interest issustained in this difficult section of a tragedy. There is no point in_Hamlet_ where we feel more hopeless than that where the hero, havingmissed his chance, moralises over his irresolution and determines tocherish now only thoughts of blood, and then departs without an effortfor England. One purpose, again, of the quarrel-scene between Brutus andCassius (IV. iii), as also of the appearance of Caesar's ghost justafterwards, is to indicate the inward changes. Otherwise theintroduction of this famous and wonderful scene can hardly be defendedon strictly dramatic grounds. No one would consent to part with it, andit is invaluable in sustaining interest during the progress of thereaction, but it is an episode, the removal of which would not affectthe actual sequence of events (unless we may hold that, but for theemotion caused by the quarrel and reconciliation, Cassius would not haveallowed Brutus to overcome his objection to the fatal policy of offeringbattle at Philippi). (_d_) The quarrel-scene illustrates yet another favourite expedient. Inthis section of a tragedy Shakespeare often appeals to an emotiondifferent from any of those excited in the first half of the play, andso provides novelty and generally also relief. As a rule this newemotion is pathetic; and the pathos is not terrible or lacerating, but,even if painful, is accompanied by the sense of beauty and by an outflowof admiration or affection, which come with an inexpressible sweetnessafter the tension of the crisis and the first counter-stroke. So it iswith the reconciliation of Brutus and Cassius, and the arrival of thenews of Portia's death. The most famous instance of this effect is thescene (IV. vii. ) where Lear wakes from sleep and finds Cordelia bendingover him, perhaps the most tear-compelling passage in literature. Another is the short scene (IV. ii. ) in which the talk of Lady Macduffand her little boy is interrupted by the entrance of the murderers, apassage of touching beauty and heroism. Another is the introduction ofOphelia in her madness (twice in different parts of IV. v. ), where theeffect, though intensely pathetic, is beautiful and moving rather thanharrowing; and this effect is repeated in a softer tone in thedescription of Ophelia's death (end of Act IV. ). And in _Othello_ thepassage where pathos of _this_ kind reaches its height is certainly thatwhere Desdemona and Emilia converse, and the willow-song is sung, on theeve of the catastrophe (IV. iii. ). (_e_) Sometimes, again, in this section of a tragedy we find humorous orsemi-humorous passages. On the whole such passages occur most frequentlyin the early or middle part of the play, which naturally grows moresombre as it nears the close; but their occasional introduction in theFourth Act, and even later, affords variety and relief, and alsoheightens by contrast the tragic feelings. For example, there is a touchof comedy in the conversation of Lady Macduff with her little boy. Purely and delightfully humorous are the talk and behaviour of theservants in that admirable scene where Coriolanus comes disguised inmean apparel to the house of Aufidius (IV. v. ); of a more mingled kindis the effect of the discussion between Menenius and the sentinels in V. ii. ; and in the very middle of the supreme scene between the hero,Volumnia and Virgilia, little Marcius makes us burst out laughing (V. iii. ) A little before the catastrophe in _Hamlet_ comes the grave-diggerpassage, a passage ever welcome, but of a length which could hardly bedefended on purely dramatic grounds; and still later, occupying somehundred and twenty lines of the very last scene, we have the chatter ofOsric with Hamlet's mockery of it. But the acme of audacity is reachedin _Antony and Cleopatra_, where, quite close to the end, the oldcountryman who brings the asps to Cleopatra discourses on the virtuesand vices of the worm, and where his last words, 'Yes, forsooth: I wishyou joy o' the worm,' are followed, without the intervention of a line,by the glorious speech, Give me my robe; put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me. . . . In some of the instances of pathos or humour just mentioned we have beenbrought to that part of the play which immediately precedes, or evencontains, the catastrophe. And I will add at once three remarks whichrefer specially to this final section of a tragedy. (_f_) In several plays Shakespeare makes here an appeal which in his owntime was evidently powerful: he introduces scenes of battle. This is thecase in _Richard III. _, _Julius Caesar_, _King Lear_, _Macbeth_ and_Antony and Cleopatra_. Richard, Brutus and Cassius, and Macbeth die onthe battlefield. Even if his use of this expedient were not enough toshow that battle-scenes were extremely popular in the Elizabethantheatre, we know it from other sources. It is a curious comment on thefutility of our spectacular effects that in our theatre these scenes, inwhich we strive after an 'illusion' of which the Elizabethans neverdreamt, produce comparatively little excitement, and to many spectatorsare even somewhat distasteful. [22] And although some of them thrill theimagination of the reader, they rarely, I think, quite satisfy the_dramatic_ sense. Perhaps this is partly because a battle is not themost favourable place for the exhibition of tragic character; and it isworth notice that Brutus, Cassius and Antony do not die fighting, butcommit suicide after defeat. The actual battle, however, does make usfeel the greatness of Antony, and still more does it help us to regardRichard and Macbeth in their day of doom as heroes, and to minglesympathy and enthusiastic admiration with desire for their defeat. (_g_) In some of the tragedies, again, an expedient is used, whichFreytag has pointed out (though he sometimes finds it, I think, where itis not really employed). Shakespeare very rarely makes the least attemptto surprise by his catastrophes. They are felt to be inevitable, thoughthe precise way in which they will be brought about is not, of course,foreseen. Occasionally, however, where we dread the catastrophe becausewe love the hero, a moment occurs, just before it, in which a gleam offalse hope lights up the darkening scene; and, though we know it isfalse, it affects us. Far the most remarkable example is to be found inthe final Act of _King Lear_. Here the victory of Edgar and the deathsof Edmund and the two sisters have almost made us forget the design onthe lives of Lear and Cordelia. Even when we are reminded of it there isstill room for hope that Edgar, who rushes away to the prison, will bein time to save them; and, however familiar we are with the play, thesudden entrance of Lear, with Cordelia dead in his arms, comes on uswith a shock. Much slighter, but quite perceptible, is the effect ofAntony's victory on land, and of the last outburst of pride and joy ashe and Cleopatra meet (IV. viii. ). The frank apology of Hamlet toLaertes, their reconciliation, and a delusive appearance of quiet andeven confident firmness in the tone of the hero's conversation withHoratio, almost blind us to our better knowledge, and give to thecatastrophe an added pain. Those in the audience who are ignorant of_Macbeth_, and who take more simply than most readers now can do themysterious prophecies concerning Birnam Wood and the man not born ofwoman, feel, I imagine, just before the catastrophe, a false fear thatthe hero may yet escape. (_h_) I will mention only one point more. In some cases Shakespearespreads the catastrophe out, so to speak, over a considerable space, andthus shortens that difficult section which has to show the developmentof the counter-action. This is possible only where there is, besides thehero, some character who engages our interest in the highest degree, andwith whose fate his own is bound up. Thus the murder of Desdemona isseparated by some distance from the death of Othello. The mostimpressive scene in _Macbeth_, after that of Duncan's murder, is thesleep-walking scene; and it may truly, if not literally, be said to showthe catastrophe of Lady Macbeth. Yet it is the opening scene of theFifth Act, and a number of scenes in which Macbeth's fate is stillapproaching intervene before the close. Finally, in _Antony andCleopatra_ the heroine equals the hero in importance, and here the deathof Antony actually occurs in the Fourth Act, and the whole of the Fifthis devoted to Cleopatra. * * * * *Let us now turn to _Othello_ and consider briefly its exceptional schemeof construction. The advantage of this scheme is obvious. In the secondhalf of the tragedy there is no danger of 'dragging,' of any awkwardpause, any undue lowering of pitch, any need of scenes which, howeverfine, are more or less episodic. The tension is extreme, and it isrelaxed only for brief intervals to permit of some slight relief. Fromthe moment when Iago begins to poison Othello's mind we hold our breath. _Othello_ from this point onwards is certainly the most exciting ofShakespeare's plays, unless possibly _Macbeth_ in its first part may beheld to rival it. And _Othello_ is such a masterpiece that we arescarcely conscious of any disadvantage attending its method ofconstruction, and may even wonder why Shakespeare employed thismethod--at any rate in its purity--in this tragedy alone. Nor is it anyanswer to say that it would not elsewhere have suited his material. Evenif this be granted, how was it that he only once chose a story to whichthis method was appropriate? To his eyes, or for his instinct, theremust have been some disadvantage in it. And dangers in it are in factnot hard to see. In the first place, where the conflict develops very slowly, or, as in_Othello_, remains in a state of incubation during the first part of atragedy, that part cannot produce the tension proper to thecorresponding part of a tragedy like _Macbeth_, and may even run therisk of being somewhat flat. This seems obvious, and it is none the lesstrue because in _Othello_ the difficulty is overcome. We may even seethat in _Othello_ a difficulty was felt. The First Act is full of stir,but it is so because Shakespeare has filled it with a kind ofpreliminary conflict between the hero and Brabantio,--a personage whothen vanishes from the stage. The long first scene of the Second Act islargely occupied with mere conversations, artfully drawn out todimensions which can scarcely be considered essential to the plot. Theseexpedients are fully justified by their success, and nothing moreconsummate in their way is to be found in Shakespeare than Othello'sspeech to the Senate and Iago's two talks with Roderigo. But the factthat Shakespeare can make a plan succeed does not show that the plan is,abstractedly considered, a good plan; and if the scheme of constructionin _Othello_ were placed, in the shape of a mere outline, before aplay-wright ignorant of the actual drama, he would certainly, I believe,feel grave misgivings about the first half of the play. There is a second difficulty in the scheme. When the middle of thetragedy is reached, the audience is not what it was at the beginning. Ithas been attending for some time, and has been through a certain amountof agitation. The extreme tension which now arises may therefore easilytire and displease it, all the more if the matter which produces thetension is very painful, if the catastrophe is not less so, and if thelimits of the remainder of the play (not to speak of any otherconsideration) permit of very little relief. It is one thing to watchthe scene of Duncan's assassination at the beginning of the Second Act,and another thing to watch the murder of Desdemona at the beginning ofthe Fifth. If Shakespeare has wholly avoided this difficulty in_Othello_, it is by treating the first part of the play in such a mannerthat the sympathies excited are predominantly pleasant and therefore notexhausting. The scene in the Council Chamber, and the scene of thereunion at Cyprus, give almost unmixed happiness to the audience;however repulsive Iago may be, the humour of his gulling of Roderigo isagreeable; even the scene of Cassio's intoxication is not, on the whole,painful. Hence we come to the great temptation-scene, where the conflictemerges into life (III. iii. ), with nerves unshaken and feelings muchfresher than those with which we greet the banquet-scene in _Macbeth_(III. iv. ), or the first of the storm-scenes in _King Lear_ (III. i. ). The same skill may be observed in _Antony and Cleopatra_, where, as wesaw, the second half of the tragedy is the more exciting. But, again,the success due to Shakespeare's skill does not show that the scheme ofconstruction is free from a characteristic danger; and on the whole itwould appear to be best fitted for a plot which, though it may causepainful agitation as it nears the end, actually ends with a solutioninstead of a catastrophe. But for Shakespeare's scanty use of this method there may have been adeeper, though probably an unconscious, reason. The method suits a plotbased on intrigue. It may produce intense suspense. It may stir mostpowerfully the tragic feelings of pity and fear. And it throws intorelief that aspect of tragedy in which great or beautiful lives seemcaught in the net of fate. But it is apt to be less favourable to theexhibition of character, to show less clearly how an act returns uponthe agent, and to produce less strongly the impression of an inexorableorder working in the passions and actions of men, and labouring throughtheir agony and waste towards good. Now, it seems clear from histragedies that what appealed most to Shakespeare was this latter classof effects. I do not ask here whether _Othello_ fails to produce, in thesame degree as the other tragedies, these impressions; but Shakespeare'spreference for them may have been one reason why he habitually chose ascheme of construction which produces in the final Acts but little ofstrained suspense, and presents the catastrophe as a thing foreseen andfollowing with a psychological and moral necessity on the actionexhibited in the first part of the tragedy. 4The more minute details of construction cannot well be examined here,and I will not pursue the subject further. But its discussion suggests aquestion which will have occurred to some of my hearers. They may haveasked themselves whether I have not used the words 'art' and 'device'and 'expedient' and 'method' too boldly, as though Shakespeare were aconscious artist, and not rather a writer who constructed in obedienceto an extraordinary dramatic instinct, as he composed mainly byinspiration. And a brief explanation on this head will enable me toallude to a few more points, chiefly of construction, which are not tootechnical for a lecture. In speaking, for convenience, of devices and expedients, I did notintend to imply that Shakespeare always deliberately aimed at theeffects which he produced. But _no_ artist always does this, and I seeno reason to doubt that Shakespeare often did it, or to suppose that hismethod of constructing and composing differed, except in degree, fromthat of the most 'conscious' of artists. The antithesis of art andinspiration, though not meaningless, is often most misleading. Inspiration is surely not incompatible with considerate workmanship.

Thetwo may be severed, but they need not be so, and where a genuinelypoetic result is being produced they cannot be so. The glow of a firstconception must in some measure survive or rekindle itself in the workof planning and executing; and what is called a technical expedient may'come' to a man with as sudden a glory as a splendid image. Verse may beeasy and unpremeditated, as Milton says his was, and yet many a word init may be changed many a time, and the last change be more 'inspired'than the original. The difference between poets in these matters is nodoubt considerable, and sometimes important, but it can only be adifference of less and more. It is probable that Shakespeare often wrotefluently, for Jonson (a better authority than Heminge and Condell) saysso; and for anything we can tell he may also have constructed withunusual readiness. But we know that he revised and re-wrote (forinstance in _Love's Labour's Lost_ and _Romeo and Juliet_ and _Hamlet_);it is almost impossible that he can have worked out the plots of hisbest plays without much reflection and many experiments; and it appearsto me scarcely more possible to mistake the signs of deliberate care insome of his famous speeches. If a 'conscious artist' means one who holdshis work away from him, scrutinises and judges it, and, if need be,alters it and alters it till it comes as near satisfying him as he canmake it, I am sure that Shakespeare frequently employed such consciousart. If it means, again, an artist who consciously aims at the effectshe produces, what ground have we for doubting that he frequentlyemployed such art, though probably less frequently than a good manyother poets? But perhaps the notion of a 'conscious artist' in drama is that of onewho studies the theory of the art, and even writes with an eye to its'rules. ' And we know it was long a favourite idea that Shakespeare wastotally ignorant of the 'rules. ' Yet this is quite incredible. Therules referred to, such as they were, were not buried in Aristotle'sGreek nor even hidden away in Italian treatises. He could find prettywell all of them in a book so current and famous as Sidney's _Defenceof Poetry_. Even if we suppose that he refused to open this book(which is most unlikely), how could he possibly remain ignorant of therules in a society of actors and dramatists and amateurs who must havebeen incessantly talking about plays and play-writing, and some ofwhom were ardent champions of the rules and full of contempt for thelawlessness of the popular drama? Who can doubt that at the MermaidShakespeare heard from Jonson's lips much more censure of his offencesagainst 'art' than Jonson ever confided to Drummond or to paper? Andis it not most probable that those battles between the two whichFuller imagines, were waged often on the field of dramatic criticism? If Shakespeare, then, broke some of the 'rules,' it was not fromignorance. Probably he refused, on grounds of art itself, to troublehimself with rules derived from forms of drama long extinct. And it isnot unlikely that he was little interested in theory as such, and morethan likely that he was impatient of pedantic distinctions between'pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical,tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable or poemunlimited. ' But that would not prove that he never reflected on hisart, or could not explain, if he cared to, what _he_ thought would begood general rules for the drama of his own time. He could give adviceabout play-acting. Why should we suppose that he could not give adviceabout play-making? Still Shakespeare, though in some considerable degree a 'conscious'artist, frequently sins against art; and if his sins were not due toignorance or inspiration, they must be accounted for otherwise. Neithercan there be much doubt about their causes (for they have more than onecause), as we shall see if we take some illustrations of the defectsthemselves. Among these are not to be reckoned certain things which in dramaswritten at the present time would rightly be counted defects. There are,for example, in most Elizabethan plays peculiarities of constructionwhich would injure a play written for our stage but were perfectlywell-fitted for that very different stage,--a stage on which again someof the best-constructed plays of our time would appear absurdly faulty. Or take the charge of improbability. Shakespeare certainly hasimprobabilities which are defects. They are most frequent in the windingup of his comedies (and how many comedies are there in the world whichend satisfactorily? ). But his improbabilities are rarely psychological,and in some of his plays there occurs one kind of improbability which isno defect, but simply a characteristic which has lost in our day much ofits former attraction. I mean that the story, in most of the comediesand many of the tragedies of the Elizabethans, was _intended_ to bestrange and wonderful. These plays were tales of romance dramatised, andthey were meant in part to satisfy the same love of wonder to which theromances appealed. It is no defect in the Arthurian legends, or the oldFrench romances, or many of the stories in the _Decameron_, that theyare improbable: it is a virtue. To criticise them as though they were ofthe same species as a realistic novel, is, we should all say, merelystupid. Is it anything else to criticise in the same way _Twelfth Night_or _As You Like It_? And so, even when the difference between comedy andtragedy is allowed for, the improbability of the opening of _King Lear_,so often censured, is no defect. It is not out of character, it is onlyextremely unusual and strange. But it was meant to be so; like themarriage of the black Othello with Desdemona, the Venetian senator'sdaughter. To come then to real defects, (_a_) one may be found in places whereShakespeare strings together a number of scenes, some very short, inwhich the _dramatis personae_ are frequently changed; as though anovelist were to tell his story in a succession of short chapters, inwhich he flitted from one group of his characters to another. Thismethod shows itself here and there in the pure tragedies (_e. g. _ in thelast Act of _Macbeth_), but it appears most decidedly where thehistorical material was undramatic, as in the middle part of _Antony andCleopatra_. It was made possible by the absence of scenery, anddoubtless Shakespeare used it because it was the easiest way out of adifficulty. But, considered abstractedly, it is a defective method, and,even as used by Shakespeare, it sometimes reminds us of the merelynarrative arrangement common in plays before his time. (_b_) We may take next the introduction or excessive development ofmatter neither required by the plot nor essential to the exhibition ofcharacter: _e. g. _ the references in _Hamlet_ to theatre-quarrels of theday, and the length of the player's speech and also of Hamlet'sdirections to him respecting the delivery of the lines to be inserted inthe 'Murder of Gonzago. ' All this was probably of great interest at thetime when _Hamlet_ was first presented; most of it we should be verysorry to miss; some of it seems to bring us close to Shakespearehimself; but who can defend it from the point of view of constructiveart? (_c_) Again, we may look at Shakespeare's soliloquies. It will be agreedthat in listening to a soliloquy we ought never to feel that we arebeing addressed. And in this respect, as in others, many of thesoliloquies are master-pieces. But certainly in some the purpose ofgiving information lies bare, and in one or two the actor openly speaksto the audience. Such faults are found chiefly in the early plays,though there is a glaring instance at the end of Belarius's speech in_Cymbeline_ (III. iii. 99 ff. ), and even in the mature tragediessomething of this kind may be traced. Let anyone compare, for example,Edmund's soliloquy in _King Lear_, I. ii. , 'This is the excellentfoppery of the world,' with Edgar's in II. iii. , and he will beconscious that in the latter the purpose of giving information isimperfectly disguised. [23](_d_) It cannot be denied, further, that in many of Shakespeare's plays,if not in all, there are inconsistencies and contradictions, and alsothat questions are suggested to the reader which it is impossible forhim to answer with certainty. For instance, some of the indications ofthe lapse of time between Othello's marriage and the events of the laterActs flatly contradict one another; and it is impossible to make outwhether Hamlet was at Court or at the University when his father wasmurdered. But it should be noticed that often what seems a defect ofthis latter kind is not really a defect. For instance, the difficultyabout Hamlet's age (even if it cannot be resolved by the text alone) didnot exist for Shakespeare's audience. The moment Burbage entered it musthave been clear whether the hero was twenty or thirty. And in likemanner many questions of dramatic interpretation which trouble us couldnever have arisen when the plays were first produced, for the actorwould be instructed by the author how to render any critical andpossibly ambiguous passage. (I have heard it remarked, and the remark Ibelieve is just, that Shakespeare seems to have relied on suchinstructions less than most of his contemporaries; one fact out ofseveral which might be adduced to prove that he did not regard his playsas mere stage-dramas of the moment. )(_e_) To turn to another field, the early critics were no doubt oftenprovokingly wrong when they censured the language of particular passagesin Shakespeare as obscure, inflated, tasteless, or 'pestered withmetaphors'; but they were surely right in the general statement that hislanguage often shows these faults. And this is a subject which latercriticism has never fairly faced and examined. (_f_) Once more, to say that Shakespeare makes all his seriouscharacters talk alike,[24] and that he constantly speaks through themouths of his _dramatis personae_ without regard to their individualnatures, would be to exaggerate absurdly; but it is true that in hisearlier plays these faults are traceable in some degree, and even in_Hamlet_ there are striking passages where dramatic appropriateness issacrificed to some other object. When Laertes speaks the linesbeginning, 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 theinstability of human purpose, and when King Claudius afterwards insiststo Laertes on the same subject at almost equal length, who does not seethat Shakespeare, thinking but little of dramatic fitness, wishes inpart simply to write poetry, and partly to impress on the audiencethoughts which will help them to understand, not the player-king nor yetKing Claudius, but Hamlet himself, who, on his side,--and here quite incharacter--has already enlarged on the same topic in the most famous ofhis soliloquies? (_g_) Lastly, like nearly all the dramatists of his day and of timesmuch earlier, Shakespeare was fond of 'gnomic' passages, and introducesthem probably not more freely than his readers like, but more freelythan, I suppose, a good play-wright now would care to do. Thesepassages, it may be observed, are frequently rhymed (_e. g. _ _Othello_,I. iii. 201 ff. , II. i. 149 ff. ). Sometimes they were printed in earlyeditions with inverted commas round them, as are in the First QuartoPolonius's 'few precepts' to Laertes. If now we ask whence defects like these arose, we shall observe thatsome of them are shared by the majority of Shakespeare's contemporaries,and abound in the dramas immediately preceding his time. They arecharacteristics of an art still undeveloped, and, no doubt, were notperceived to be defects. But though it is quite probable that in regardto one or two kinds of imperfection (such as the superabundance of'gnomic' passages) Shakespeare himself erred thus ignorantly, it is veryunlikely that in most cases he did so, unless in the first years of hiscareer of authorship. And certainly he never can have thought itartistic to leave inconsistencies, obscurities, or passages of bombastin his work. Most of the defects in his writings must be due toindifference or want of care. I do not say that all were so. In regard, for example, to his occasionalbombast and other errors of diction, it seems hardly doubtful that hisperception was sometimes at fault, and that, though he used the Englishlanguage like no one else, he had not that _sureness_ of taste in wordswhich has been shown by some much smaller writers. And it seems notunlikely that here he suffered from his comparative want of'learning,'--that is, of familiarity with the great writers ofantiquity. But nine-tenths of his defects are not, I believe, the errorsof an inspired genius, ignorant of art, but the sins of a great butnegligent artist. He was often, no doubt, over-worked and pressed fortime. He knew that the immense majority of his audience were incapableof distinguishing between rough and finished work. He often felt thedegradation of having to live by pleasing them. Probably in hours ofdepression he was quite indifferent to fame, and perhaps in another moodthe whole business of play-writing seemed to him a little thing. None ofthese thoughts and feelings influenced him when his subject had caughthold 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 ofexpression, with all its pains and raptures, is mere folly. He waspossessed: 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 atonce--and how can even he have always done so? --he returned to thematter again and again. Such things as the scenes of Duncan's murder orOthello's temptation, such speeches as those of the Duke to Claudio andof Claudio to his sister about death, were not composed in an hour andtossed aside; and if they have defects, they have not what Shakespearethought defects. Nor is it possible that his astonishingly individualconceptions of character can have been struck out at a heat: prolongedand repeated thought must have gone to them. But of smallinconsistencies in the plot he was often quite careless. He seems tohave finished off some of his comedies with a hasty and evencontemptuous indifference, as if it mattered nothing how the people gotmarried, or even who married whom, so long as enough were marriedsomehow. And often, when he came to parts of his scheme that werenecessary but not interesting to him, he wrote with a slack hand, like acraftsman of genius who knows that his natural gift and acquired skillwill turn out something more than good enough for his audience: wroteprobably fluently but certainly negligently, sometimes only half sayingwhat he meant, and sometimes saying the opposite, and now and then, whenpassion was required, lapsing into bombast because he knew he mustheighten his style but would not take the trouble to inflame hisimagination. It may truly be said that what injures such passages is notinspiration, but the want of it. But, as they are mostly passages whereno poet could expect to be inspired, it is even more true to say thathere Shakespeare lacked the conscience of the artist who is determinedto make everything as good as he can. Such poets as Milton, Pope,Tennyson, habitually show this conscience. They left probably scarcelyanything that they felt they could improve. No one could dream of sayingthat of Shakespeare. Hence comes what is perhaps the chief difficulty in interpreting hisworks. Where his power or art is fully exerted it really does resemblethat of nature. It organises and vitalises its product from the centreoutward to the minutest markings on the surface, so that when you turnupon it the most searching light you can command, when you dissect itand apply to it the test of a microscope, still you find in it nothingformless, general or vague, but everywhere structure, character,individuality. In this his great things, which seem to come wheneverthey are wanted, have no companions in literature except the fewgreatest things in Dante; and it is a fatal error to allow hiscarelessness elsewhere to make one doubt whether here one is not seekingmore than can be found. It is very possible to look for subtlety in thewrong places in Shakespeare, but in the right places it is not possibleto find too much. But then this characteristic, which is one source ofhis endless attraction, is also a source of perplexity. For in thoseparts of his plays which show him neither in his most intense nor in hismost negligent mood, we are often unable to decide whether somethingthat seems inconsistent, indistinct, feeble, exaggerated, is really so,or whether it was definitely meant to be as it is, and has an intentionwhich we ought to be able to divine; whether, for example, we havebefore us some unusual trait in character, some abnormal movement ofmind, only surprising to us because we understand so very much less ofhuman nature than Shakespeare did, or whether he wanted to get his workdone and made a slip, or in using an old play adopted hastily somethingthat would not square with his own conception, or even refused totrouble himself with minutiae which we notice only because we study him,but which nobody ever notices in a stage performance. We know wellenough what Shakespeare is doing when at the end of _Measure forMeasure_ he marries Isabella to the Duke--and a scandalous proceeding itis; but who can ever feel sure that the doubts which vex him as to somenot unimportant points in _Hamlet_ are due to his own want of eyesightor to Shakespeare's want of care? FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 16: The famous critics of the Romantic Revival seem to havepaid very little attention to this subject. Mr. R. G. Moulton has writtenan interesting book on _Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist_ (1885). Inparts of my analysis I am much indebted to Gustav Freytag's _Technik desDramas_, a book which deserves to be much better known than it appearsto be to Englishmen interested in the drama. I may add, for the benefitof classical scholars, that Freytag has a chapter on Sophocles. Thereader of his book will easily distinguish, if he cares to, the placeswhere I follow Freytag, those where I differ from him, and those where Iwrite in independence of him. I may add that in speaking of constructionI have thought it best to assume in my hearers no previous knowledge ofthe subject; that I have not attempted to discuss how much of what issaid of Shakespeare would apply also to other dramatists; and that Ihave illustrated from the tragedies generally, not only from the chosenfour. ][Footnote 17: This word throughout the lecture bears the sense it hashere, 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_dénouement_ or 'solution. '][Footnote 19: It is possible, of course, to open the tragedy with theconflict already begun, but Shakespeare never does so. ][Footnote 20: When the subject comes from English history, andespecially when the play forms one of a series, some knowledge may beassumed. So in _Richard III. _ Even in _Richard II. _ not a littleknowledge seems to be assumed, and this fact points to the existence ofa popular play on the earlier part of Richard's reign. Such a playexists, 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 enjoyreading him, who, on the whole, dislike reading plays. A main cause ofthis very general dislike is that the reader has not a lively enoughimagination to carry him with pleasure through the exposition, though inthe theatre, where his imagination is helped, he would experience littledifficulty. ][Footnote 22: The end of _Richard III. _ is perhaps an exception. ][Footnote 23: I do not discuss the general question of the justificationof soliloquy, for it concerns not Shakespeare only, but practically alldramatists down to quite recent times. I will only remark that neithersoliloquy nor the use of verse can be condemned on the mere ground thatthey are 'unnatural. ' No dramatic language is 'natural'; _all_ dramaticlanguage is idealised. So that the question as to soliloquy must be oneas to the degree of idealisation and the balance of advantages anddisadvantages. (Since this lecture was written I have read some remarkson 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 isrecognisably Shakespeare's style, of course it is true; but it is noaccusation. Nor does it follow that they all speak alike; and in factthey are far from doing so. ]LECTURE IIISHAKESPEARE'S TRAGIC PERIOD--HAMLET1Before we come to-day to _Hamlet_, the first of our four tragedies, afew remarks must be made on their probable place in Shakespeare'sliterary career. But I shall say no more than seems necessary for ourrestricted purpose, and, therefore, for the most part shall merely bestating widely accepted results of investigation, without going into theevidence on which they rest. [25]Shakespeare's tragedies fall into two distinct groups, and these groupsare separated by a considerable interval. He wrote tragedy--pure, like_Romeo and Juliet_; historical, like _Richard III. _--in the early yearsof 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 atime, lasting some half-dozen years, during which he composed the mostmature and humorous of his English History plays (the plays withFalstaff in them), and the best of his romantic comedies (the plays withBeatrice and Jaques and Viola in them). There are no tragedies belongingto these half-dozen years, nor any dramas approaching tragedy. But now,from about 1601 to about 1608, comes tragedy after tragedy--_JuliusCaesar_, _Hamlet_, _Othello_, _King Lear_, _Timon of Athens_, _Macbeth_,_Antony and Cleopatra_ and _Coriolanus_; and their companions are playswhich cannot indeed be called tragedies, but certainly are not comediesin the same sense as _As You Like It_ or the _Tempest_. These sevenyears, accordingly, might, without much risk of misunderstanding, becalled Shakespeare's tragic period. [26] And after it he wrote no moretragedies, but chiefly romances more serious and less sunny than _As YouLike It_, but not much less serene. The existence of this distinct tragic period, of a time when thedramatist seems to have been occupied almost exclusively with deep andpainful problems, has naturally helped to suggest the idea that the'man' also, in these years of middle age, from thirty-seven toforty-four, was heavily burdened in spirit; that Shakespeare turned totragedy not merely for change, or because he felt it to be the greatestform of drama and felt himself equal to it, but also because the worldhad come to look dark and terrible to him; and even that the railings ofThersites and the maledictions of Timon express his own contempt andhatred for mankind. Discussion of this large and difficult subject,however, is not necessary to the dramatic appreciation of any of hisworks, and I shall say nothing of it here, but shall pass on at once todraw attention to certain stages and changes which may be observedwithin the tragic period. For this purpose too it is needless to raiseany question as to the respective chronological positions of _Othello_,_King Lear_ and _Macbeth_. What is important is also generally admitted:that _Julius Caesar_ and _Hamlet_ precede these plays, and that _Antonyand Cleopatra_ and _Coriolanus_ follow them. [27]If we consider the tragedies first on the side of their substance, wefind at once an obvious difference between the first two and theremainder. Both Brutus and Hamlet are highly intellectual by nature andreflective by habit. Both may even be called, in a popular sense,philosophic; Brutus may be called so in a stricter sense. Each, beingalso a 'good' man, shows accordingly, when placed in criticalcircumstances, a sensitive and almost painful anxiety to do right. Andthough they fail--of course in quite different ways--to dealsuccessfully with these circumstances, the failure in each case isconnected rather with their intellectual nature and reflective habitthan with any yielding to passion. Hence the name 'tragedy of thought,'which Schlegel gave to _Hamlet_, may be given also, as in effect it hasbeen by Professor Dowden, to _Julius Caesar_. The later heroes, on theother hand, Othello, Lear, Timon, Macbeth, Antony, Coriolanus, have, oneand all, passionate natures, and, speaking roughly, we may attribute thetragic failure in each of these cases to passion. Partly for thisreason, the later plays are wilder and stormier than the first two. Wesee a greater mass of human nature in commotion, and we seeShakespeare'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 thesecond, _Hamlet_. These two earlier works are both distinguished from most of thesucceeding tragedies in another though a kindred respect. Moral evil isnot so intently scrutinised or so fully displayed in them. In _JuliusCaesar_, we may almost say, everybody means well. In _Hamlet_, though wehave a villain, he is a small one. The murder which gives rise to theaction lies outside the play, and the centre of attention within theplay lies in the hero's efforts to do his duty. It seems clear thatShakespeare's interest, since the early days when under Marlowe'sinfluence he wrote _Richard III. _, has not been directed to the moreextreme 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, humannature assumes shapes which inspire not mere sadness or repulsion buthorror and dismay. If in _Timon_ no monstrous cruelty is done, we stillwatch ingratitude and selfishness so blank that they provoke a loathingwe never felt for Claudius; and in this play and _King Lear_ we canfancy that we hear at times the _saeva indignatio_, if not the despair,of Swift. This prevalence of abnormal or appalling forms of evil, sideby side with vehement passion, is another reason why the convulsiondepicted in these tragedies seems to come from a deeper source, and tobe vaster in extent, than the conflict in the two earlier plays. Andhere again _Julius Caesar_ is further removed than _Hamlet_ from_Othello_, _King Lear_, and _Macbeth_. But in regard to this second point of difference a reservation must bemade, on which I will speak a little more fully, because, unlike thematter hitherto touched on, its necessity seems hardly to have beenrecognised. _All_ of the later tragedies may be called tragedies ofpassion, but not all of them display these extreme forms of evil. Neither of the last two does so. Antony and Coriolanus are, from onepoint of view, victims of passion; but the passion that ruins Antonyalso exalts him, he touches the infinite in it; and the pride andself-will of Coriolanus, though terrible in bulk, are scarcely so inquality; there is nothing base in them, and the huge creature whom theydestroy is a noble, even a lovable, being. Nor does either of thesedramas, though the earlier depicts a corrupt civilisation, include evenamong the minor characters anyone who can be called villainous orhorrible. Consider, finally, the impression left on us at the close ofeach. It is remarkable that this impression, though very strong, canscarcely be called purely tragic; or, if we call it so, at least thefeeling of reconciliation which mingles with the obviously tragicemotions is here exceptionally well-marked. The death of Antony, it willbe remembered, comes before the opening of the Fifth Act. The death ofCleopatra, which closes the play, is greeted by the reader with sympathyand admiration, even with exultation at the thought that she has foiledOctavius; and these feelings are heightened by the deaths of Charmianand Iras, heroically faithful to their mistress, as Emilia was to hers. In _Coriolanus_ the feeling of reconciliation is even stronger. Thewhole interest towards the close has been concentrated on the questionwhether the hero will persist in his revengeful design of storming andburning his native city, or whether better feelings will at lastoverpower his resentment and pride. He stands on the edge of a crimebeside which, at least in outward dreadfulness, the slaughter of anindividual looks insignificant. And when, at the sound of his mother'svoice and the sight of his wife and child, nature asserts itself and hegives way, although we know he will lose his life, we care little forthat: he has saved his soul. Our relief, and our exultation in the powerof goodness, are so great that the actual catastrophe which follows andmingles 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 theclose of _Cymbeline_ than as we do at the close of _Othello_. In sayingthis I do not in the least mean to criticise _Coriolanus_. It is a muchnobler play as it stands than it would have been if Shakespeare had madethe hero persist, and we had seen him amid the flaming ruins of Rome,awaking suddenly to the enormity of his deed and taking vengeance onhimself; but that would surely have been an ending more strictly tragicthan the close of Shakespeare's play. Whether this close was simply dueto his unwillingness to contradict his historical authority on a pointof such magnitude we need not ask. In any case _Coriolanus_ is, in morethan an outward sense, the end of his tragic period. It marks thetransition to his latest works, in which the powers of repentance andforgiveness charm to rest the tempest raised by error and guilt. If we turn now from the substance of the tragedies to their style andversification, we find on the whole a corresponding difference betweenthe earlier and the later. The usual assignment of _Julius Caesar_, andeven of _Hamlet_, to the end of Shakespeare's Second Period--the periodof _Henry V. _--is based mainly, we saw, on considerations of form. Thegeneral style of the serious parts of the last plays from Englishhistory is one of full, noble and comparatively equable eloquence. The'honey-tongued' sweetness and beauty of Shakespeare's early writing, asseen in _Romeo and Juliet_ or the _Midsummer-Night's Dream_, remain; theease and lucidity remain; but there is an accession of force and weight. We find no great change from this style when we come to _JuliusCaesar_,[28] which may be taken to mark its culmination. At this pointin Shakespeare's literary development he reaches, if the phrase may bepardoned, a limited perfection. Neither thought on the one side, norexpression on the other, seems to have any tendency to outrun or contendwith its fellow. We receive an impression of easy mastery and completeharmony, but not so strong an impression of inner power bursting intoouter life. Shakespeare's style is perhaps nowhere else so free fromdefects, and yet almost every one of his subsequent plays containswriting which is greater. To speak familiarly, we feel in _JuliusCaesar_ that, although not even Shakespeare could better the style hehas chosen, he has not let himself go. In reading _Hamlet_ we have no such feeling, and in many parts (forthere is in the writing of _Hamlet_ an unusual variety[29]) we areconscious of a decided change. The style in these parts is more rapidand vehement, less equable and less simple; and there is a change of thesame kind in the versification. But on the whole the _type_ is the sameas in _Julius Caesar_, and the resemblance of the two plays is decidedlymore marked than the difference. If Hamlet's soliloquies, consideredsimply as compositions, show a great change from Jaques's speech, 'Allthe 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 itseloquence, and passages like the following belong quite definitely tothe style of the Second Period: _Mar. _ It faded on the crowing of the cock. 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 amusic vaster and deeper, but not the same. The changes observable in _Hamlet_ are afterwards, and gradually, sogreatly developed that Shakespeare's style and versification at lastbecome almost new things. It is extremely difficult to illustrate thisbriefly in a manner to which no just exception can be taken, for it isalmost impossible to find in two plays passages bearing a sufficientlyclose resemblance to one another in occasion and sentiment. But I willventure 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, Buttress, 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 andCleopatra_: 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 noblest; 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 greatlythese two passages, and especially the second, differ in effect fromthose in _Hamlet_, written perhaps five or six years earlier. Theversification, by the time we reach _Antony and Cleopatra_, has assumeda new type; and although this change would appear comparatively slightin a typical passage from _Othello_ or even from _King Lear_, itsapproach through these plays to _Timon_ and _Macbeth_ can easily betraced. It is accompanied by a similar change in diction andconstruction. After _Hamlet_ the style, in the more emotional passages,is heightened. It becomes grander, sometimes wilder, sometimes moreswelling, 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 itis sometimes involved and obscure, and from these and other causesdeficient in charm. [30] On the other hand, it is always full of life andmovement, and in great passages produces sudden, strange, electrifyingeffects which are rarely found in earlier plays, and not so often evenin _Hamlet_. The more pervading effect of beauty gives place to what mayalmost be called explosions of sublimity or pathos. There is room for differences of taste and preference as regards thestyle and versification of the end of Shakespeare's Second Period, andthose of the later tragedies and last romances. But readers who miss inthe latter the peculiar enchantment of the earlier will not deny thatthe changes in form are in entire harmony with the inward changes. Ifthey object to passages where, to exaggerate a little, the sense hasrather to be discerned beyond the words than found in them, and if theydo 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 notalways completely embodied, their minds move through an astonishingvariety of ideas and experiences, and that a style less generally poeticthan that of _Hamlet_ is also a style more invariably dramatic. It maybe that, for the purposes of tragedy, the highest point was reachedduring the progress of these changes, in the most critical passages of_Othello_, _King Lear_ and _Macbeth_. [31]2Suppose you were to describe the plot of _Hamlet_ to a person quiteignorant of the play, and suppose you were careful to tell your hearernothing about Hamlet's character, what impression would your sketch makeon him? Would he not exclaim: 'What a sensational story! Why, here aresome eight violent deaths, not to speak of adultery, a ghost, a madwoman, and a fight in a grave! If I did not know that the play wasShakespeare's, I should have thought it must have been one of thoseearly tragedies of blood and horror from which he is said to haveredeemed the stage'? And would he not then go on to ask: 'But why in theworld did not Hamlet obey the Ghost at once, and so save seven of thoseeight lives? 'This exclamation and this question both show the same thing, that thewhole story turns upon the peculiar character of the hero. For withoutthis character the story would appear sensational and horrible; and yetthe actual _Hamlet_ is very far from being so, and even has a lessterrible effect than _Othello_, _King Lear_ or _Macbeth_. And again, ifwe had no knowledge of this character, the story would hardly beintelligible; it would at any rate at once suggest that wonderingquestion about the conduct of the hero; while the story of any of theother three tragedies would sound plain enough and would raise no suchquestion. It is further very probable that the main change made byShakespeare in the story as already represented on the stage, lay in anew conception of Hamlet's character and so of the cause of his delay. And, lastly, when we examine the tragedy, we observe two things whichillustrate the same point. First, we find by the side of the hero noother figure of tragic proportions, no one like Lady Macbeth or Iago, noone even like Cordelia or Desdemona; so that, in Hamlet's absence, theremaining characters could not yield a Shakespearean tragedy at all. And, secondly, we find among them two, Laertes and Fortinbras, who areevidently designed to throw the character of the hero into relief. Evenin the situations there is a curious parallelism; for Fortinbras, likeHamlet, is the son of a king, lately dead, and succeeded by his brother;and Laertes, like Hamlet, has a father slain, and feels bound to avengehim. And with this parallelism in situation there is a strong contrastin character; for both Fortinbras and Laertes possess in abundance thevery quality which the hero seems to lack, so that, as we read, we aretempted to exclaim that either of them would have accomplished Hamlet'stask in a day. Naturally, then, the tragedy of _Hamlet_ with Hamlet leftout has become the symbol of extreme absurdity; while the characteritself has probably exerted a greater fascination, and certainly hasbeen the subject of more discussion, than any other in the wholeliterature of the world. Before, however, we approach the task of examining it, it is as well toremind ourselves that the virtue of the play by no means wholly dependson this most subtle creation. We are all aware of this, and if we werenot so the history of _Hamlet_, as a stage-play, might bring the facthome to us. It is to-day the most popular of Shakespeare's tragedies onour stage; and yet a large number, perhaps even the majority of thespectators, though they may feel some mysterious attraction in the hero,certainly do not question themselves about his character or the cause ofhis delay, and would still find the play exceptionally effective, evenif he were an ordinary brave young man and the obstacles in his pathwere purely external. And this has probably always been the case. _Hamlet_ seems from the first to have been a favourite play; but untillate in the eighteenth century, I believe, scarcely a critic showed thathe perceived anything specially interesting in the character. Hanmer, in1730, to be sure, remarks that 'there appears no reason at all in naturewhy this young prince did not put the usurper to death as soon aspossible'; but it does not even cross his mind that this apparent'absurdity' is odd and might possibly be due to some design on the partof the poet. He simply explains the absurdity by observing that, ifShakespeare had made the young man go 'naturally to work,' the playwould have come to an end at once! Johnson, in like manner, notices that'Hamlet is, through the whole piece, rather an instrument than anagent,' but it does not occur to him that this peculiar circumstance canbe anything but a defect in Shakespeare's management of the plot. Seeing, they saw not. Henry Mackenzie, the author of _The Man ofFeeling_, was, it would seem, the first of our critics to feel the'indescribable charm' of Hamlet, and to divine something ofShakespeare's intention. 'We see a man,' he writes, 'who in othercircumstances would have exercised all the moral and social virtues,placed in a situation in which even the amiable qualities of his mindserve but to aggravate his distress and to perplex his conduct. '[32] Howsignificant is the fact (if it be the fact) that it was only when theslowly rising sun of Romance began to flush the sky that the wonder,beauty and pathos of this most marvellous of Shakespeare's creationsbegan to be visible! We do not know that they were perceived even in hisown day, and perhaps those are not wholly wrong who declare that thiscreation, so far from being a characteristic product of the time, was avision of the prophetic soul Of the wide world dreaming on things to come. But the dramatic splendour of the whole tragedy is another matter, andmust have been manifest not only in Shakespeare's day but even inHanmer's. It is indeed so obvious that I pass it by, and proceed at once to thecentral question of Hamlet's character. And I believe time will besaved, and a good deal of positive interpretation may be introduced, if,without examining in detail any one theory, we first distinguish classesor types of theory which appear to be in various ways and degreesinsufficient or mistaken. And we will confine our attention to sanetheories;--for on this subject, as on all questions relating toShakespeare, there are plenty of merely lunatic views: the view, forexample, that Hamlet, being a disguised woman in love with Horatio,could hardly help seeming unkind to Ophelia; or the view that, being avery clever and wicked young man who wanted to oust his innocent unclefrom the throne, he 'faked' the Ghost with this intent. But, before we come to our types of theory, it is necessary to touch onan idea, not unfrequently met with, which would make it vain labour todiscuss or propose any theory at all. It is sometimes said that Hamlet'scharacter is not only intricate but unintelligible. Now this statementmight mean something quite unobjectionable and even perhaps true andimportant. It might mean that the character cannot be _wholly_understood. As we saw, there may be questions which we cannot answerwith certainty now, because we have nothing but the text to guide us,but which never arose for the spectators who saw _Hamlet_ acted inShakespeare's day; and we shall have to refer to such questions in theselectures. Again, it may be held without any improbability that, fromcarelessness or because he was engaged on this play for several years,Shakespeare left inconsistencies in his exhibition of the characterwhich must prevent us from being certain of his ultimate meaning. Or,possibly, we may be baffled because he has illustrated in it certainstrange facts of human nature, which he had noticed but of which we areignorant. But then all this would apply in some measure to othercharacters in Shakespeare, and it is not this that is meant by thestatement that Hamlet is unintelligible. What is meant is thatShakespeare _intended_ him to be so, because he himself was feelingstrongly, and wished his audience to feel strongly, what a mystery lifeis, and how impossible it is for us to understand it. Now here, surely,we have mere confusion of mind. The mysteriousness of life is one thing,the psychological unintelligibility of a dramatic character is quiteanother; and the second does not show the first, it shows only theincapacity or folly of the dramatist. If it did show the first, it wouldbe very easy to surpass Shakespeare in producing a sense of mystery: weshould simply have to portray an absolutely nonsensical character. Ofcourse _Hamlet_ appeals powerfully to our sense of the mystery of life,but so does _every_ good tragedy; and it does so not because the hero isan enigma to us, but because, having a fair understanding of him, wefeel how strange it is that strength and weakness should be so mingledin one soul, and that this soul should be doomed to such misery andapparent failure. (1) To come, then, to our typical views, we may lay it down, first, thatno theory will hold water which finds the cause of Hamlet's delaymerely, or mainly, or even to any considerable extent, in externaldifficulties. Nothing is easier than to spin a plausible theory of thiskind. What, it may be asked,[33] was Hamlet to do when the Ghost hadleft him with its commission of vengeance? The King was surrounded notmerely by courtiers but by a Swiss body-guard: how was Hamlet to get athim? Was he then to accuse him publicly of the murder? If he did, whatwould happen? How would he prove the charge? All that he had to offer inproof was--a ghost-story! Others, to be sure, had seen the Ghost, but noone else had heard its revelations. Obviously, then, even if the courthad been honest, instead of subservient and corrupt, it would have votedHamlet mad, or worse, and would have shut him up out of harm's way. Hecould not see what to do, therefore, and so he waited. Then came theactors, and at once with admirable promptness he arranged for theplay-scene, hoping that the King would betray his guilt to the wholecourt. Unfortunately the King did not. It is true that immediatelyafterwards Hamlet got his chance; for he found the King defenceless onhis knees. But what Hamlet wanted was not a private revenge, to befollowed by his own imprisonment or execution; it was public justice. Sohe spared the King; and, as he unluckily killed Polonius justafterwards, he had to consent to be despatched to England. But, on thevoyage there, he discovered the King's commission, ordering the King ofEngland to put him immediately to death; and, with this in his pocket,he made his way back to Denmark. For now, he saw, the proof of theKing's attempt to murder him would procure belief also for the story ofthe murder of his father. His enemy, however, was too quick for him, andhis public arraignment of that enemy was prevented by his own death. A theory like this sounds very plausible--so long as you do not rememberthe text. But no unsophisticated mind, fresh from the reading of_Hamlet_, will accept it; and, as soon as we begin to probe it, fatalobjections arise in such numbers that I choose but a few, and indeed Ithink the first of them is enough. (_a_) From beginning to end of the play, Hamlet never makes theslightest reference to any external difficulty. How is it possible toexplain this fact in conformity with the theory? For what conceivablereason should Shakespeare conceal from us so carefully the key to theproblem? (_b_) Not only does Hamlet fail to allude to such difficulties, but healways assumes that he _can_ obey the Ghost,[34] and he once assertsthis in so many words ('Sith I have cause and will and strength andmeans To do't,' IV. iv. 45). (_c_) Again, why does Shakespeare exhibit Laertes quite easily raisingthe people against the King? Why but to show how much more easilyHamlet, whom the people loved, could have done the same thing, if thatwas the plan he preferred? (_d_) Again, Hamlet did _not_ plan the play-scene in the hope that theKing would betray his guilt to the court. He planned it, according tohis own account, in order to convince _himself_ by the King's agitationthat the Ghost had spoken the truth. This is perfectly clear from II. ii. 625 ff. and from III. ii. 80 ff. Some readers are misled by thewords in the latter passage: if his occulted guilt Do not itself unkennel in one speech, It is a damned ghost that we have seen. The meaning obviously is, as the context shows, 'if his hidden guilt donot betray itself _on occasion of_ one speech,' viz. , the 'dozen orsixteen lines' with which Hamlet has furnished the player, and of whichonly six are delivered, because the King does not merely show his guiltin his face (which was all Hamlet had hoped, III. ii. 90) butrushes from the room. It may be as well to add that, although Hamlet's own account of hisreason for arranging the play-scene may be questioned, it is impossibleto suppose that, if his real design had been to provoke an openconfession of guilt, he could have been unconscious of this design. (_e_) Again, Hamlet never once talks, or shows a sign of thinking, ofthe plan of bringing the King to public justice; he always talks ofusing his 'sword' or his 'arm. ' And this is so just as much after he hasreturned to Denmark with the commission in his pocket as it was beforethis event. When he has told Horatio the story of the voyage, he doesnot say, 'Now I can convict him': he says, 'Now am I not justified inusing this arm? 'This class of theory, then, we must simply reject. But it suggests tworemarks. It is of course quite probable that, when Hamlet was 'thinkingtoo precisely on the event,' he was considering, among other things, thequestion how he could avenge his father without sacrificing his own lifeor freedom. And assuredly, also, he was anxious that his act ofvengeance should not be misconstrued, and would never have been contentto leave a 'wounded name' behind him. His dying words prove that. (2) Assuming, now, that Hamlet's main difficulty--almost the whole ofhis difficulty--was internal, I pass to views which, acknowledging this,are still unsatisfactory because they isolate one element in hischaracter and situation and treat it as the whole. According to the first of these typical views, Hamlet was restrained byconscience or a moral scruple; he could not satisfy himself that it wasright to avenge his father. This idea, like the first, can easily be made to look very plausible ifwe vaguely imagine the circumstances without attending to the text. Butattention to the text is fatal to it. For, on the one hand, scarcelyanything can be produced in support of it, and, on the other hand, agreat deal can be produced in its disproof. To take the latter pointfirst, Hamlet, it is impossible to deny, habitually assumes, without anyquestioning, that he _ought_ to avenge his father. Even when he doubts,or thinks that he doubts, the honesty of the Ghost, he expresses nodoubt as to what his duty will be if the Ghost turns out honest: 'If hebut blench I know my course. ' In the two soliloquies where he reviewshis position (II. ii. , 'O what a rogue and peasant slave am I,'and IV. iv. , 'How all occasions do inform against me') hereproaches himself bitterly for the neglect of his duty. When hereflects on the possible causes of this neglect he never mentions amongthem a moral scruple. When the Ghost appears in the Queen's chamber heconfesses, conscience-stricken, that, lapsed in time and passion, he haslet go by the acting of its command; but he does not plead that hisconscience stood in his way. The Ghost itself says that it comes to whethis 'almost blunted purpose'; and conscience may unsettle a purpose butdoes not blunt it. What natural explanation of all this can be given onthe conscience theory? And now what can be set against this evidence? One solitary passage. [35]Quite late, after Hamlet has narrated to Horatio the events of hisvoyage, he asks him (V. ii. 63): Does it not, thinks't thee, stand me now upon-- He that hath kill'd my king and whored my mother, Popp'd in between the election and my hopes, Thrown out his angle for my proper life, And with such cozenage--is't not perfect conscience To quit him with this arm? and is't not to be damn'd To let this canker of our nature come In further evil? Here, certainly, is a question of conscience in the usual present senseof the word; and, it may be said, does not this show that all alongHamlet really has been deterred by moral scruples? But I ask first how,in that case, the facts just adduced are to be explained: for they mustbe explained, not ignored. Next, let the reader observe that even ifthis passage did show that _one_ hindrance to Hamlet's action was hisconscience, it by no means follows that this was the sole or the chiefhindrance. And, thirdly, let him observe, and let him ask himselfwhether the coincidence is a mere accident, that Hamlet is here almostrepeating the words he used in vain self-reproach some time before(IV. iv. 56): How stand I then, That have a father kill'd, a mother stain'd, Excitements of my reason and my blood, And let all sleep? Is it not clear that he is speculating just as vainly now, and that thisquestion of conscience is but one of his many unconscious excuses fordelay? And, lastly, is it not so that Horatio takes it? He declines todiscuss that unreal question, and answers simply, It must be shortly known to him from England What is the issue of the business there. In other words, 'Enough of this endless procrastination. What is wantedis not reasons for the deed, but the deed itself. ' What can be moresignificant? Perhaps, however, it may be answered: 'Your explanation of this passagemay be correct, and the facts you have mentioned do seem to be fatal tothe theory of conscience in its usual form. But there is another andsubtler theory of conscience. According to it, Hamlet, so far as hisexplicit consciousness went, was sure that he ought to obey the Ghost;but in the depths of his nature, and unknown to himself, there was amoral repulsion to the deed. The conventional moral ideas of his time,which he shared with the Ghost, told him plainly that he ought to avengehis father; but a deeper conscience in him, which was in advance of histime, contended with these explicit conventional ideas. It is becausethis deeper conscience remains below the surface that he fails torecognise it, and fancies he is hindered by cowardice or sloth orpassion or what not; but it emerges into light in that speech toHoratio. And it is just because he has this nobler moral nature in himthat we admire and love him. 'Now I at once admit not only that this view is much more attractive andmore truly tragic than the ordinary conscience theory, but that it hasmore verisimilitude. But I feel no doubt that it does not answer toShakespeare's meaning, and I will simply mention, out of many objectionsto it, three which seem to be fatal. (_a_) If it answers toShakespeare's meaning, why in the world did he conceal that meaninguntil the last Act? The facts adduced above seem to show beyond questionthat, on the hypothesis, he did so. That he did so is surely next doorto incredible. In any case, it certainly requires an explanation, andcertainly has not received one. (_b_) Let us test the theory byreference to a single important passage, that where Hamlet finds theKing at prayer and spares him. The reason Hamlet gives himself forsparing the King is that, if he kills him now, he will send him toheaven, whereas he desires to send him to hell. Now, this reason may bean unconscious excuse, but is it believable that, if the real reason hadbeen the stirrings of his deeper conscience, _that_ could have maskeditself in the form of a desire to send his enemy's soul to hell? Is notthe idea quite ludicrous? (_c_) The theory requires us to suppose that,when the Ghost enjoins Hamlet to avenge the murder of his father, it islaying on him a duty which _we_ are to understand to be no duty but thevery reverse. And is not that supposition wholly contrary to the naturalimpression which we all receive in reading the play? Surely it is clearthat, whatever we in the twentieth century may think about Hamlet'sduty, we are meant in the play to assume that he _ought_ to have obeyedthe Ghost. The conscience theory, then, in either of its forms we must reject. Butit may remind us of points worth noting. In the first place, it iscertainly true that Hamlet, in spite of some appearances to thecontrary, was, as Goethe said, of a most moral nature, and had a greatanxiety to do right. In this anxiety he resembles Brutus, and it isstronger in him than in any of the later heroes. And, secondly, it ishighly probable that in his interminable broodings the kind of paralysiswith which he was stricken masked itself in the shape of conscientiousscruples as well as in many other shapes. And, finally, in his shrinkingfrom the deed there was probably, together with much else, somethingwhich may be called a moral, though not a conscientious, repulsion: Imean a repugnance to the idea of falling suddenly on a man who could notdefend himself. This, so far as we can see, was the only plan thatHamlet ever contemplated. There is no positive evidence in the play thathe regarded it with the aversion that any brave and honourable man, onemust suppose, would feel for it; but, as Hamlet certainly was brave andhonourable, we may presume that he did so. (3) We come next to what may be called the sentimental view of Hamlet, aview common both among his worshippers and among his defamers. Its germmay perhaps be found in an unfortunate phrase of Goethe's (who of courseis not responsible for the whole view): 'a lovely, pure and most moralnature, _without the strength of nerve which forms a hero_, sinksbeneath a burden which it cannot bear and must not cast away. ' When thisidea is isolated, developed and popularised, we get the picture of agraceful youth, sweet and sensitive, full of delicate sympathies andyearning aspirations, shrinking from the touch of everything gross andearthly; but frail and weak, a kind of Werther, with a face likeShelley's and a voice like Mr. Tree's. And then we ask in tender pity,how could such a man perform the terrible duty laid on him? How, indeed! And what a foolish Ghost even to suggest such a duty! Butthis conception, though not without its basis in certain beautifultraits of Hamlet's nature, is utterly untrue. It is too kind to Hamleton one side, and it is quite unjust to him on another. The 'conscience'theory at any rate leaves Hamlet a great nature which you can admire andeven revere. But for the 'sentimental' Hamlet you can feel only pity notunmingled with contempt. Whatever else he is, he is no _hero_. But consider the text. This shrinking, flower-like youth--how could hepossibly have done what we _see_ Hamlet do? What likeness to him isthere in the Hamlet who, summoned by the Ghost, bursts from histerrified friends with the cry: Unhand me, gentlemen! By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me;the Hamlet who scarcely once speaks to the King without an insult, or toPolonius without a gibe; the Hamlet who storms at Ophelia and speaksdaggers to his mother; the Hamlet who, hearing a cry behind the arras,whips out his sword in an instant and runs the eavesdropper through; theHamlet who sends his 'school-fellows' to their death and never troubleshis head about them more; the Hamlet who is the first man to board apirate ship, and who fights with Laertes in the grave; the Hamlet of thecatastrophe, an omnipotent fate, before whom all the court standshelpless, who, as the truth breaks upon him, rushes on the King, driveshis foil right through his body,[36] then seizes the poisoned cup andforces it violently between the wretched man's lips, and in the throesof death has force and fire enough to wrest the cup from Horatio's hand('By heaven, I'll have it! ') lest he should drink and die? This man, theHamlet of the play, is a heroic, terrible figure. He would have beenformidable to Othello or Macbeth. If the sentimental Hamlet had crossedhim, he would have hurled him from his path with one sweep of his arm. This view, then, or any view that approaches it, is grossly unjust toHamlet, and turns tragedy into mere pathos. But, on the other side, itis too kind to him. It ignores the hardness and cynicism which wereindeed no part of his nature, but yet, in this crisis of his life, areindubitably present and painfully marked. His sternness, itself left outof sight by this theory, is no defect; but he is much more than stern. Polonius possibly deserved nothing better than the words addressed tohis corpse: Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! I took thee for thy better: take thy fortune: Thou find'st to be too busy is some danger;yet this was Ophelia's father, and, whatever he deserved, it pains us,for Hamlet's own sake, to hear the words: This man shall set me packing: I'll lug the guts into the neighbour room. There is the same insensibility in Hamlet's language about the fate ofRosencrantz and Guildenstern; and, observe, their deaths were not in theleast required by his purpose. Grant, again, that his cruelty to Opheliawas partly due to misunderstanding, partly forced on him, partlyfeigned; still one surely cannot altogether so account for it, and stillless can one so account for the disgusting and insulting grossness ofhis language to her in the play-scene. I know this is said to be merelyan example of the custom of Shakespeare's time. But it is not so. It issuch language as you will find addressed to a woman by no other hero ofShakespeare's, not even in that dreadful scene where Othello accusesDesdemona. It is a great mistake to ignore these things, or to try tosoften the impression which they naturally make on one. That thisembitterment, callousness, grossness, brutality, should be induced on asoul so pure and noble is profoundly tragic; and Shakespeare's businesswas to show this tragedy, not to paint an ideally beautiful soulunstained and undisturbed by the evil of the world and the anguish ofconscious failure. [37](4) There remains, finally, that class of view which may be named afterSchlegel and Coleridge. According to this, _Hamlet_ is the tragedy ofreflection. The cause of the hero's delay is irresolution; and the causeof this irresolution is excess of the reflective or speculative habit ofmind. He has a general intention to obey the Ghost, but 'the native hueof resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought. ' He is'thought-sick. ' 'The whole,' says Schlegel, 'is intended to show how acalculating consideration which aims at exhausting, so far as humanforesight can, all the relations and possible consequences of a deed,cripples[38] the power of acting. . . . Hamlet is a hypocrite towardshimself; his far-fetched scruples are often mere pretexts to cover hiswant of determination. . . . He has no firm belief in himself or inanything else. . . . He loses himself in labyrinths of thought. ' SoColeridge finds in Hamlet 'an almost enormous intellectual activity anda proportionate aversion to real action consequent upon it' (theaversion, that is to say, is consequent on the activity). ProfessorDowden objects to this view, very justly, that it neglects the emotionalside of Hamlet's character, 'which is quite as important as theintellectual'; but, with this supplement, he appears on the whole toadopt it. Hamlet, he says, 'loses a sense of fact because with him eachobject and event transforms and expands itself into an idea. . . . Hecannot steadily keep alive within himself a sense of the importance ofany positive, limited thing,--a deed, for example.

' And Professor Dowdenexplains this condition by reference to Hamlet's life. 'When the playopens he has reached the age of thirty years . . . and he has receivedculture of every kind except the culture of active life. During thereign of the strong-willed elder Hamlet there was no call to action forhis meditative son. He has slipped on into years of full manhood still ahaunter of the university, a student of philosophies, an amateur in art,a ponderer on the things of life and death, who has never formed aresolution or executed a deed' (_Shakspere, his Mind and Art_, 4th ed. ,pp. 132, 133). On the whole, the Schlegel-Coleridge theory (with or without ProfessorDowden's modification and amplification) is the most widely receivedview of Hamlet's character. And with it we come at last into closecontact with the text of the play. It not only answers, in somefundamental respects, to the general impression produced by the drama,but it can be supported by Hamlet's own words in his soliloquies--suchwords, for example, as those about the native hue of resolution, orthose about the craven scruple of thinking too precisely on the event. It is confirmed, also, by the contrast between Hamlet on the one sideand Laertes and Fortinbras on the other; and, further, by the occurrenceof those words of the King to Laertes (IV. vii. 119 f. ), which,if they are not in character, are all the more important as showing whatwas in Shakespeare's mind at the time: that we would do We should do when we would; for this 'would' changes, And hath abatements and delays as many As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents; And then this 'should' is like a spendthrift sigh That hurts by easing. And, lastly, even if the view itself does not suffice, the _description_given by its adherents of Hamlet's state of mind, as we see him in thelast four Acts, is, on the whole and so far as it goes, a truedescription. The energy of resolve is dissipated in an endless broodingon the deed required. When he acts, his action does not proceed fromthis deliberation and analysis, but is sudden and impulsive, evoked byan emergency in which he has no time to think. And most of the reasonshe assigns for his procrastination are evidently not the true reasons,but unconscious excuses. Nevertheless this theory fails to satisfy. And it fails not merely inthis or that detail, but as a whole. We feel that its Hamlet does notfully answer to our imaginative impression. He is not nearly soinadequate to this impression as the sentimental Hamlet, but still wefeel he is inferior to Shakespeare's man and does him wrong. And when wecome to examine the theory we find that it is partial and leaves muchunexplained. I pass that by for the present, for we shall see, Ibelieve, that the theory is also positively misleading, and that in amost important way. And of this I proceed to speak. Hamlet's irresolution, or his aversion to real action, is, according tothe theory, the _direct_ result of 'an almost enormous intellectualactivity' in the way of 'a calculating consideration which attempts toexhaust all the relations and possible consequences of a deed. ' And thisagain proceeds from an original one-sidedness of nature, strengthened byhabit, and, perhaps, by years of speculative inaction. The theorydescribes, therefore, a man in certain respects like Coleridge himself,on one side a man of genius, on the other side, the side of will,deplorably weak, always procrastinating and avoiding unpleasant duties,and often reproaching himself in vain; a man, observe, who at _any_ timeand in _any_ circumstances would be unequal to the task assigned toHamlet. And thus, I must maintain, it degrades Hamlet and travesties theplay. For Hamlet, according to all the indications in the text, was notnaturally or normally such a man, but rather, I venture to affirm, a manwho at any _other_ time and in any _other_ circumstances than thosepresented would have been perfectly equal to his task; and it is, infact, the very cruelty of his fate that the crisis of his life comes onhim at the one moment when he cannot meet it, and when his highestgifts, instead of helping him, conspire to paralyse him. This aspect ofthe tragedy the theory quite misses; and it does so because itmisconceives the cause of that irresolution which, on the whole, ittruly describes. For the cause was not directly or mainly an habitualexcess of reflectiveness. The direct cause was a state of mind quiteabnormal and induced by special circumstances,--a state of profoundmelancholy. Now, Hamlet's reflectiveness doubtless played a certain partin the _production_ of that melancholy, and was thus one indirectcontributory cause of his irresolution. And, again, the melancholy, onceestablished, displayed, as one of its _symptoms_, an excessivereflection on the required deed. But excess of reflection was not, asthe theory makes it, the _direct_ cause of the irresolution at all; norwas it the _only_ indirect cause; and in the Hamlet of the last fourActs it is to be considered rather a symptom of his state than a causeof it. These assertions may be too brief to be at once clear, but I hope theywill presently become so. 3Let us first ask ourselves what we can gather from the play, immediatelyor by inference, concerning Hamlet as he was just before his father'sdeath. And I begin by observing that the text does not bear out the ideathat he was one-sidedly reflective and indisposed to action. Nobody whoknew him seems to have noticed this weakness. Nobody regards him as amere scholar who has 'never formed a resolution or executed a deed. ' Ina court which certainly would not much admire such a person he is theobserved of all observers. Though he has been disappointed of the throneeveryone shows him respect; and he is the favourite of the people, whoare not given to worship philosophers. Fortinbras, a sufficientlypractical man, considered that he was likely, had he been put on, tohave proved most royally. He has Hamlet borne by four captains 'like asoldier' to his grave; and Ophelia says that Hamlet _was_ a soldier. Ifhe was fond of acting, an aesthetic pursuit, he was equally fond offencing, an athletic one: he practised it assiduously even in his worstdays. [39] So far as we can conjecture from what we see of him in thosebad days, he must normally have been charmingly frank, courteous andkindly to everyone, of whatever rank, whom he liked or respected, but byno means timid or deferential to others; indeed, one would gather thathe was rather the reverse, and also that he was apt to be decided andeven imperious if thwarted or interfered with. He must always have beenfearless,--in the play he appears insensible to fear of any ordinarykind. And, finally, he must have been quick and impetuous in action; forit is downright impossible that the man we see rushing after the Ghost,killing Polonius, dealing with the King's commission on the ship,boarding the pirate, leaping into the grave, executing his finalvengeance, could _ever_ have been shrinking or slow in an emergency. Imagine Coleridge doing any of these things! If we consider all this, how can we accept the notion that Hamlet's wasa weak and one-sided character? 'Oh, but he spent ten or twelve years ata University! ' Well, even if he did, it is possible to do that withoutbecoming the victim of excessive thought. But the statement that he didrests upon a most insecure foundation. [40]Where then are we to look for the seeds of danger? (1) Trying to reconstruct from the Hamlet of the play, one would notjudge that his temperament was melancholy in the present sense of theword; there seems nothing to show that; but one would judge that bytemperament he was inclined to nervous instability, to rapid andperhaps extreme changes of feeling and mood, and that he was disposed tobe, for the time, absorbed in the feeling or mood that possessed him,whether it were joyous or depressed. This temperament the Elizabethanswould have called melancholic; and Hamlet seems to be an example of it,as Lear is of a temperament mixedly choleric and sanguine. And thedoctrine of temperaments was so familiar in Shakespeare's time--asBurton, and earlier prose-writers, and many of the dramatists show--thatShakespeare may quite well have given this temperament to Hamletconsciously and deliberately. Of melancholy in its developed form, ahabit, not a mere temperament, he often speaks. He more than once laughsat the passing and half-fictitious melancholy of youth and love; in DonJohn in _Much Ado_ he had sketched the sour and surly melancholy ofdiscontent; in Jaques a whimsical self-pleasing melancholy; in Antonioin the _Merchant of Venice_ a quiet but deep melancholy, for whichneither the victim nor his friends can assign any cause. [41] He gives toHamlet a temperament which would not develop into melancholy unlessunder some exceptional strain, but which still involved a danger. In theplay we see the danger realised, and find a melancholy quite unlike anythat Shakespeare had as yet depicted, because the temperament of Hamletis quite different. (2) Next, we cannot be mistaken in attributing to the Hamlet of earlierdays an exquisite sensibility, to which we may give the name 'moral,' ifthat word is taken in the wide meaning it ought to bear. This, thoughit suffers cruelly in later days, as we saw in criticising thesentimental view of Hamlet, never deserts him; it makes all hiscynicism, grossness and hardness appear to us morbidities, and has aninexpressibly attractive and pathetic effect. He had the soul of theyouthful poet as Shelley and Tennyson have described it, an unboundeddelight and faith in everything good and beautiful. We know this fromhimself. The world for him was _herrlich wie am ersten Tag_--'thisgoodly frame the earth, this most excellent canopy the air, this braveo'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire. 'And not nature only: 'What a piece of work is a man! how noble inreason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express andadmirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! 'This is no commonplace to Hamlet; it is the language of a heart thrilledwith wonder and swelling into ecstasy. Doubtless it was with the same eager enthusiasm he turned to thosearound him. Where else in Shakespeare is there anything like Hamlet'sadoration of his father? The words melt into music whenever he speaks ofhim. And, if there are no signs of any such feeling towards his mother,though many signs of love, it is characteristic that he evidently neverentertained a suspicion of anything unworthy in her,--characteristic,and significant of his tendency to see only what is good unless he isforced to see the reverse. For we find this tendency elsewhere, and findit going so far that we must call it a disposition to idealise, to seesomething better than what is there, or at least to ignore deficiencies. He says to Laertes, 'I loved you ever,' and he describes Laertes as a'very noble youth,' which he was far from being. In his first greetingof Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, where his old self revives, we tracethe same affectionateness and readiness to take men at their best. Hislove for Ophelia, too, which seems strange to some, is surely the mostnatural thing in the world. He saw her innocence, simplicity andsweetness, and it was like him to ask no more; and it is noticeable thatHoratio, though entirely worthy of his friendship, is, like Ophelia,intellectually not remarkable. To the very end, however clouded, thisgenerous disposition, this 'free and open nature,' this unsuspiciousnesssurvive. They cost him his life; for the King knew them, and was surethat he was too 'generous and free from all contriving' to 'peruse thefoils. ' To the very end, his soul, however sick and tortured it may be,answers instantaneously when good and evil are presented to it, lovingthe one and hating the other. He is called a sceptic who has no firmbelief in anything, but he is never sceptical about _them_. And the negative side of his idealism, the aversion to evil, is perhapseven more developed in the hero of the tragedy than in the Hamlet ofearlier days. It is intensely characteristic. Nothing, I believe, is tobe found elsewhere in Shakespeare (unless in the rage of thedisillusioned idealist Timon) of quite the same kind as Hamlet's disgustat his uncle's drunkenness, his loathing of his mother's sensuality, hisastonishment and horror at her shallowness, his contempt for everythingpretentious or false, his indifference to everything merely external. This last characteristic appears in his choice of the friend of hisheart, and in a certain impatience of distinctions of rank or wealth. When Horatio calls his father 'a goodly king,' he answers, surely withan emphasis on 'man,' He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again. He will not listen to talk of Horatio being his 'servant. ' When theothers speak of their 'duty' to him, he answers, 'Your love, as mine toyou. ' He speaks to the actor precisely as he does to an honest courtier. He is not in the least a revolutionary, but still, in effect, a king anda beggar are all one to him. He cares for nothing but human worth, andhis pitilessness towards Polonius and Osric and his 'school-fellows' isnot wholly due to morbidity, but belongs in part to his originalcharacter. Now, in Hamlet's moral sensibility there undoubtedly lay a danger. Anygreat shock that life might inflict on it would be felt with extremeintensity. Such a shock might even produce tragic results. And, in fact,_Hamlet_ deserves the title 'tragedy of moral idealism' quite as much asthe title 'tragedy of reflection. '(3) With this temperament and this sensibility we find, lastly, in theHamlet of earlier days, as of later, intellectual genius. It is chieflythis that makes him so different from all those about him, good and badalike, and hardly less different from most of Shakespeare's otherheroes. And this, though on the whole the most important trait in hisnature, is also so obvious and so famous that I need not dwell on it atlength. But against one prevalent misconception I must say a word ofwarning. Hamlet's intellectual power is not a specific gift, like agenius for music or mathematics or philosophy. It shows itself,fitfully, in the affairs of life as unusual quickness of perception,great agility in shifting the mental attitude, a striking rapidity andfertility in resource; so that, when his natural belief in others doesnot make him unwary, Hamlet easily sees through them and masters them,and no one can be much less like the typical helpless dreamer. It showsitself in conversation chiefly in the form of wit or humour; and, alikein conversation and in soliloquy, it shows itself in the form ofimagination quite as much as in that of thought in the stricter sense. Further, where it takes the latter shape, as it very often does, it isnot philosophic in the technical meaning of the word. There is reallynothing in the play to show that Hamlet ever was 'a student ofphilosophies,' unless it be the famous lines which, comically enough,exhibit this supposed victim of philosophy as its critic: There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. [42]His philosophy, if the word is to be used, was, like Shakespeare's own,the immediate product of the wondering and meditating mind; and suchthoughts as that celebrated one, 'There is nothing either good or badbut thinking makes it so,' surely needed no special training to producethem. Or does Portia's remark, 'Nothing is good without respect,'_i. e. _, out of relation, prove that she had studied metaphysics? Still Hamlet had speculative genius without being a philosopher, just ashe had imaginative genius without being a poet. Doubtless in happierdays he was a close and constant observer of men and manners, noting hisresults in those tables which he afterwards snatched from his breast tomake in wild irony his last note of all, that one may smile and smileand be a villain. Again and again we remark that passion forgeneralisation which so occupied him, for instance, in reflectionssuggested by the King's drunkenness that he quite forgot what it was hewas waiting to meet upon the battlements. Doubtless, too, he was alwaysconsidering things, as Horatio thought, too curiously. There was anecessity in his soul driving him to penetrate below the surface and toquestion what others took for granted. That fixed habitual look whichthe world wears for most men did not exist for him. He was for everunmaking his world and rebuilding it in thought, dissolving what toothers were solid facts, and discovering what to others were old truths. There were no old truths for Hamlet. It is for Horatio a thing of coursethat there's a divinity that shapes our ends, but for Hamlet it is adiscovery hardly won. And throughout this kingdom of the mind, where hefelt that man, who in action is only like an angel, is in apprehensionlike a god, he moved (we must imagine) more than content, so that evenin his dark days he declares he could be bounded in a nutshell and yetcount himself a king of infinite space, were it not that he had baddreams. If now we ask whether any special danger lurked _here_, how shall weanswer? We must answer, it seems to me, 'Some danger, no doubt, but,granted the ordinary chances of life, not much. ' For, in the firstplace, that idea which so many critics quietly take for granted--theidea that the gift and the habit of meditative and speculative thoughttend to produce irresolution in the affairs of life--would be found byno means easy to verify. Can you verify it, for example, in the lives ofthe philosophers, or again in the lives of men whom you have personallyknown to be addicted to such speculation? I cannot. Of course,individual peculiarities being set apart, absorption in _any_intellectual interest, together with withdrawal from affairs, may make aman slow and unskilful in affairs; and doubtless, individualpeculiarities being again set apart, a mere student is likely to be moreat a loss in a sudden and great practical emergency than a soldier or alawyer. But in all this there is no difference between a physicist, ahistorian, and a philosopher; and again, slowness, want of skill, andeven helplessness are something totally different from the peculiar kindof irresolution that Hamlet shows. The notion that speculative thinkingspecially tends to produce _this_ is really a mere illusion. In the second place, even if this notion were true, it has appeared thatHamlet did _not_ live the life of a mere student, much less of a meredreamer, and that his nature was by no means simply or even one-sidedlyintellectual, but was healthily active. Hence, granted the ordinarychances of life, there would seem to be no great danger in hisintellectual tendency and his habit of speculation; and I would gofurther and say that there was nothing in them, taken alone, to unfithim even for the extraordinary call that was made upon him. In fact, ifthe message of the Ghost had come to him within a week of his father'sdeath, I see no reason to doubt that he would have acted on it asdecisively as Othello himself, though probably after a longer and moreanxious deliberation. And therefore the Schlegel-Coleridge view (apartfrom its descriptive value) seems to me fatally untrue, for it impliesthat Hamlet's procrastination was the normal response of anover-speculative nature confronted with a difficult practical problem. On the other hand, under conditions of a peculiar kind, Hamlet'sreflectiveness certainly might prove dangerous to him, and his geniusmight even (to exaggerate a little) become his doom. Suppose thatviolent shock to his moral being of which I spoke; and suppose thatunder this shock, any possible action being denied to him, he began tosink into melancholy; then, no doubt, his imaginative and generalisinghabit of mind might extend the effects of this shock through his wholebeing and mental world. And if, the state of melancholy being thusdeepened and fixed, a sudden demand for difficult and decisive action ina matter connected with the melancholy arose, this state might well havefor one of its symptoms an endless and futile mental dissection of therequired deed. And, finally, the futility of this process, and the shameof his delay, would further weaken him and enslave him to his melancholystill more. Thus the speculative habit would be _one_ indirect cause ofthe morbid state which hindered action; and it would also reappear in adegenerate form as one of the _symptoms_ of this morbid state. * * * * *Now this is what actually happens in the play. Turn to the first wordsHamlet utters when he is alone; turn, that is to say, to the place wherethe author is likely to indicate his meaning most plainly. What do youhear? O, that this too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God! How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. Here are a sickness of life, and even a longing for death, so intensethat nothing stands between Hamlet and suicide except religious awe. Andwhat has caused them? The rest of the soliloquy so thrusts the answerupon us that it might seem impossible to miss it. It was not hisfather's death; that doubtless brought deep grief, but mere grief forsome one loved and lost does not make a noble spirit loathe the world asa place full only of things rank and gross. It was not the vaguesuspicion that we know Hamlet felt. Still less was it the loss of thecrown; for though the subserviency of the electors might well disgusthim, there is not a reference to the subject in the soliloquy, nor anysign elsewhere that it greatly occupied his mind. It was the moral shockof the sudden ghastly disclosure of his mother's true nature, falling onhim when his heart was aching with love, and his body doubtless wasweakened by sorrow. And it is essential, however disagreeable, torealise the nature of this shock. It matters little here whetherHamlet's age was twenty or thirty: in either case his mother was amatron of mature years. All his life he had believed in her, we may besure, as such a son would. He had seen her not merely devoted to hisfather, but hanging on him like a newly-wedded bride, hanging on him As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on. He had seen her following his body 'like Niobe, all tears. ' And thenwithin a month--'O God! a beast would have mourned longer'--she marriedagain, and married Hamlet's uncle, a man utterly contemptible andloathsome in his eyes; married him in what to Hamlet was incestuouswedlock;[43] married him not for any reason of state, nor even out ofold family affection, but in such a way that her son was forced to seein her action not only an astounding shallowness of feeling but aneruption of coarse sensuality, 'rank and gross,'[44] speeding post-hasteto its horrible delight. Is it possible to conceive an experience moredesolating to a man such as we have seen Hamlet to be; and is its resultanything but perfectly natural? It brings bewildered horror, thenloathing, then despair of human nature. His whole mind is poisoned. Hecan never see Ophelia in the same light again: she is a woman, and hismother is a woman: if she mentions the word 'brief' to him, the answerdrops from his lips like venom, 'as woman's love. ' The last words of thesoliloquy, which is _wholly_ concerned with this subject, are, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue! He can do nothing. He must lock in his heart, not any suspicion of hisuncle that moves obscurely there, but that horror and loathing; and ifhis heart ever found relief, it was when those feelings, mingled withthe love that never died out in him, poured themselves forth in a floodas he stood in his mother's chamber beside his father'smarriage-bed. [45]If we still wonder, and ask why the effect of this shock should be sotremendous, let us observe that _now_ the conditions have arisen underwhich Hamlet's highest endowments, his moral sensibility and his genius,become his enemies. A nature morally blunter would have felt even sodreadful a revelation less keenly. A slower and more limited andpositive mind might not have extended so widely through its world thedisgust and disbelief that have entered it. But Hamlet has theimagination which, for evil as well as good, feels and sees all thingsin one. Thought is the element of his life, and his thought isinfected. He cannot prevent himself from probing and lacerating thewound in his soul. One idea, full of peril, holds him fast, and he criesout in agony at it, but is impotent to free himself ('Must I remember? ''Let me not think on't'). And when, with the fading of his passion, thevividness of this idea abates, it does so only to leave behind aboundless weariness and a sick longing for death. And this is the time which his fate chooses. In this hour of uttermostweakness, this sinking of his whole being towards annihilation, therecomes on him, bursting the bounds of the natural world with a shock ofastonishment and terror, the revelation of his mother's adultery and hisfather's murder, and, with this, the demand on him, in the name ofeverything dearest and most sacred, to arise and act. And for a moment,though his brain reels and totters,[46] his soul leaps up in passion toanswer this demand. But it comes too late. It does but strike home thelast rivet in the melancholy which holds him bound. The time is out of joint! O cursed spite That ever I was born to set it right,--so he mutters within an hour of the moment when he vowed to give hislife to the duty of revenge; and the rest of the story exhibits his vainefforts to fulfil this duty, his unconscious self-excuses and unavailingself-reproaches, and the tragic results of his delay. 4'Melancholy,' I said, not dejection, nor yet insanity. That Hamlet wasnot far from insanity is very probable. His adoption of the pretence ofmadness may well have been due in part to fear of the reality; to aninstinct of self-preservation, a fore-feeling that the pretence wouldenable him to give some utterance to the load that pressed on his heartand brain, and a fear that he would be unable altogether to repress suchutterance. And if the pathologist calls his state melancholia, and evenproceeds to determine its species, I see nothing to object to in that; Iam grateful to him for emphasising the fact that Hamlet's melancholy wasno mere common depression of spirits; and I have no doubt that manyreaders of the play would understand it better if they read an accountof melancholia in a work on mental diseases. If we like to use the word'disease' loosely, Hamlet's condition may truly be called diseased. Noexertion of will could have dispelled it. Even if he had been able atonce to do the bidding of the Ghost he would doubtless have stillremained for some time under the cloud. It would be absurdly unjust tocall _Hamlet_ a study of melancholy, but it contains such a study. But this melancholy is something very different from insanity, inanything like the usual meaning of that word. No doubt it might developinto insanity. The longing for death might become an irresistibleimpulse to self-destruction; the disorder of feeling and will mightextend to sense and intellect; delusions might arise; and the man mightbecome, as we say, incapable and irresponsible. But Hamlet's melancholyis some way from this condition. It is a totally different thing fromthe madness which he feigns; and he never, when alone or in company withHoratio alone, exhibits the signs of that madness. Nor is the dramaticuse of this melancholy, again, open to the objections which would justlybe made to the portrayal of an insanity which brought the hero to atragic end. The man who suffers as Hamlet suffers--and thousands goabout their business suffering thus in greater or less degree--isconsidered irresponsible neither by other people nor by himself: he isonly too keenly conscious of his responsibility. He is therefore, sofar, quite capable of being a tragic agent, which an insane person, atany rate according to Shakespeare's practice, is not. [47] And, finally,Hamlet's state is not one which a healthy mind is unable sufficiently toimagine. It is probably not further from average experience, nor moredifficult to realise, than the great tragic passions of Othello, Antonyor Macbeth. Let me try to show now, briefly, how much this melancholy accounts for. It accounts for the main fact, Hamlet's inaction. For the _immediate_cause of that is simply that his habitual feeling is one of disgust atlife and everything in it, himself included,--a disgust which varies inintensity, rising at times into a longing for death, sinking often intoweary apathy, but is never dispelled for more than brief intervals. Sucha state of feeling is inevitably adverse to _any_ kind of decidedaction; the body is inert, the mind indifferent or worse; its responseis, 'it does not matter,' 'it is not worth while,' 'it is no good. ' Andthe action required of Hamlet is very exceptional. It is violent,dangerous, difficult to accomplish perfectly, on one side repulsive to aman of honour and sensitive feeling, on another side involved in acertain mystery (here come in thus, in their subordinate place, variouscauses of inaction assigned by various theories). These obstacles wouldnot suffice to prevent Hamlet from acting, if his state were normal; andagainst them there operate, even in his morbid state, healthy andpositive feelings, love of his father, loathing of his uncle, desire ofrevenge, desire to do duty. But the retarding motives acquire anunnatural strength because they have an ally in something far strongerthan themselves, the melancholic disgust and apathy; while the healthymotives, emerging with difficulty from the central mass of diseasedfeeling, rapidly sink back into it and 'lose the name of action. ' We_see_ them doing so; and sometimes the process is quite simple, noanalytical reflection on the deed intervening between the outburst ofpassion and the relapse into melancholy. [48] But this melancholy isperfectly consistent also with that incessant dissection of the taskassigned, of which the Schlegel-Coleridge theory makes so much. Forthose endless questions (as we may imagine them), 'Was I deceived by theGhost? How am I to do the deed? When? Where? What will be theconsequence of attempting it--success, my death, utter misunderstanding,mere mischief to the State? Can it be right to do it, or noble to kill adefenceless man? What is the good of doing it in such a world asthis? '--all this, and whatever else passed in a sickening round throughHamlet's mind, was not the healthy and right deliberation of a man withsuch a task, but otiose thinking hardly deserving the name of thought,an unconscious weaving of pretexts for inaction, aimless tossings on asick bed, symptoms of melancholy which only increased it by deepeningself-contempt. Again, (_a_) this state accounts for Hamlet's energy as well as for hislassitude, those quick decided actions of his being the outcome of anature normally far from passive, now suddenly stimulated, and producinghealthy impulses which work themselves out before they have time tosubside. (_b_) It accounts for the evidently keen satisfaction whichsome of these actions give to him. He arranges the play-scene withlively interest, and exults in its success, not really because it bringshim nearer to his goal, but partly because it has hurt his enemy andpartly because it has demonstrated his own skill (III. ii. 286-304). He looks forward almost with glee to countermining the King'sdesigns in sending him away (III. iv. 209), and looks back withobvious satisfaction, even with pride, to the address and vigour hedisplayed on the voyage (V. ii. 1-55). These were not _the_action on which his morbid self-feeling had centred; he feels in themhis old force, and escapes in them from his disgust. (_c_) It accountsfor the pleasure with which he meets old acquaintances, like his'school-fellows' or the actors. The former observed (and we can observe)in him a 'kind of joy' at first, though it is followed by 'much forcingof his disposition' as he attempts to keep this joy and his courtesyalive in spite of the misery which so soon returns upon him and thesuspicion he is forced to feel. (_d_) It accounts no less for thepainful features of his character as seen in the play, his almost savageirritability on the one hand, and on the other his self-absorption, hiscallousness, his insensibility to the fates of those whom he despises,and to the feelings even of those whom he loves. These are frequentsymptoms of such melancholy, and (_e_) they sometimes alternate, as theydo in Hamlet, with bursts of transitory, almost hysterical, and quitefruitless emotion. It is to these last (of which a part of thesoliloquy, 'O what a rogue,' gives a good example) that Hamlet alludeswhen, to the Ghost, he speaks of himself as 'lapsed in _passion_,' andit is doubtless partly his conscious weakness in regard to them thatinspires his praise of Horatio as a man who is not 'passion'sslave. '[49]Finally, Hamlet's melancholy accounts for two things which seem to beexplained by nothing else. The first of these is his apathy or'lethargy. ' We are bound to consider the evidence which the textsupplies of this, though it is usual to ignore it. When Hamlet mentions,as one possible cause of his inaction, his 'thinking too precisely onthe event,' he mentions another, 'bestial oblivion'; and the thingagainst which he inveighs in the greater part of that soliloquy(IV. iv. ) is not the excess or the misuse of reason (which forhim here and always is god-like), but this _bestial_ oblivion or'_dullness_,' this 'letting all _sleep_,' this allowing of heaven-sentreason to 'fust unused': What is a man, If his chief good and market of his time Be but to _sleep_ and feed? a _beast_, no more. [50]So, in the soliloquy in II. ii. he accuses himself of being 'a_dull_ and muddy-mettled rascal,' who 'peaks [mopes] like John-a-dreams,unpregnant of his cause,' dully indifferent to his cause. [51] So, whenthe Ghost appears to him the second time, he accuses himself of beingtardy and lapsed in _time_; and the Ghost speaks of his purpose beingalmost _blunted_, and bids him not to _forget_ (cf. 'oblivion'). And so,what is emphasised in those undramatic but significant speeches of theplayer-king and of Claudius is the mere dying away of purpose or oflove. [52] Surely what all this points to is not a condition of excessivebut useless mental activity (indeed there is, in reality, curiouslylittle about that in the text), but rather one of dull, apathetic,brooding gloom, in which Hamlet, so far from analysing his duty, is notthinking of it at all, but for the time literally _forgets_ it. It seemsto me we are driven to think of Hamlet _chiefly_ thus during the longtime which elapsed between the appearance of the Ghost and the eventspresented in the Second Act. The Ghost, in fact, had more reason than wesuppose at first for leaving with Hamlet as his parting injunction thecommand, 'Remember me,' and for greeting him, on re-appearing, with thecommand, 'Do not forget. '[53] These little things in Shakespeare are notaccidents. The second trait which is fully explained only by Hamlet's melancholy ishis own inability to understand why he delays. This emerges in a markeddegree when an occasion like the player's emotion or the sight ofFortinbras's army stings Hamlet into shame at his inaction. '_Why_,' heasks himself in genuine bewilderment, 'do I linger? Can the cause becowardice? Can it be sloth? Can it be thinking too precisely of theevent? And does _that_ again mean cowardice? What is it that makes mesit idle when I feel it is shameful to do so, and when I have _cause,and will, and strength, and means_, to act? ' A man irresolute merelybecause he was considering a proposed action too minutely would not feelthis bewilderment. A man might feel it whose conscience secretlycondemned the act which his explicit consciousness approved; but we haveseen that there is no sufficient evidence to justify us in conceivingHamlet thus. These are the questions of a man stimulated for the momentto shake off the weight of his melancholy, and, because for the momenthe is free from it, unable to understand the paralysing pressure whichit exerts at other times. I have dwelt thus at length on Hamlet's melancholy because, from thepsychological point of view, it is the centre of the tragedy, and toomit it from consideration or to underrate its intensity is to makeShakespeare's story unintelligible. But the psychological point of viewis not equivalent to the tragic; and, having once given its due weightto the fact of Hamlet's melancholy, we may freely admit, or rather maybe anxious to insist, that this pathological condition would excite butlittle, if any, tragic interest if it were not the condition of a naturedistinguished by that speculative genius on which the Schlegel-Coleridgetype of theory lays stress. Such theories misinterpret the connectionbetween that genius and Hamlet's failure, but still it is thisconnection which gives to his story its peculiar fascination and makesit appear (if the phrase may be allowed) as the symbol of a tragicmystery inherent in human nature. Wherever this mystery touches us,wherever we are forced to feel the wonder and awe of man's godlike'apprehension' and his 'thoughts that wander through eternity,' and atthe same time are forced to see him powerless in his petty sphere ofaction, and powerless (it would appear) from the very divinity of histhought, we remember Hamlet. And this is the reason why, in the greatideal movement which began towards the close of the eighteenth century,this tragedy acquired a position unique among Shakespeare's dramas, andshared only by Goethe's _Faust_. It was not that _Hamlet_ isShakespeare's greatest tragedy or most perfect work of art; it was that_Hamlet_ most brings home to us at once the sense of the soul'sinfinity, and the sense of the doom which not only circumscribes thatinfinity but appears to be its offspring. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 25: It may be convenient to some readers for the purposes ofthis book to have by them a list of Shakespeare's plays, arranged inperiods. No such list, of course, can command general assent, but thefollowing (which does not throughout represent my own views) wouldperhaps meet with as little objection from scholars as any other. Forsome purposes the Third and Fourth Periods are better considered to beone. Within each period the so-called Comedies, Histories, and Tragediesare respectively grouped together; and for this reason, as well as forothers, the order within each period does not profess to bechronological (_e. g. _ it is not implied that the _Comedy of Errors_preceded _1 Henry VI. _ or _Titus Andronicus_). Where Shakespeare'sauthorship of any considerable part of a play is questioned, widely orby specially good authority, the name of the play is printed in italics. _First Period_ (to 1595? ). --Comedy of Errors, Love's Labour's Lost, TwoGentlemen of Verona, Midsummer-Night's Dream; _1 Henry VI. _, _2 HenryVI. _, _3 Henry VI. _, Richard III. , Richard II. ; _Titus Andronicus_,Romeo and Juliet. _Second Period_ (to 1602? ). --Merchant of Venice, All's Well (better inThird Period? ), _Taming of the Shrew_, Much Ado, As You Like it, MerryWives, Twelfth Night; King John, 1 Henry IV. , 2 Henry IV. , Henry V. ;Julius Caesar, Hamlet. _Third Period_ (to 1608? ). --Troilus and Cressida, Measure for Measure;Othello, King Lear, _Timon of Athens_, Macbeth, Antony and Cleopatra,Coriolanus. _Fourth Period. _--_Pericles_, Cymbeline, Winter's Tale, Tempest, _TwoNoble Kinsmen_, _Henry VIII. _][Footnote 26: The reader will observe that this 'tragic period' wouldnot exactly coincide with the 'Third Period' of the division given inthe last note. For _Julius Caesar_ and _Hamlet_ fall in the SecondPeriod, not the Third; and I may add that, as _Pericles_ was entered atStationers' Hall in 1608 and published in 1609, it ought strictly to beput in the Third Period--not the Fourth. The truth is that _JuliusCaesar_ and _Hamlet_ are given to the Second Period mainly on the groundof style; while a Fourth Period is admitted, not mainly on that ground(for there is no great difference here between _Antony_ and _Coriolanus_on the one side and _Cymbeline_ and the _Tempest_ on the other), butbecause of a difference in substance and spirit. If a Fourth Period wereadmitted on grounds of form, it ought to begin with _Antony andCleopatra_. ][Footnote 27: I should go perhaps too far if I said that it is generallyadmitted that _Timon of Athens_ also precedes the two Roman tragedies;but its precedence seems to me so nearly certain that I assume it inwhat follows. ][Footnote 28: That play, however, is distinguished, I think, by adeliberate endeavour after a dignified and unadorned simplicity,--aRoman simplicity perhaps. ][Footnote 29: It is quite probable that this may arise in part from thefact, which seems hardly doubtful, that the tragedy was revised, and inplaces re-written, some little time after its first composition. ][Footnote 30: This, if we confine ourselves to the tragedies, is, Ithink, especially the case in _King Lear_ and _Timon_. ][Footnote 31: The first, at any rate, of these three plays is, ofcourse, much nearer to _Hamlet_, especially in versification, than to_Antony and Cleopatra_, in which Shakespeare's final style first showsitself practically complete. It has been impossible, in the brieftreatment of this subject, to say what is required of the individualplays. ][Footnote 32: _The Mirror_, 18th April, 1780, quoted by Furness,_Variorum Hamlet_, ii. 148. In the above remarks I have relied mainly onFurness's collection of extracts from early critics. ][Footnote 33: I do not profess to reproduce any one theory, and, stillless, to do justice to the ablest exponent of this kind of view, Werder(_Vorlesungen über Hamlet_, 1875), who by no means regards Hamlet'sdifficulties as _merely_ external. ][Footnote 34: I give one instance. When he spares the King, he speaks ofkilling him when he is drunk asleep, when he is in his rage, when he isawake in bed, when he is gaming, as if there were in none of these casesthe least obstacle (III. iii. 89 ff. ). ][Footnote 35: It is surprising to find quoted, in support of theconscience view, the line 'Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,'and to observe the total misinterpretation of the soliloquy _To be ornot to be_, from which the line comes. In this soliloquy Hamlet is notthinking of the duty laid upon him at all. He is debating the questionof suicide. No one oppressed by the ills of life, he says, wouldcontinue to bear them if it were not for speculation about his possiblefortune in another life. And then, generalising, he says (what appliesto himself, no doubt, though he shows no consciousness of the fact) thatsuch speculation or reflection makes men hesitate and shrink likecowards from great actions and enterprises. 'Conscience' does not meanmoral sense or scrupulosity, but this reflection on the _consequences_of action. It is the same thing as the 'craven scruple of thinking tooprecisely on the event' of the speech in IV. iv. As to this useof 'conscience,' see Schmidt, _s. v. _ and the parallels there given. The_Oxford Dictionary_ also gives many examples of similar uses of'conscience,' though it unfortunately lends its authority to themisinterpretation criticised. ][Footnote 36: The King does not die of the _poison_ on the foil, likeLaertes and Hamlet. They were wounded before he was, but they die afterhim. ][Footnote 37: I may add here a word on one small matter. It isconstantly asserted that Hamlet wept over the body of Polonius. Now, ifhe did, it would make no difference to my point in the paragraph above;but there is no warrant in the text for the assertion. It is based onsome words of the Queen (IV. i. 24), in answer to the King'squestion, 'Where is he gone? ': To draw apart the body he hath killed: O'er whom his very madness, like some ore Among a mineral of metals base, Shows itself pure; he weeps for what is done. But the Queen, as was pointed out by Doering, is trying to screen herson. She has already made the false statement that when Hamlet, crying,'A rat! a rat! ', ran his rapier through the arras, it was because heheard _something stir_ there, whereas we know that what he heard was aman's voice crying, 'What ho! help, help, help! ' And in this scene shehas come straight from the interview with her son, terribly agitated,shaken with 'sighs' and 'profound heaves,' in the night (line 30). Nowwe know what Hamlet said to the body, and of the body, in thatinterview; and there is assuredly no sound of tears in the voice thatsaid those things and others. The only sign of relenting is in the words(III. iv. 171): For this same lord, I do repent: but heaven hath pleased it so, To punish me with this and this with me, That I must be their scourge and minister. His mother's statement, therefore, is almost certainly untrue, though itmay be to her credit. (It is just conceivable that Hamlet wept atIII. iv. 130, and that the Queen supposed he was weeping forPolonius. )Perhaps, however, he may have wept over Polonius's body afterwards? Well, in the _next_ scene (IV. ii. ) we see him _alone_ with thebody, and are therefore likely to witness his genuine feelings. And hisfirst words are, 'Safely stowed'! ][Footnote 38: Not 'must cripple,' as the English translation has it. ][Footnote 39: He says so to Horatio, whom he has no motive for deceiving(V. ii. 218). His contrary statement (II. ii. 308) is made toRosencrantz and Guildenstern. ][Footnote 40: See Note B. ][Footnote 41: The critics have laboured to find a cause, but it seems tome Shakespeare simply meant to portray a pathological condition; and avery touching picture he draws. Antonio's sadness, which he describes inthe opening lines of the play, would never drive him to suicide, but itmakes him indifferent to the issue of the trial, as all his speeches inthe trial-scene show. ][Footnote 42: Of course 'your' does not mean Horatio's philosophy inparticular. 'Your' is used as the Gravedigger uses it when he says that'your water is a sore decayer of your . . . dead body. '][Footnote 43: This aspect of the matter leaves _us_ comparativelyunaffected, but Shakespeare evidently means it to be of importance. TheGhost speaks of it twice, and Hamlet thrice (once in his last furiouswords to the King). If, as we must suppose, the marriage was universallyadmitted to be incestuous, the corrupt acquiescence of the court and theelectors to the crown would naturally have a strong effect on Hamlet'smind. ][Footnote 44: It is most significant that the metaphor of this soliloquyreappears in Hamlet's adjuration to his mother (III. iv. 150): Repent what's past; avoid what is to come; And do not spread the compost on the weeds To make them ranker. ][Footnote 45: If the reader will now look at the only speech of Hamlet'sthat precedes the soliloquy, and is more than one line in length--thespeech beginning 'Seems, madam! nay, it _is_'--he will understand what,surely, when first we come to it, sounds very strange and almostboastful. It is not, in effect, about Hamlet himself at all; it is abouthis mother (I do not mean that it is intentionally and consciously so;and still less that she understood it so). ][Footnote 46: See Note D. ][Footnote 47: See p. 13. ][Footnote 48: _E. g. _ in the transition, referred to above, fromdesire for vengeance into the wish never to have been born; inthe soliloquy, 'O what a rogue'; in the scene at Ophelia's grave. The Schlegel-Coleridge theory does not account for the psychologicalmovement in these passages. ][Footnote 49: Hamlet's violence at Ophelia's grave, though probablyintentionally exaggerated, is another example of this want ofself-control. The Queen's description of him (V. i. 307), This is mere madness; And thus awhile the fit will work on him; Anon, as patient as the female dove, When that her golden couplets are disclosed, His silence will sit drooping. may be true to life, though it is evidently prompted by anxiety toexcuse his violence on the ground of his insanity. On this passage seefurther Note G. ][Footnote 50: Throughout, I italicise to show the connection of ideas. ][Footnote 51: Cf. _Measure for Measure_, IV. iv. 23, 'This deed . . . makes me unpregnant and dull to all proceedings. '][Footnote 52: III. ii. 196 ff. , IV. vii. 111 ff. :_e. g. _, Purpose is but the slave to _memory_, Of violent birth but poor validity. ][Footnote 53: So, before, he had said to him: And duller should'st thou be than the fat weed That roots itself in ease on Lethe wharf, Would'st thou not stir in this. On Hamlet's soliloquy after the Ghost's disappearance see Note D. ]LECTURE IVHAMLETThe only way, if there is any way, in which a conception of Hamlet'scharacter could be proved true, would be to show that it, and it alone,explains all the relevant facts presented by the text of the drama. Toattempt such a demonstration here would obviously be impossible, even ifI felt certain of the interpretation of all the facts. But I propose nowto follow rapidly the course of the action in so far as it speciallyillustrates the character, reserving for separate consideration oneimportant but particularly doubtful point. 1We left Hamlet, at the close of the First Act, when he had just receivedhis charge from the spirit of his father; and his condition was vividlydepicted in the fact that, within an hour of receiving this charge, hehad relapsed into that weariness of life or longing for death which isthe immediate cause of his later inaction. When next we meet him, at theopening of the Second Act, a considerable time has elapsed, apparentlyas much as two months. [54] The ambassadors sent to the King of Norway(I. ii. 27) are just returning. Laertes, whom we saw leaving Elsinore(I. iii. ), has been in Paris long enough to be in want of freshsupplies. Ophelia has obeyed her father's command (given in I. iii. ),and has refused to receive Hamlet's visits or letters. What has Hamletdone? He has put on an 'antic disposition' and established a reputationfor lunacy, with the result that his mother has become deeply anxiousabout him, and with the further result that the King, who was formerlyso entirely at ease regarding him that he wished him to stay on atCourt, is now extremely uneasy and very desirous to discover the causeof his 'transformation. ' Hence Rosencrantz and Guildenstern have beensent for, to cheer him by their company and to worm his secret out ofhim; and they are just about to arrive. Beyond exciting thus theapprehensions of his enemy Hamlet has done absolutely nothing; and, aswe have seen, we must imagine him during this long period sunk for themost part in 'bestial oblivion' or fruitless broodings, and fallingdeeper and deeper into the slough of despond. Now he takes a further step. He suddenly appears unannounced inOphelia's chamber; and his appearance and behaviour are such as tosuggest both to Ophelia and to her father that his brain is turned bydisappointment in love. How far this step was due to the design ofcreating a false impression as to the origin of his lunacy, how far toother causes, is a difficult question; but such a design seems certainlypresent. It succeeds, however, only in part; for, although Polonius isfully convinced, the King is not so, and it is therefore arranged thatthe two shall secretly witness a meeting between Ophelia and Hamlet. Meanwhile Rosencrantz and Guildenstern arrive, and at the King's requestbegin their attempts, easily foiled by Hamlet, to pluck out the heart ofhis mystery. Then the players come to Court, and for a little while oneof Hamlet's old interests revives, and he is almost happy. But only fora little while. The emotion shown by the player in reciting the speechwhich tells of Hecuba's grief for her slaughtered husband awakes intoburning life the slumbering sense of duty and shame. He must act. Withthe extreme rapidity which always distinguishes him in his healthiermoments, he conceives and arranges the plan of having the 'Murder ofGonzago' played before the King and Queen, with the addition of a speechwritten by himself for the occasion. Then, longing to be alone, heabruptly dismisses his guests, and pours out a passion of self-reproachfor his delay, asks himself in bewilderment what can be its cause,lashes himself into a fury of hatred against his foe, checks himself indisgust at his futile emotion, and quiets his conscience for the momentby trying to convince himself that he has doubts about the Ghost, and byassuring himself that, if the King's behaviour at the play-scene showsbut a sign of guilt, he 'knows his course. 'Nothing, surely, can be clearer than the meaning of this famoussoliloquy. The doubt which appears at its close, instead of being thenatural conclusion of the preceding thoughts, is totally inconsistentwith them. For Hamlet's self-reproaches, his curses on his enemy, andhis perplexity about his own inaction, one and all imply his faith inthe identity and truthfulness of the Ghost. Evidently this sudden doubt,of which there has not been the slightest trace before, is no genuinedoubt; it is an unconscious fiction, an excuse for his delay--and forits continuance. A night passes, and the day that follows it brings the crisis. Firsttakes place that interview from which the King is to learn whetherdisappointed love is really the cause of his nephew's lunacy. Hamlet issent for; poor Ophelia is told to walk up and down, reading herprayer-book; Polonius and the King conceal themselves behind the arras. And Hamlet enters, so deeply absorbed in thought that for some time hesupposes himself to be alone. What is he thinking of? 'The Murder ofGonzago,' which is to be played in a few hours, and on which everythingdepends? Not at all. He is meditating on suicide; and he finds that whatstands in the way of it, and counterbalances its infinite attraction, isnot any thought of a sacred unaccomplished duty, but the doubt, quiteirrelevant to that issue, whether it is not ignoble in the mind to endits misery, and, still more, whether death _would_ end it. Hamlet, thatis to say, is here, in effect, precisely where he was at the time of hisfirst soliloquy ('O that this too too solid flesh would melt') twomonths ago, before ever he heard of his father's murder. [55] Hisreflections have no reference to this particular moment; they representthat habitual weariness of life with which his passing outbursts ofemotion or energy are contrasted. What can be more significant than thefact that he is sunk in these reflections on the very day which is todetermine for him the truthfulness of the Ghost? And how is it possiblefor us to hope that, if that truthfulness should be established, Hamletwill be any nearer to his revenge? [56]His interview with Ophelia follows; and its result shows that his delayis becoming most dangerous to himself. The King is satisfied that,whatever else may be the hidden cause of Hamlet's madness, it is notlove. He is by no means certain even that Hamlet is mad at all. He hasheard that infuriated threat, 'I say, we will have no more marriages;those that are married, all but one, shall live; the rest shall keep asthey are. ' He is thoroughly alarmed.

He at any rate will not delay. Onthe spot he determines to send Hamlet to England. But, as Polonius ispresent, we do not learn at once the meaning of this purpose. Evening comes. The approach of the play-scene raises Hamlet's spirits. He is in his element. He feels that he is doing _something_ towards hisend, striking a stroke, but a stroke of intellect. In his instructionsto the actor on the delivery of the inserted speech, and again in hisconversation with Horatio just before the entry of the Court, we see thetrue Hamlet, the Hamlet of the days before his father's death. But howcharacteristic it is that he appears quite as anxious that his speechshould not be ranted as that Horatio should observe its effect upon theKing! This trait appears again even at that thrilling moment when theactor is just going to deliver the speech. Hamlet sees him beginning tofrown and glare like the conventional stage-murderer, and calls to himimpatiently, 'Leave thy damnable faces and begin! '[57]Hamlet's device proves a triumph far more complete than he had dared toexpect. He had thought the King might 'blench,' but he does much more. When only six of the 'dozen or sixteen lines' have been spoken he startsto his feet and rushes from the hall, followed by the whole dismayedCourt. In the elation of success--an elation at first almosthysterical--Hamlet treats Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who are sent tohim, with undisguised contempt. Left to himself, he declares that now hecould drink hot blood, And do such bitter business as the day Would quake to look on. He has been sent for by his mother, and is going to her chamber; and sovehement and revengeful is his mood that he actually fancies himself indanger of using daggers to her as well as speaking them. [58]In this mood, on his way to his mother's chamber, he comes upon theKing, alone, kneeling, conscience-stricken and attempting to pray. Hisenemy is delivered into his hands. Now might I do it pat, now he is praying: And now I'll do it: and so he goes to heaven: And so am I revenged. [59] That would be scanned. He scans it; and the sword that he drew at the words, 'And now I'll doit,' is thrust back into its sheath. If he killed the villain now hewould send his soul to heaven; and he would fain kill soul as well asbody. That this again is an unconscious excuse for delay is now prettygenerally agreed, and it is needless to describe again the state of mindwhich, on the view explained in our last lecture, is the real cause ofHamlet's failure here. The first five words he utters, 'Now might I doit,' show that he has no effective _desire_ to 'do it'; and in thelittle sentences that follow, and the long pauses between them, theendeavour at a resolution, and the sickening return of melancholicparalysis, however difficult a task they set to the actor, are plainenough to a reader. And any reader who may retain a doubt should observethe fact that, when the Ghost reappears, Hamlet does not think ofjustifying his delay by the plea that he was waiting for a more perfectvengeance. But in one point the great majority of critics, I think, goastray. The feeling of intense hatred which Hamlet expresses is not thecause of his sparing the King, and in his heart he knows this; but itdoes not at all follow that this feeling is unreal. All the evidenceafforded by the play goes to show that it is perfectly genuine, and Isee no reason whatever to doubt that Hamlet would have been very sorryto send his father's murderer to heaven, nor much to doubt that he wouldhave been glad to send him to perdition. The reason for refusing toaccept his own version of his motive in sparing Claudius is not that hissentiments are horrible, but that elsewhere, and also in the opening ofhis speech here, we can see that his reluctance to act is due to othercauses. The incident of the sparing of the King is contrived with extraordinarydramatic insight. On the one side we feel that the opportunity wasperfect. Hamlet could not possibly any longer tell himself that he hadno certainty as to his uncle's guilt. And the external conditions weremost favourable; for the King's remarkable behaviour at the play-scenewould have supplied a damning confirmation of the story Hamlet had totell about the Ghost. Even now, probably, in a Court so corrupt as thatof Elsinore, he could not with perfect security have begun by chargingthe King with the murder; but he could quite safely have killed himfirst and given his justification afterwards, especially as he wouldcertainly have had on his side the people, who loved him and despisedClaudius. On the other hand, Shakespeare has taken care to give thisperfect opportunity so repulsive a character that we can hardly bringourselves to wish that the hero should accept it. One of his minordifficulties, we have seen, probably was that he seemed to be requiredto attack a defenceless man; and here this difficulty is at its maximum. This incident is, again, the turning-point of the tragedy. So far,Hamlet's delay, though it is endangering his freedom and his life, hasdone no irreparable harm; but his failure here is the cause of all thedisasters that follow. In sparing the King, he sacrifices Polonius,Ophelia, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, Laertes, the Queen and himself. This central significance of the passage is dramatically indicated inthe following scene by the reappearance of the Ghost and the repetitionof its charge. Polonius is the first to fall. The old courtier, whose vanity would notallow him to confess that his diagnosis of Hamlet's lunacy was mistaken,had suggested that, after the theatricals, the Queen should endeavour ina private interview with her son to penetrate the mystery, while hehimself would repeat his favourite part of eaves-dropper (III. i. 184ff. ). It has now become quite imperative that the Prince should bebrought to disclose his secret; for his choice of the 'Murder ofGonzago,' and perhaps his conduct during the performance, have shown aspirit of exaggerated hostility against the King which has excitedgeneral alarm. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern discourse to Claudius on theextreme importance of his preserving his invaluable life, as thoughHamlet's insanity had now clearly shown itself to be homicidal. [60]When, then, at the opening of the interview between Hamlet and hismother, the son, instead of listening to her remonstrances, roughlyassumes the offensive, she becomes alarmed; and when, on her attemptingto leave the room, he takes her by the arm and forces her to sit down,she is terrified, cries out, 'Thou wilt not murder me? ' and screams forhelp. Polonius, behind the arras, echoes her call; and in a momentHamlet, hoping the concealed person is the King, runs the old manthrough the body. Evidently this act is intended to stand in sharp contrast with Hamlet'ssparing of his enemy. The King would have been just as defencelessbehind the arras as he had been on his knees; but here Hamlet is alreadyexcited and in action, and the chance comes to him so suddenly that hehas no time to 'scan' it. It is a minor consideration, but still for thedramatist not unimportant, that the audience would wholly sympathisewith Hamlet's attempt here, as directed against an enemy who is lurkingto entrap him, instead of being engaged in a business which perhaps tothe bulk of the audience then, as now, seemed to have a 'relish ofsalvation in't. 'We notice in Hamlet, at the opening of this interview, something of theexcited levity which followed the _dénouement_ of the play-scene. Thedeath of Polonius sobers him; and in the remainder of the interview heshows, together with some traces of his morbid state, the peculiarbeauty and nobility of his nature. His chief desire is not by any meansto ensure his mother's silent acquiescence in his design of revenge; itis to save her soul. And while the rough work of vengeance is repugnantto him, he is at home in this higher work. Here that fatal feeling, 'itis no matter,' never shows itself. No father-confessor could be moreselflessly set upon his end of redeeming a fellow-creature fromdegradation, more stern or pitiless in denouncing the sin, or more eagerto welcome the first token of repentance. There is something infinitelybeautiful in that sudden sunshine of faith and love which breaks outwhen, at the Queen's surrender, O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain,he answers, O throw away the worser part of it, And live the purer with the other half. The truth is that, though Hamlet hates his uncle and acknowledges theduty of vengeance, his whole heart is never in this feeling or thistask; but his whole heart is in his horror at his mother's fall and inhis longing to raise her. The former of these feelings was theinspiration of his first soliloquy; it combines with the second to formthe inspiration of his eloquence here. And Shakespeare never wrote moreeloquently than here. I have already alluded to the significance of the reappearance of theGhost in this scene; but why does Shakespeare choose for the particularmoment of its reappearance the middle of a speech in which Hamlet israving against his uncle? There seems to be more than one reason. In thefirst place, Hamlet has already attained his object of stirring shameand contrition in his mother's breast, and is now yielding to the oldtemptation of unpacking his heart with words, and exhausting in uselessemotion the force which should be stored up in his will. And, next, indoing this he is agonising his mother to no purpose, and in despite ofher piteous and repeated appeals for mercy. But the Ghost, when it gavehim his charge, had expressly warned him to spare her; and here againthe dead husband shows the same tender regard for his weak unfaithfulwife. The object of his return is to repeat his charge: Do not forget: this visitation Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose;but, having uttered this reminder, he immediately bids the son to helpthe mother and 'step between her and her fighting soul. 'And, whether intentionally or not, another purpose is served byShakespeare's choice of this particular moment. It is a moment when thestate of Hamlet's mind is such that we cannot suppose the Ghost to bemeant for an hallucination; and it is of great importance here that thespectator or reader should not suppose any such thing. He is furtherguarded by the fact that the Ghost proves, so to speak, his identity byshowing the same traits as were visible on his first appearance--thesame insistence on the duty of remembering, and the same concern for theQueen. And the result is that we construe the Ghost's interpretation ofHamlet's delay ('almost blunted purpose') as the truth, the dramatist'sown interpretation. Let me add that probably no one in Shakespeare'saudience had any doubt of his meaning here. The idea of later criticsand readers that the Ghost is an hallucination is due partly to failureto follow the indications just noticed, but partly also to two mistakes,the substitution of our present intellectual atmosphere for theElizabethan, and the notion that, because the Queen does not see andhear the Ghost, it is meant to be unreal. But a ghost, in Shakespeare'sday, was able for any sufficient reason to confine its manifestation toa single person in a company; and here the sufficient reason, that ofsparing the Queen, is obvious. [61]At the close of this scene it appears that Hamlet has somehow learned ofthe King's design of sending him to England in charge of his two'school-fellows. ' He has no doubt that this design covers somevillainous plot against himself, but neither does he doubt that he willsucceed in defeating it; and, as we saw, he looks forward with pleasureto this conflict of wits. The idea of refusing to go appears not tooccur to him. Perhaps (for here we are left to conjecture) he feels thathe could not refuse unless at the same time he openly accused the Kingof his father's murder (a course which he seems at no time tocontemplate); for by the slaughter of Polonius he has supplied his enemywith the best possible excuse for getting him out of the country. Besides, he has so effectually warned this enemy that, after the deathof Polonius is discovered, he is kept under guard (IV. iii. 14). Heconsents, then, to go. But on his way to the shore he meets the army ofFortinbras on its march to Poland; and the sight of these men goingcheerfully to risk death 'for an egg-shell,' and 'making mouths at theinvisible event,' strikes him with shame as he remembers how he, with somuch greater cause for action, 'lets all sleep;' and he breaks out intothe soliloquy, 'How all occasions do inform against me! 'This great speech, in itself not inferior to the famous 'To be or not tobe,' is absent not only from the First Quarto but from the Folio. It istherefore probable that, at any rate by the time when the Folio appeared(1623), it had become customary to omit it in theatrical representation;and this is still the custom. But, while no doubt it is dramatically theleast indispensable of the soliloquies, it has a direct dramatic value,and a great value for the interpretation of Hamlet's character. It showsthat Hamlet, though he is leaving Denmark, has not relinquished the ideaof obeying the Ghost. It exhibits very strikingly his inability tounderstand why he has delayed so long. It contains that assertion whichso many critics forget, that he has 'cause and will and strength andmeans to do it. ' On the other hand--and this was perhaps the principalpurpose of the speech--it convinces us that he has learnt little ornothing from his delay, or from his failure to seize the opportunitypresented to him after the play-scene. For, we find, both the motive andthe gist of the speech are precisely the same as those of the soliloquyat the end of the Second Act ('O what a rogue'). There too he wasstirred to shame when he saw a passionate emotion awakened by a causewhich, compared with his, was a mere egg-shell. There too he stoodbewildered at the sight of his own dulness, and was almost ready tobelieve--what was justly incredible to him--that it was the mask of merecowardice. There too he determined to delay no longer: if the Kingshould but blench, he knew his course. Yet this determination led tonothing then; and why, we ask ourselves in despair, should the bloodythoughts he now resolves to cherish ever pass beyond the realm ofthought? Between this scene (IV. iv. ) and the remainder of the play we must againsuppose an interval, though not a very long one. When the actionrecommences, the death of Polonius has led to the insanity of Opheliaand the secret return of Laertes from France. The young man comes backbreathing slaughter. For the King, afraid to put Hamlet on his trial (acourse likely to raise the question of his own behaviour at the play,and perhaps to provoke an open accusation),[62] has attempted to hush upthe circumstances of Polonius's death, and has given him a hurried andinglorious burial. The fury of Laertes, therefore, is directed in thefirst instance against the King: and the ease with which he raises thepeople, like the King's fear of a judicial enquiry, shows us how purelyinternal were the obstacles which the hero had to overcome. Thisimpression is intensified by the broad contrast between Hamlet andLaertes, who rushes headlong to his revenge, and is determined to haveit though allegiance, conscience, grace and damnation stand in his way(IV. v. 130). But the King, though he has been hard put to it, is now inhis element and feels safe. Knowing that he will very soon hear ofHamlet's execution in England, he tells Laertes that his father died byHamlet's hand, and expresses his willingness to let the friends ofLaertes judge whether he himself has any responsibility for the deed. And when, to his astonishment and dismay, news comes that Hamlet hasreturned to Denmark, he acts with admirable promptitude and address,turns Laertes round his finger, and arranges with him for the murder oftheir common enemy. If there were any risk of the young man's resolutionfaltering, it is removed by the death of Ophelia. And now the King hasbut one anxiety,--to prevent the young men from meeting before thefencing-match. For who can tell what Hamlet might say in his defence, orhow enchanting his tongue might prove? [63]Hamlet's return to Denmark is due partly to his own action, partly toaccident. On the voyage he secretly possesses himself of the royalcommission, and substitutes for it another, which he himself writes andseals, and in which the King of England is ordered to put to death, notHamlet, but Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Then the ship is attacked by apirate, which, apparently, finds its intended prize too strong for it,and makes off. But as Hamlet 'in the grapple,' eager for fighting, hasboarded the assailant, he is carried off in it, and by promises inducesthe pirates to put him ashore in Denmark. In what spirit does he return? Unquestionably, I think, we can observe acertain change, though it is not great. First, we notice here and therewhat seems to be a consciousness of power, due probably to his successin counter-mining Claudius and blowing the courtiers to the moon, and tohis vigorous action in the sea-fight. But I doubt if this sense of poweris more marked than it was in the scenes following the success of the'Murder of Gonzago. ' Secondly, we nowhere find any direct expression ofthat weariness of life and that longing for death which were so markedin the first soliloquy and in the speech 'To be or not to be. ' This maybe a mere accident, and it must be remembered that in the Fifth Act wehave no soliloquy. But in the earlier Acts the feelings referred to donot appear _merely_ in soliloquy, and I incline to think thatShakespeare means to show in the Hamlet of the Fifth Act a slightthinning of the dark cloud of melancholy, and means us to feel it tragicthat this change comes too late. And, in the third place, there is atrait about which doubt is impossible,--a sense in Hamlet that he is inthe hands of Providence. This had, indeed, already shown itself at thedeath of Polonius,[64] and perhaps at Hamlet's farewell to the King,[65]but the idea seems now to be constantly present in his mind. 'There's adivinity that shapes our ends,' he declares to Horatio in speaking ofthe fighting in his heart that would not let him sleep, and of hisrashness in groping his way to the courtiers to find their commission. How was he able, Horatio asks, to seal the substituted commission? Why, even in that was heaven ordinant,Hamlet answers; he had his father's signet in his purse. And though hehas a presentiment of evil about the fencing-match he refuses to yieldto it: 'we defy augury: there is special providence in the fall of asparrow . . . the readiness is all. 'Though these passages strike us more when put together thus than whenthey come upon us at intervals in reading the play, they have a markedeffect on our feeling about Hamlet's character and still more about theevents of the action. But I find it impossible to believe, with somecritics, that they indicate any material change in his generalcondition, or the formation of any effective resolution to fulfil theappointed duty. On the contrary, they seem to express that kind ofreligious resignation which, however beautiful in one aspect, reallydeserves the name of fatalism rather than that of faith in Providence,because it is not united to any determination to do what is believed tobe the will of Providence. In place of this determination, the Hamlet ofthe Fifth Act shows a kind of sad or indifferent self-abandonment, as ifhe secretly despaired of forcing himself to action, and were ready toleave his duty to some other power than his own. _This_ is really themain change which appears in him after his return to Denmark, and whichhad begun to show itself before he went,--this, and not a determinationto act, nor even an anxiety to do so. For when he returns he stands in a most perilous position. On one sideof him is the King, whose safety depends on his death, and who has donehis best to murder him; on the other, Laertes, whose father and sisterhe has sent to their graves, and of whose behaviour and probableattitude he must surely be informed by Horatio. What is required of him,therefore, if he is not to perish with his duty undone, is the utmostwariness and the swiftest resolution. Yet it is not too much to saythat, except when Horatio forces the matter on his attention, he showsno consciousness of this position. He muses in the graveyard on thenothingness of life and fame, and the base uses to which our dustreturns, whether it be a court-jester's or a world-conqueror's. Helearns that the open grave over which he muses has been dug for thewoman he loved; and he suffers one terrible pang, from which he gainsrelief in frenzied words and frenzied action,--action which must needsintensify, if that were possible, the fury of the man whom he has,however unwittingly, so cruelly injured. Yet he appears absolutelyunconscious that he has injured Laertes at all, and asks him: What is the reason that you use me thus? And as the sharpness of the first pang passes, the old weary miseryreturns, and he might almost say to Ophelia, as he does to her brother: I loved you ever: but it is no matter. 'It is no matter': _nothing_ matters. The last scene opens. He narrates to Horatio the events of the voyageand his uncle's attempt to murder him. But the conclusion of the storyis no plan of action, but the old fatal question, 'Ought I not toact? '[66] And, while he asks it, his enemies have acted. Osric enterswith an invitation to him to take part in a fencing-match with Laertes. This match--he is expressly told so--has been arranged by his deadlyenemy the King; and his antagonist is a man whose hands but a few hoursago were at his throat, and whose voice he had heard shouting 'The deviltake thy soul! ' But he does not think of that. To fence is to show acourtesy, and to himself it is a relief,--action, and not the onehateful action. There is something noble in his carelessness, and alsoin his refusal to attend to the presentiment which he suddenly feels(and of which he says, not only 'the readiness is all,' but also 'it isno matter'). Something noble; and yet, when a sacred duty is stillundone, ought one to be so ready to die? With the same carelessness, andwith that trustfulness which makes us love him, but which is here sofatally misplaced, he picks up the first foil that comes to his hand,asks indifferently, 'These foils have all a length? ' and begins. AndFate descends upon his enemies, and his mother, and himself. But he is not left in utter defeat. Not only is his task at lastaccomplished, but Shakespeare seems to have determined that his heroshould exhibit in his latest hour all the glorious power and all thenobility and sweetness of his nature. Of the first, the power, I spokebefore,[67] but there is a wonderful beauty in the revelation of thesecond. His body already labouring in the pangs of death, his mind soarsabove them. He forgives Laertes; he remembers his wretched mother andbids her adieu, ignorant that she has preceded him. We hear now no wordof lamentation or self-reproach. He has will, and just time, to think,not of the past or of what might have been, but of the future; to forbidhis friend's death in words more pathetic in their sadness than even hisagony of spirit had been; and to take care, so far as in him lies, forthe welfare of the State which he himself should have guided. Then inspite of shipwreck he reaches the haven of silence where he would be. What else could his world-wearied flesh desire? But _we_ desire more; and we receive it. As those mysterious words, 'Therest is silence,' die upon Hamlet's lips, Horatio answers: Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. Why did Shakespeare here, so much against his custom, introduce thisreference to another life? Did he remember that Hamlet is the only oneof his tragic heroes whom he has not allowed us to see in the days whenthis life smiled on him? Did he feel that, while for the others we mightbe content to imagine after life's fitful fever nothing more thanrelease and silence, we must ask more for one whose 'godlike reason' andpassionate love of goodness have only gleamed upon us through the heavyclouds of melancholy, and yet have left us murmuring, as we bow ourheads, 'This was the noblest spirit of them all'? 2How many things still remain to say of Hamlet! Before I touch on hisrelation to Ophelia, I will choose but two. Neither of them, comparedwith the matters so far considered, is of great consequence, but bothare interesting, and the first seems to have quite escaped observation. (1) Most people have, beside their more essential traits of character,little peculiarities which, for their intimates, form an indissolublepart of their personality. In comedy, and in other humorous works offiction, such peculiarities often figure prominently, but they rarely doso, I think, in tragedy. Shakespeare, however, seems to have given onesuch idiosyncrasy to Hamlet. It is a trick of speech, a habit of repetition. And these are simpleexamples of it from the first soliloquy: O _God! God! _ How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world! _Fie_ on't! ah _fie! _Now I ask your patience. You will say: 'There is nothing individualhere. Everybody repeats words thus. And the tendency, in particular, touse such repetitions in moments of great emotion is well-known, andfrequently illustrated in literature--for example, in David's cry oflament for Absalom. 'This is perfectly true, and plenty of examples could be drawn fromShakespeare himself. But what we find in Hamlet's case is, I believe,_not_ common. In the first place, this repetition is a _habit_ with him. Here are some more instances: 'Thrift, thrift, Horatio'; 'Indeed,indeed, sirs, but this troubles me'; 'Come, deal justly with me: come,come'; 'Wormwood, wormwood! ' I do not profess to have made an exhaustivesearch, but I am much mistaken if this _habit_ is to be found in anyother serious character of Shakespeare. [68]And, in the second place--and here I appeal with confidence to lovers ofHamlet--some of these repetitions strike us as intensely characteristic. Some even of those already quoted strike one thus, and still more do thefollowing: (_a_) _Horatio. _ It would have much amazed you. _Hamlet. _ Very like, very like. Stay'd it long? (_b_) _Polonius. _ What do you read, my lord? _Hamlet. _ Words, words, words. (_c_) _Polonius. _ My honourable lord, I will most humbly take my leave of you. _Hamlet. _ You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal: except my life, except my life, except my life. (_d_) _Ophelia. _ Good my lord, How does your honour for this many a day? _Hamlet. _ I humbly thank you, well, well, well. Is there anything that Hamlet says or does in the whole play moreunmistakably individual than these replies? [69](2) Hamlet, everyone has noticed, is fond of quibbles and word-play, andof 'conceits' and turns of thought such as are common in the poets whomJohnson called Metaphysical. Sometimes, no doubt, he plays with wordsand ideas chiefly in order to mystify, thwart and annoy. To some extent,again, as we may see from the conversation where Rosencrantz andGuildenstern first present themselves (II. ii. 227), he is merelyfollowing the fashion of the young courtiers about him, just as in hislove-letter to Ophelia[70] he uses for the most part the fantasticlanguage of Court Euphuism. Nevertheless in this trait there issomething very characteristic. We should be greatly surprised to find itmarked in Othello or Lear or Timon, in Macbeth or Antony or Coriolanus;and, in fact, we find it in them hardly at all. One reason of this mayperhaps be that these characters are all later creations than Hamlet,and that Shakespeare's own fondness for this kind of play, like thefondness of the theatrical audience for it, diminished with time. Butthe main reason is surely that this tendency, as we see it in Hamlet,betokens a nimbleness and flexibility of mind which is characteristic ofhim and not of the later less many-sided heroes. Macbeth, for instance,has an imagination quite as sensitive as Hamlet's to certainimpressions, but he has none of Hamlet's delight in freaks and twists ofthought, or of his tendency to perceive and play with resemblances inthe most diverse objects and ideas. Though Romeo shows this tendency,the only tragic hero who approaches Hamlet here is Richard II. , whoindeed in several ways recalls the emasculated Hamlet of some critics,and may, like the real Hamlet, have owed his existence in part toShakespeare's personal familiarity with the weaknesses and dangers of animaginative temperament. That Shakespeare meant this trait to be characteristic of Hamlet isbeyond question. The very first line the hero speaks contains a play onwords: A little more than kin and less than kind. The fact is significant, though the pun itself is not speciallycharacteristic. Much more so, and indeed absolutely individual, are theuses of word-play in moments of extreme excitement. Remember the awe andterror of the scene where the Ghost beckons Hamlet to leave his friendsand follow him into the darkness, and then consider this dialogue: _Hamlet. _ It waves me still. Go on; I'll follow thee. _Marcellus. _ You shall not go, my lord. _Hamlet. _ Hold off your hands. _Horatio. _ Be ruled; you shall not go. _Hamlet. _ My fate cries out, And makes each petty artery in this body As hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve. Still am I called. Unhand me, gentlemen. _By heaven I'll make a ghost of him that lets me. _Would any other character in Shakespeare have used those words? And,again, where is Hamlet more Hamlet than when he accompanies with a punthe furious action by which he compels his enemy to drink the 'poisontempered by himself'? Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damn'd Dane, Drink off this potion. Is thy union here? Follow my mother. The 'union' was the pearl which Claudius professed to throw into thecup, and in place of which (as Hamlet supposes) he dropped poison in. But the 'union' is also that incestuous marriage which must not bebroken by his remaining alive now that his partner is dead. What ragethere is in the words, and what a strange lightning of the mind! Much of Hamlet's play with words and ideas is imaginatively humorous. That of Richard II. is fanciful, but rarely, if ever, humorous. Antonyhas touches of humour, and Richard III. has more; but Hamlet, we maysafely assert, is the only one of the tragic heroes who can be called ahumorist, his humour being first cousin to that speculative tendencywhich keeps his mental world in perpetual movement. Some of his quipsare, of course, poor enough, and many are not distinctive. Those of hisretorts which strike one as perfectly individual do so, I think, chieflybecause they suddenly reveal the misery and bitterness below thesurface; as when, to Rosencrantz's message from his mother, 'She desiresto speak with you in her closet, ere you go to bed,' he answers, 'Weshall obey, were she ten times our mother'; or as when he replies toPolonius's invitation, 'Will you walk out of the air, my lord? ' withwords that suddenly turn one cold, 'Into my grave. ' Otherwise, what wejustly call Hamlet's characteristic humour is not his exclusiveproperty, but appears in passages spoken by persons as different asMercutio, Falstaff and Rosalind. The truth probably is that it was thekind of humour most natural to Shakespeare himself, and that here, as insome other traits of the poet's greatest creation, we come into closecontact with Shakespeare the man. 3The actor who plays the part of Hamlet must make up his mind as to theinterpretation of every word and deed of the character. Even if at somepoint he feels no certainty as to which of two interpretations is right,he must still choose one or the other. The mere critic is not obliged todo this. Where he remains in doubt he may say so, and, if the matter isof importance, he ought to say so. This is the position in which I find myself in regard to Hamlet's lovefor Ophelia. I am unable to arrive at a conviction as to the meaning ofsome of his words and deeds, and I question whether from the mere textof the play a sure interpretation of them can be drawn. For this reasonI have reserved the subject for separate treatment, and have, so far aspossible, kept it out of the general discussion of Hamlet's character. On two points no reasonable doubt can, I think, be felt. (1) Hamlet wasat one time sincerely and ardently in love with Ophelia. For she herselfsays that he had importuned her with love in honourable fashion, and hadgiven countenance to his speech with almost all the holy vows of heaven(I. iii. 110 f. ). (2) When, at Ophelia's grave, he declared, I loved Ophelia; forty thousand brothers Could not, with all their quantity of love, Make up my sum,he must have spoken sincerely; and, further, we may take it for grantedthat he used the past tense, 'loved,' merely because Ophelia was dead,and not to imply that he had once loved her but no longer did so. So much being assumed, we come to what is doubtful, and I will begin bystating what is probably the most popular view. According to this view,Hamlet's love for Ophelia never changed. On the revelation made by theGhost, however, he felt that he must put aside all thoughts of it; andit also seemed to him necessary to convince Ophelia, as well as others,that he was insane, and so to destroy her hopes of any happy issue totheir love. This was the purpose of his appearance in her chamber,though he was probably influenced also by a longing to see her and bidher a silent farewell, and possibly by a faint hope that he might safelyentrust his secret to her. If he entertained any such hope his study ofher face dispelled it; and thereafter, as in the Nunnery-scene (III. i. )and again at the play-scene, he not only feigned madness, but, toconvince her that he had quite lost his love for her, he also addressedher in bitter and insulting language. In all this he was acting a partintensely painful to himself; the very violence of his language in theNunnery-scene arose from this pain; and so the actor should make himshow, in that scene, occasional signs of a tenderness which with all hisefforts he cannot wholly conceal. Finally, over her grave the truthbursts from him in the declaration quoted just now, though it is stillimpossible for him to explain to others why he who loved her soprofoundly was forced to wring her heart. Now this theory, if the view of Hamlet's character which I have taken isanywhere near the truth, is certainly wrong at one point, viz. , in sofar as it supposes that Hamlet's bitterness to Ophelia was a _mere_pretence forced on him by his design of feigning to be insane; and Iproceed to call attention to certain facts and considerations, of whichthe theory seems to take no account. 1. How is it that in his first soliloquy Hamlet makes no referencewhatever to Ophelia? 2. How is it that in his second soliloquy, on the departure of theGhost, he again says nothing about her? When the lover is feeling thathe must make a complete break with his past, why does it not occur tohim at once that he must give up his hopes of happiness in love? 3. Hamlet does not, as the popular theory supposes, break with Opheliadirectly after the Ghost appears to him; on the contrary, he tries tosee her and sends letters to her (II. i. 109). What really happens isthat Ophelia suddenly repels his visits and letters. Now, _we_ know thatshe is simply obeying her father's order; but how would her actionappear to Hamlet, already sick at heart because of his mother'sfrailty,[71] and now finding that, the moment fortune has turned againsthim, the woman who had welcomed his love turns against him too? Even ifhe divined (as his insults to Polonius suggest) that her father wasconcerned in this change, would he not still, in that morbid conditionof mind, certainly suspect her of being less simple than she hadappeared to him? [72] Even if he remained free from _this_ suspicion, andmerely thought her deplorably weak, would he not probably feel angeragainst _her_, an anger like that of the hero of _Locksley Hall_ againsthis Amy? 4. When Hamlet made his way into Ophelia's room, why did he go in thegarb, the conventionally recognised garb, of the distracted _lover_? Ifit was necessary to convince Ophelia of his insanity, how was itnecessary to convince her that disappointment in _love_ was the cause ofhis insanity? His _main_ object in the visit appears to have been toconvince _others_, through her, that his insanity was not due to anymysterious unknown cause, but to this disappointment, and so to allaythe suspicions of the King. But if his feeling for her had been simplythat of love, however unhappy, and had not been in any degree that ofsuspicion or resentment, would he have adopted a plan which must involveher in so much suffering? [73]5. In what way are Hamlet's insults to Ophelia at the play-scenenecessary either to his purpose of convincing her of his insanity or tohis purpose of revenge? And, even if he did regard them as somehow meansto these ends, is it conceivable that he would have uttered them, if hisfeeling for her were one of hopeless but unmingled love? 6. How is it that neither when he kills Polonius, nor afterwards, doeshe appear to reflect that he has killed Ophelia's father, or what theeffect on Ophelia is likely to be? 7. We have seen that there is no reference to Ophelia in the soliloquiesof the First Act. Neither is there the faintest allusion to her in anyone of the soliloquies of the subsequent Acts, unless possibly in thewords (III. i. 72) 'the pangs of despised love. '[74] If the populartheory is true, is not this an astounding fact? 8. Considering this fact, is there no significance in the further fact(which, by itself, would present no difficulty) that in speaking toHoratio Hamlet never alludes to Ophelia, and that at his death he saysnothing of her? 9. If the popular theory is true, how is it that neither in theNunnery-scene nor at the play-scene does Shakespeare insert anything tomake the truth plain? Four words like Othello's 'O hardness todissemble' would have sufficed. These considerations, coupled with others as to Hamlet's state of mind,seem to point to two conclusions. They suggest, first, that Hamlet'slove, though never lost, was, after Ophelia's apparent rejection of him,mingled with suspicion and resentment, and that his treatment of her wasdue in part to this cause. And I find it impossible to resist thisconclusion. But the question how much of his harshness is meant to bereal, and how much assumed, seems to me impossible in some places toanswer. For example, his behaviour at the play-scene seems to me to showan intention to hurt and insult; but in the Nunnery-scene (which cannotbe discussed briefly) he is evidently acting a part and sufferingacutely, while at the same time his invective, however exaggerated,seems to spring from real feelings; and what is pretence, and whatsincerity, appears to me an insoluble problem. Something depends here onthe further question whether or no Hamlet suspects or detects thepresence of listeners; but, in the absence of an authentic stagetradition, this question too seems to be unanswerable. But something further seems to follow from the considerations adduced. Hamlet's love, they seem to show, was not only mingled with bitterness,it was also, like all his healthy feelings, weakened and deadened by hismelancholy. [75] It was far from being extinguished; probably it was_one_ of the causes which drove him to force his way to Ophelia;whenever he saw Ophelia, it awoke and, the circumstances being what theywere, tormented him. But it was not an absorbing passion; it did nothabitually occupy his thoughts; and when he declared that it was such alove as forty thousand brothers could not equal, he spoke sincerelyindeed but not truly. What he said was true, if I may put it thus, ofthe inner healthy self which doubtless in time would have fullyreasserted itself; but it was only partly true of the Hamlet whom we seein the play. And the morbid influence of his melancholy on his love isthe cause of those strange facts, that he never alludes to her in hissoliloquies, and that he appears not to realise how the death of herfather must affect her. The facts seem almost to force this idea on us. That it is less'romantic' than the popular view is no argument against it. Andpsychologically it is quite sound, for a frequent symptom of suchmelancholy as Hamlet's is a more or less complete paralysis, or evenperversion, of the emotion of love. And yet, while feeling no doubt thatup to a certain point it is true, I confess I am not satisfied that theexplanation of Hamlet's silence regarding Ophelia lies in it. And thereason of this uncertainty is that scarcely any spectators or readers of_Hamlet_ notice this silence at all; that I never noticed it myself tillI began to try to solve the problem of Hamlet's relation to Ophelia; andthat even now, when I read the play through without pausing to considerparticular questions, it scarcely strikes me. Now Shakespeare wroteprimarily for the theatre and not for students, and therefore greatweight should be attached to the immediate impressions made by hisworks. And so it seems at least possible that the explanation ofHamlet's silence may be that Shakespeare, having already a verydifficult task to perform in the soliloquies--that of showing the stateof mind which caused Hamlet to delay his vengeance--did not choose tomake his task more difficult by introducing matter which would not onlyadd to the complexity of the subject but might, from its 'sentimental'interest, distract attention from the main point; while, from histheatrical experience, he knew that the audience would not observe howunnatural it was that a man deeply in love, and forced not only torenounce but to wound the woman he loved, should not think of her whenhe was alone. But, as this explanation is no more completely convincingto me than the other, I am driven to suspend judgment, and also tosuspect that the text admits of no sure interpretation. [This paragraphstates my view imperfectly. ]This result may seem to imply a serious accusation against Shakespeare. But it must be remembered that if we could see a contemporaryrepresentation of _Hamlet_, our doubts would probably disappear. Theactor, instructed by the author, would make it clear to us by looks,tones, gestures, and by-play how far Hamlet's feigned harshness toOphelia was mingled with real bitterness, and again how far hismelancholy had deadened his love. 4As we have seen, all the persons in _Hamlet_ except the hero are minorcharacters, who fail to rise to the tragic level. They are not lessinteresting on that account, but the hero has occupied us so long that Ishall refer only to those in regard to whom Shakespeare's intentionappears to be not seldom misunderstood or overlooked. It may seem strange that Ophelia should be one of these; and yetShakespearean literature and the experience of teachers show that thereis much difference of opinion regarding her, and in particular that alarge number of readers feel a kind of personal irritation against her. They seem unable to forgive her for not having been a heroine, and theyfancy her much weaker than she was. They think she ought to have beenable to help Hamlet to fulfil his task. And they betray, it appears tome, the strangest misconceptions as to what she actually did. Now it was essential to Shakespeare's purpose that too great an interestshould not be aroused in the love-story; essential, therefore, thatOphelia should be merely one of the subordinate characters; andnecessary, accordingly, that she should not be the equal, in spirit,power or intelligence, of his famous heroines. If she had been anImogen, a Cordelia, even a Portia or a Juliet, the story must have takenanother shape. Hamlet would either have been stimulated to do his duty,or (which is more likely) he would have gone mad, or (which islikeliest) he would have killed himself in despair. Ophelia, therefore,was made a character who could not help Hamlet, and for whom on theother hand he would not naturally feel a passion so vehement or profoundas to interfere with the main motive of the play. [76] And in the loveand the fate of Ophelia herself there was introduced an element, not ofdeep tragedy but of pathetic beauty, which makes the analysis of hercharacter seem almost a desecration. Ophelia is plainly quite young and inexperienced. She has lost hermother, and has only a father and a brother, affectionate but worldly,to take care of her. Everyone in the drama who has any heart is drawn toher. To the persons in the play, as to the readers of it, she brings thethought of flowers. 'Rose of May' Laertes names her. Lay her in the earth, And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring! --so he prays at her burial. 'Sweets to the sweet' the Queen murmurs, asshe scatters flowers on the grave; and the flowers which Ophelia herselfgathered--those which she gave to others, and those which floated abouther in the brook--glimmer in the picture of the mind. Her affection forher brother is shown in two or three delicate strokes. Her love for herfather is deep, though mingled with fear. For Hamlet she has, some say,no deep love--and perhaps she is so near childhood that old affectionshave still the strongest hold; but certainly she has given to Hamlet allthe love of which her nature is as yet capable. Beyond these threebeloved ones she seems to have eyes and ears for no one. The Queen isfond of her, but there is no sign of her returning the Queen'saffection. Her existence is wrapped up in these three. On this childlike nature and on Ophelia's inexperience everythingdepends. The knowledge that 'there's tricks in the world' has reachedher only as a vague report. Her father and brother are jealously anxiousfor her because of her ignorance and innocence; and we resent theiranxiety chiefly because we know Hamlet better than they. Her wholecharacter is that of simple unselfish affection. Naturally she isincapable of understanding Hamlet's mind, though she can feel itsbeauty. Naturally, too, she obeys her father when she is forbidden toreceive Hamlet's visits and letters. If we remember not what _we_ knowbut what _she_ knows of her lover and her father; if we remember thatshe had not, like Juliet, confessed her love; and if we remember thatshe was much below her suitor in station, her compliance surely mustseem perfectly natural, apart from the fact that the standard ofobedience to a father was in Shakespeare's day higher than in ours. 'But she does more than obey,' we are told; 'she runs off frightened toreport to her father Hamlet's strange visit and behaviour; she shows toher father one of Hamlet's letters, and tells him[77] the whole story ofthe courtship; and she joins in a plot to win Hamlet's secret from him. 'One must remember, however, that she had never read the tragedy. Consider for a moment how matters looked to _her_. She knows nothingabout the Ghost and its disclosures. She has undergone for some time thepain of repelling her lover and appearing to have turned against him. She sees him, or hears of him, sinking daily into deeper gloom, and sotransformed from what he was that he is considered to be out of hismind. She hears the question constantly discussed what the cause of thissad change can be; and her heart tells her--how can it fail to tellher? --that her unkindness is the chief cause. Suddenly Hamlet forces hisway into her chamber; and his appearance and his behaviour are those ofa man crazed with love. She is frightened--why not? She is not LadyMacbeth. Rosalind would have been frightened. Which of her censors wouldbe wholly unmoved if his room were invaded by a lunatic? She isfrightened, then; frightened, if you will, like a child. Yes, but,observe, her one idea is to help Hamlet. She goes, therefore, at once toher father. To whom else should she go? Her brother is away. Her father,whom she saw with her own eyes and not with Shakespeare's, is kind, andthe wisest of men, and concerned about Hamlet's state. Her father finds,in her report, the solution of the mystery: Hamlet is mad because shehas repulsed him. Why should she not tell her father the whole story andgive him an old letter which may help to convince the King and theQueen? Nay, why should she not allow herself to be used as a 'decoy' tosettle the question why Hamlet is mad? It is all-important that itshould be settled, in order that he may be cured; all her seniors aresimply and solely anxious for his welfare; and, if her unkindness _is_the cause of his sad state, they will permit her to restore him bykindness (III. i. 40). Was she to refuse to play a part just because itwould be painful to her to do so? I find in her joining the 'plot' (asit is absurdly called) a sign not of weakness, but of unselfishness andstrength. 'But she practised deception; she even told a lie. Hamlet asked herwhere her father was, and she said he was at home, when he was reallylistening behind a curtain. ' Poor Ophelia! It is considered angelic inDesdemona to say untruly that she killed herself, but most immoral orpusillanimous in Ophelia to tell _her_ lie. I will not discuss thesecasuistical problems; but, if ever an angry lunatic asks me a questionwhich I cannot answer truly without great danger to him and to one of myrelations, I hope that grace may be given me to imitate Ophelia. Seriously, at such a terrible moment was it weak, was it not ratherheroic, in a simple girl not to lose her presence of mind and not toflinch, but to go through her task for Hamlet's sake and her father's? And, finally, is it really a thing to be taken as matter of course, andno matter for admiration, in this girl that, from beginning to end, andafter a storm of utterly unjust reproach, not a thought of resentmentshould even cross her mind? Still, we are told, it was ridiculously weak in her to lose her reason. And here again her critics seem hardly to realise the situation, hardlyto put themselves in the place of a girl whose lover, estranged fromher, goes mad and kills her father. They seem to forget also thatOphelia must have believed that these frightful calamities were not merecalamities, but followed from _her_ action in repelling her lover. Nordo they realise the utter loneliness that must have fallen on her. Ofthe three persons who were all the world to her, her father has beenkilled, Hamlet has been sent out of the country insane, and her brotheris abroad. Horatio, when her mind gives way, tries to befriend her, butthere is no sign of any previous relation between them, or of Hamlet'shaving commended her to his friend's care. What support she can gainfrom the Queen we can guess from the Queen's character, and from thefact that, when Ophelia is most helpless, the Queen shrinks from thevery sight of her (IV. v. 1). She was left, thus, absolutely alone, andif she looked for her brother's return (as she did, IV. v. 70), shemight reflect that it would mean danger to Hamlet. Whether this idea occurred to her we cannot tell. In any case it waswell for her that her mind gave way before Laertes reached Elsinore; andpathetic as Ophelia's madness is, it is also, we feel, the kindeststroke that now could fall on her. It is evident, I think, that this wasthe effect Shakespeare intended to produce. In her madness Opheliacontinues sweet and lovable. Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, She turns to favour and to prettiness. In her wanderings we hear from time to time an undertone of the deepestsorrow, but never the agonised cry of fear or horror which makes madnessdreadful or shocking. [78] And the picture of her death, if our eyes growdim in watching it, is still purely beautiful. Coleridge was true toShakespeare when he wrote of 'the affecting death of Ophelia,--who inthe beginning lay like a little projection of land into a lake orstream, covered with spray-flowers quietly reflected in the quietwaters, but at length is undermined or loosened, and becomes a fairyisle, and after a brief vagrancy sinks almost without an eddy. '[79]5I reluctantly pass by Polonius, Laertes and the beautiful character ofHoratio, to say something in conclusion of the Queen and the King. The answers to two questions asked about the Queen are, it seems to me,practically certain, (1) She did not merely marry a second time withindecent haste; she was false to her husband while he lived. This issurely the most natural interpretation of the words of the Ghost (I. v. 41 f. ), coming, as they do, before his account of the murder. Andagainst this testimony what force has the objection that the queen inthe 'Murder of Gonzago' is not represented as an adulteress? Hamlet'smark in arranging the play-scene was not his mother, whom besides he hadbeen expressly ordered to spare (I. v. 84 f. ). (2) On the other hand, she was _not_ privy to the murder of her husband,either before the deed or after it. There is no sign of her being so,and there are clear signs that she was not. The representation of themurder in the play-scene does not move her; and when her husband startsfrom his throne, she innocently asks him, 'How fares my lord? ' In theinterview with Hamlet, when her son says of his slaughter of Polonius, 'A bloody deed! ' Almost as bad, good mother, As kill a king and marry with his brother,the astonishment of her repetition 'As kill a king! ' is evidentlygenuine; and, if it had not been so, she would never have had thehardihood to exclaim: What have I done, that thou darest wag thy tongue In noise so rude against me? Further, it is most significant that when she and the King speaktogether alone, nothing that is said by her or to her implies herknowledge of the secret. The Queen was not a bad-hearted woman, not at all the woman to thinklittle of murder. But she had a soft animal nature, and was very dulland very shallow. She loved to be happy, like a sheep in the sun; and,to do her justice, it pleased her to see others happy, like more sheepin the sun. She never saw that drunkenness is disgusting till Hamlettold her so; and, though she knew that he considered her marriage'o'er-hasty' (II. ii. 57), she was untroubled by any shame at thefeelings which had led to it. It was pleasant to sit upon her throne andsee smiling faces round her, and foolish and unkind in Hamlet to persistin grieving for his father instead of marrying Ophelia and makingeverything comfortable. She was fond of Ophelia and genuinely attachedto her son (though willing to see her lover exclude him from thethrone); and, no doubt, she considered equality of rank a mere triflecompared with the claims of love. The belief at the bottom of her heartwas that the world is a place constructed simply that people may behappy in it in a good-humoured sensual fashion. Her only chance was to be made unhappy. When affliction comes to her,the good in her nature struggles to the surface through the heavy massof sloth. Like other faulty characters in Shakespeare's tragedies, shedies a better woman than she had lived. When Hamlet shows her what shehas done she feels genuine remorse. It is true, Hamlet fears it will notlast, and so at the end of the interview (III. iv. 180 ff. ) he adds awarning that, if she betrays him, she will ruin herself as well. [80] Itis true too that there is no sign of her obeying Hamlet in breaking offher most intimate connection with the King. Still she does feel remorse;and she loves her son, and does not betray him.

She gives her husband afalse account of Polonius's death, and is silent about the appearance ofthe Ghost. She becomes miserable; To her sick soul, as sin's true nature is, Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss. She shows spirit when Laertes raises the mob, and one respects her forstanding up for her husband when she can do nothing to help her son. Ifshe had sense to realise Hamlet's purpose, or the probability of theKing's taking some desperate step to foil it, she must have sufferedtorture in those days. But perhaps she was too dull. The last we see of her, at the fencing-match, is most characteristic. She is perfectly serene. Things have slipped back into their groove, andshe has no apprehensions. She is, however, disturbed and full ofsympathy for her son, who is out of condition and pants and perspires. These are afflictions she can thoroughly feel for, though they are evenmore common than the death of a father. But then she meets her deathbecause she cannot resist the wish to please her son by drinking to hissuccess. And more: when she falls dying, and the King tries to make outthat she is merely swooning at the sight of blood, she collects herenergies to deny it and to warn Hamlet: No, no, the drink, the drink,--O my dear Hamlet,-- The drink, the drink! I am poison'd. [_Dies. _Was ever any other writer at once so pitiless and so just asShakespeare? Did ever any other mingle the grotesque and the patheticwith a realism so daring and yet so true to 'the modesty of nature'? * * * * *King Claudius rarely gets from the reader the attention he deserves. Buthe is very interesting, both psychologically and dramatically. On theone hand, he is not without respectable qualities. As a king he iscourteous and never undignified; he performs his ceremonial dutiesefficiently; and he takes good care of the national interests. Henowhere shows cowardice, and when Laertes and the mob force their wayinto the palace, he confronts a dangerous situation with coolness andaddress. His love for his ill-gotten wife seems to be quite genuine, andthere is no ground for suspecting him of having used her as a mere meansto the crown. [81] His conscience, though ineffective, is far from beingdead. In spite of its reproaches he plots new crimes to ensure the prizeof the old one; but still it makes him unhappy (III. i. 49 f. , III. iii. 35 f. ). Nor is he cruel or malevolent. On the other hand, he is no tragic character. He had a small nature. IfHamlet may be trusted, he was a man of mean appearance--a mildewed ear,a toad, a bat; and he was also bloated by excess in drinking. Peoplemade mouths at him in contempt while his brother lived; and though, whenhe came to the throne, they spent large sums in buying his portrait, heevidently put little reliance on their loyalty. He was no villain offorce, who thought of winning his brother's crown by a bold and openstroke, but a cut-purse who stole the diadem from a shelf and put it inhis pocket. He had the inclination of natures physically weak andmorally small towards intrigue and crooked dealing. His instinctivepredilection was for poison: this was the means he used in his firstmurder, and he at once recurred to it when he had failed to get Hamletexecuted by deputy. Though in danger he showed no cowardice, his firstthought was always for himself. I like him not, nor stands it safe with _us_ To let his madness range,--these are the first words we hear him speak after the play-scene. Hisfirst comment on the death of Polonius is, It had been so with _us_ had we been there;and his second is, Alas, how shall this bloody deed be answered? It will be laid to _us_. He was not, however, stupid, but rather quick-witted and adroit. He wonthe Queen partly indeed by presents (how pitifully characteristic ofher! ), but also by 'witch-craft of his wit' or intellect. He seems tohave been soft-spoken, ingratiating in manner, and given to smiling onthe person he addressed ('that one may smile, and smile, and be avillain'). We see this in his speech to Laertes about the young man'sdesire to return to Paris (I. ii. 42 f. ). Hamlet scarcely ever speaks tohim without an insult, but he never shows resentment, hardly evenannoyance. He makes use of Laertes with great dexterity. He hadevidently found that a clear head, a general complaisance, a willingnessto bend and oblige where he could not overawe, would lead him to hisobjects,--that he could trick men and manage them. Unfortunately heimagined he could trick something more than men. This error, together with a decided trait of temperament, leads him tohis ruin. He has a sanguine disposition. When first we see him, all hasfallen out to his wishes, and he confidently looks forward to a happylife. He believes his secret to be absolutely safe, and he is quiteready to be kind to Hamlet, in whose melancholy he sees only excess ofgrief. He has no desire to see him leave the court; he promises him hisvoice for the succession (I. ii. 108, III. ii. 355); he will be a fatherto him. Before long, indeed, he becomes very uneasy, and then more andmore alarmed; but when, much later, he has contrived Hamlet's death inEngland, he has still no suspicion that he need not hope for happiness: till I know 'tis done, Howe'er my haps, my _joys_ were ne'er begun. Nay, his very last words show that he goes to death unchanged: Oh yet defend me, friends, I am but hurt [=wounded],he cries, although in half a minute he is dead. That his crime hasfailed, and that it could do nothing else, never once comes home to him. He thinks he can over-reach Heaven. When he is praying for pardon, he isall the while perfectly determined to keep his crown; and he knows it. More--it is one of the grimmest things in Shakespeare, but he puts suchthings so quietly that we are apt to miss them--when the King is prayingfor pardon for his first murder he has just made his final arrangementsfor a second, the murder of Hamlet. But he does not allude to that factin his prayer. If Hamlet had really wished to kill him at a moment thathad no relish of salvation in it, he had no need to wait. [82] So we areinclined to say; and yet it was not so. For this was the crisis forClaudius as well as Hamlet. He had better have died at once, before hehad added to his guilt a share in the responsibility for all the woe anddeath that followed. And so, we may allow ourselves to say, here alsoHamlet's indiscretion served him well. The power that shaped his endshaped the King's no less. For--to return in conclusion to the action of the play--in all thathappens or is done we seem to apprehend some vaster power. We do notdefine it, or even name it, or perhaps even say to ourselves that it isthere; but our imagination is haunted by the sense of it, as it worksits way through the deeds or the delays of men to its inevitable end. And most of all do we feel this in regard to Hamlet and the King. Forthese two, the one by his shrinking from his appointed task, and theother by efforts growing ever more feverish to rid himself of his enemy,seem to be bent on avoiding each other. But they cannot. Through deviouspaths, the very paths they take in order to escape, something is pushingthem silently step by step towards one another, until they meet and itputs the sword into Hamlet's hand. He himself must die, for he neededthis compulsion before he could fulfil the demand of destiny; but he_must_ fulfil it. And the King too, turn and twist as he may, must reachthe appointed goal, and is only hastening to it by the windings whichseem to lead elsewhere. Concentration on the character of the hero isapt to withdraw our attention from this aspect of the drama; but in noother tragedy of Shakespeare's, not even in _Macbeth_, is this aspect soimpressive. [83]I mention _Macbeth_ for a further reason. In _Macbeth_ and _Hamlet_ notonly is the feeling of a supreme power or destiny peculiarly marked, butit has also at times a peculiar tone, which may be called, in a sense,religious. I cannot make my meaning clear without using language toodefinite to describe truly the imaginative impression produced; but itis roughly true that, while we do not imagine the supreme power as adivine being who avenges crime, or as a providence which supernaturallyinterferes, our sense of it is influenced by the fact that Shakespeareuses current religious ideas here much more decidedly than in _Othello_or _King Lear_. The horror in Macbeth's soul is more than oncerepresented as desperation at the thought that he is eternally 'lost';the same idea appears in the attempt of Claudius at repentance; and as_Hamlet_ nears its close the 'religious' tone of the tragedy is deepenedin two ways. In the first place, 'accident' is introduced into the plotin its barest and least dramatic form, when Hamlet is brought back toDenmark by the chance of the meeting with the pirate ship. This incidenthas been therefore severely criticised as a lame expedient,[84] but itappears probable that the 'accident' is meant to impress the imaginationas the very reverse of accidental, and with many readers it certainlydoes so. And that this was the intention is made the more likely by asecond fact, the fact that in connection with the events of the voyageShakespeare introduces that feeling, on Hamlet's part, of his being inthe hands of Providence. The repeated expressions of this feeling arenot, I have maintained, a sign that Hamlet has now formed a fixedresolution to do his duty forthwith; but their effect is to strengthenin the spectator the feeling that, whatever may become of Hamlet, andwhether he wills it or not, his task will surely be accomplished,because it is the purpose of a power against which both he and his enemyare impotent, and which makes of them the instruments of its own will. Observing this, we may remember another significant point of resemblancebetween _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_, the appearance in each play of aGhost,--a figure which seems quite in place in either, whereas it wouldseem utterly out of place in _Othello_ or _King Lear_. Much might besaid of the Ghost in _Hamlet_, but I confine myself to the matter whichwe are now considering. What is the effect of the appearance of theGhost? And, in particular, why does Shakespeare make this Ghost so_majestical_ a phantom, giving it that measured and solemn utterance,and that air of impersonal abstraction which forbids, for example, allexpression of affection for Hamlet and checks in Hamlet the outburst ofpity for his father? Whatever the intention may have been, the result isthat the Ghost affects imagination not simply as the apparition of adead king who desires the accomplishment of _his_ purposes, but also asthe representative of that hidden ultimate power, the messenger ofdivine justice set upon the expiation of offences which it appearedimpossible for man to discover and avenge, a reminder or a symbol of theconnexion of the limited world of ordinary experience with the vasterlife of which it is but a partial appearance. And as, at the beginningof the play, we have this intimation, conveyed through the medium of thereceived religious idea of a soul come from purgatory, so at the end,conveyed through the similar idea of a soul carried by angels to itsrest, we have an intimation of the same character, and a reminder thatthe apparent failure of Hamlet's life is not the ultimate truthconcerning him. If these various peculiarities of the tragedy are considered, it will beagreed that, while _Hamlet_ certainly cannot be called in the specificsense a 'religious drama,' there is in it nevertheless both a freer useof popular religious ideas, and a more decided, though alwaysimaginative, intimation of a supreme power concerned in human evil andgood, than can be found in any other of Shakespeare's tragedies. Andthis is probably one of the causes of the special popularity of thisplay, just as _Macbeth_, the tragedy which in these respects most nearlyapproaches it, has also the place next to it in general esteem. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 54: In the First Act (I. ii. 138) Hamlet says that his fatherhas been dead not quite two months. In the Third Act (III. ii. 135)Ophelia says King Hamlet has been dead 'twice two months. ' The events ofthe Third Act are separated from those of the Second by one night (II. ii. 565). ][Footnote 55: The only difference is that in the 'To be or not to be'soliloquy there is no reference to the idea that suicide is forbidden by'the Everlasting. ' Even this, however, seems to have been present in theoriginal form of the speech, for the version in the First Quarto has aline about our being 'borne before an everlasting Judge. '][Footnote 56: The present position of the 'To be or not to be'soliloquy, and of the interview with Ophelia, appears to have been dueto an after-thought of Shakespeare's; for in the First Quarto theyprecede, instead of following, the arrival of the players, andconsequently the arrangement for the play-scene. This is a notableinstance of the truth that 'inspiration' is by no means confined to apoet's first conceptions. ][Footnote 57: Cf. again the scene at Ophelia's grave, where a strongstrain of aesthetic disgust is traceable in Hamlet's 'towering passion'with Laertes: 'Nay, an thou'lt mouth, I'll rant as well as thou' (V. i. 306). ][Footnote 58: O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom:Nero, who put to death his mother who had poisoned her husband. Thispassage is surely remarkable. And so are the later words (III. iv. 28): A bloody deed! almost as bad, good mother, As kill a king, and marry with his brother. Are we to understand that at this time he really suspected her ofcomplicity in the murder? We must remember that the Ghost had not toldhim she was innocent of that. ][Footnote 59: I am inclined to think that the note of interrogation putafter 'revenged' in a late Quarto is right. ][Footnote 60: III. iii. 1-26. The state of affairs at Court at thistime, though I have not seen it noticed by critics, seems to mepuzzling. It is quite clear from III. ii. 310 ff. , from the passage justcited, and from IV. vii. 1-5 and 30 ff. , that everyone sees in theplay-scene a gross and menacing insult to the King. Yet no one shows anysign of perceiving in it also an accusation of murder. Surely that isstrange. Are we perhaps meant to understand that they do perceive this,but out of subservience choose to ignore the fact? If that wereShakespeare's meaning, the actors could easily indicate it by theirlooks. And if it were so, any sympathy we may feel for Rosencrantz andGuildenstern in their fate would be much diminished. But the mere textdoes not suffice to decide either this question or the question whetherthe two courtiers were aware of the contents of the commission they boreto England. ][Footnote 61: This passage in _Hamlet_ seems to have been in Heywood'smind when, in _The Second Part of the Iron Age_ (Pearson's reprint, vol. iii. , p. 423), he makes the Ghost of Agamemnon appear in order tosatisfy the doubts of Orestes as to his mother's guilt. No reader couldpossibly think that this Ghost was meant to be an hallucination; yetClytemnestra cannot see it. The Ghost of King Hamlet, I may add, goesfurther than that of Agamemnon, for he is audible, as well as visible,to the privileged person. ][Footnote 62: I think it is clear that it is this fear which stands inthe way of the obvious plan of bringing Hamlet to trial and getting himshut up or executed. It is much safer to hurry him off to his doom inEngland before he can say anything about the murder which he has somehowdiscovered. Perhaps the Queen's resistance, and probably Hamlet's greatpopularity with the people, are additional reasons. (It should beobserved that as early as III. i. 194 we hear of the idea of 'confining'Hamlet as an alternative to sending him to England. )][Footnote 63: I am inferring from IV. vii. , 129, 130, and the last wordsof the scene. ][Footnote 64: III. iv. 172: For this same lord, I do repent: but heaven hath pleased it so, To punish me with this and this with me, That I must be their scourge and minister:_i. e. _ the scourge and minister of 'heaven,' which has a plural senseelsewhere also in Shakespeare. ][Footnote 65: IV. iii. 48: _Ham. _ For England! _King. _ Ay, Hamlet. _Ham. _ Good. _King. _ So is it, if thou knew'st our purposes. _Ham. _ I see a cherub that sees them. ][Footnote 66: On this passage see p. 98. Hamlet's reply to Horatio'swarning sounds, no doubt, determined; but so did 'I know my course. ' Andis it not significant that, having given it, he abruptly changes thesubject? ][Footnote 67: P. 102. ][Footnote 68: It should be observed also that many of Hamlet'srepetitions can hardly be said to occur at moments of great emotion,like Cordelia's 'And so I am, I am,' and 'No cause, no cause. 'Of course, a habit of repetition quite as marked as Hamlet's may befound in comic persons, _e. g. _ Justice Shallow in _2 Henry IV. _][Footnote 69: Perhaps it is from noticing this trait that I findsomething characteristic too in this coincidence of phrase: 'Alas, poorghost! ' (I. v. 4), 'Alas, poor Yorick! ' (V. i. 202). ][Footnote 70: This letter, of course, was written before the time whenthe action of the drama begins, for we know that Ophelia, after herfather's commands in I. iii. , received no more letters (II. i. 109). ][Footnote 71: 'Frailty, thy name is woman! ' he had exclaimed in thefirst soliloquy. Cf. what he says of his mother's act (III. iv. 40): Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty, Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love And sets a blister there. ][Footnote 72: There are signs that Hamlet was haunted by the horribleidea that he had been deceived in Ophelia as he had been in his mother;that she was shallow and artificial, and even that what had seemedsimple and affectionate love might really have been something verydifferent. The grossness of his language at the play-scene, and somelines in the Nunnery-scene, suggest this; and, considering the state ofhis mind, there is nothing unnatural in his suffering from such asuspicion. I do not suggest that he _believed_ in it, and in theNunnery-scene it is clear that his healthy perception of her innocenceis in conflict with it. He seems to have divined that Polonius suspected him of dishonourableintentions towards Ophelia; and there are also traces of the idea thatPolonius had been quite ready to let his daughter run the risk as longas Hamlet was prosperous. But it is dangerous, of course, to lay stresson inferences drawn from his conversations with Polonius. ][Footnote 73: Many readers and critics imagine that Hamlet went straightto Ophelia's room after his interview with the Ghost. But we have justseen that on the contrary he tried to visit her and was repelled, and itis absolutely certain that a long interval separates the events of I. v. and II. i. They think also, of course, that Hamlet's visit to Opheliawas the first announcement of his madness. But the text flatlycontradicts that idea also. Hamlet has for some time appeared totallychanged (II. ii. 1-10); the King is very uneasy at his 'transformation,'and has sent for his school-fellows in order to discover its cause. Polonius now, after Ophelia has told him of the interview, comes toannounce his discovery, not of Hamlet's madness, but of its cause (II. ii. 49). That, it would seem, was the effect Hamlet aimed at in hisinterview. I may add that Ophelia's description of his intentexamination of her face suggests doubt rather as to her 'honesty' orsincerity than as to her strength of mind. I cannot believe that he everdreamed of confiding his secret to her. ][Footnote 74: If this _is_ an allusion to his own love, the adjective'despised' is significant. But I doubt the allusion. The othercalamities mentioned by Hamlet, 'the oppressor's wrong, the proud man'scontumely, the law's delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns thatpatient merit of the unworthy takes,' are not at all specially his own. ][Footnote 75: It should be noticed that it was not apparently of longstanding. See the words 'of late' in I. iii. 91, 99. ][Footnote 76: This, I think, may be said on almost any sane view ofHamlet's love. ][Footnote 77: Polonius says so, and it _may_ be true. ][Footnote 78: I have heard an actress in this part utter such a cry asis described above, but there is absolutely nothing in the text tojustify her rendering. Even the exclamation 'O, ho! ' found in theQuartos at IV. v. 33, but omitted in the Folios and by almost all moderneditors, coming as it does after the stanza, 'He is dead and gone,lady,' evidently expresses grief, not terror. ][Footnote 79: In the remarks above I have not attempted, of course, acomplete view of the character, which has often been well described; butI cannot forbear a reference to one point which I do not remember tohave seen noticed. In the Nunnery-scene Ophelia's first wordspathetically betray her own feeling: Good my lord, How does your honour _for this many a day_? She then offers to return Hamlet's presents. This has not been suggestedto her by her father: it is her own thought. And the next lines, inwhich she refers to the sweet words which accompanied those gifts, andto the unkindness which has succeeded that kindness, imply a reproach. So again do those most touching little speeches: _Hamlet. _ . . . I did love you once. _Ophelia. _ Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so. _Hamlet. _ You should not have believed me . . . I loved you not. _Ophelia. _ I was the more deceived. Now the obvious surface fact was not that Hamlet had forsaken her, butthat _she_ had repulsed _him_; and here, with his usual unobtrusivesubtlety, Shakespeare shows how Ophelia, even though she may haveaccepted from her elders the theory that her unkindness has drivenHamlet mad, knows within herself that she is forsaken, and cannotrepress the timid attempt to win her lover back by showing that her ownheart is unchanged. I will add one note. There are critics who, after all the help giventhem in different ways by Goethe and Coleridge and Mrs. Jameson, stillshake their heads over Ophelia's song, 'To-morrow is Saint Valentine'sday. ' Probably they are incurable, but they may be asked to considerthat Shakespeare makes Desdemona, 'as chaste as ice, as pure as snow,'sing an old song containing the line, If I court moe women, you'll couch with moe men. ][Footnote 80: _I. e. _ the King will kill _her_ to make all sure. ][Footnote 81: I do not rely so much on his own statement to Laertes (IV. vii. 12 f. ) as on the absence of contrary indications, on his tone inspeaking to her, and on such signs as his mention of her in soliloquy(III. iii. 55). ][Footnote 82: This also is quietly indicated. Hamlet spares the King, hesays, because if the King is killed praying he will _go to heaven_. OnHamlet's departure, the King rises from his knees, and mutters: My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: Words without thoughts _never to heaven go_. ][Footnote 83: I am indebted to Werder in this paragraph. ][Footnote 84: The attempt to explain this meeting as pre-arranged byHamlet is scarcely worth mention. ]LECTURE VOTHELLOThere is practically no doubt that _Othello_ was the tragedy writtennext after _Hamlet_. Such external evidence as we possess points to thisconclusion, and it is confirmed by similarities of style, diction andversification, and also by the fact that ideas and phrases of theearlier play are echoed in the later. [85] There is, further (not tospeak of one curious point, to be considered when we come to Iago), acertain resemblance in the subjects. The heroes of the two plays aredoubtless extremely unlike, so unlike that each could have dealt withoutmuch difficulty with the situation which proved fatal to the other; butstill each is a man exceptionally noble and trustful, and each enduresthe shock of a terrible disillusionment. This theme is treated byShakespeare for the first time in _Hamlet_, for the second in _Othello_. It recurs with modifications in _King Lear_, and it probably formed theattraction which drew Shakespeare to refashion in part another writer'stragedy of _Timon_. These four dramas may so far be grouped together indistinction from the remaining tragedies. But in point of substance, and, in certain respects, in point of style,the unlikeness of _Othello_ to _Hamlet_ is much greater than thelikeness, and the later play belongs decidedly to one group with itssuccessors. We have seen that, like them, it is a tragedy of passion, adescription inapplicable to _Julius Caesar_ or _Hamlet_. And with thischange goes another, an enlargement in the stature of the hero. There isin most of the later heroes something colossal, something which remindsus of Michael Angelo's figures. They are not merely exceptional men,they are huge men; as it were, survivors of the heroic age living in alater and smaller world. We do not receive this impression from Romeo orBrutus or Hamlet, nor did it lie in Shakespeare's design to allow morethan touches of this trait to Julius Caesar himself; but it is stronglymarked in Lear and Coriolanus, and quite distinct in Macbeth and even inAntony. Othello is the first of these men, a being essentially large andgrand, towering above his fellows, holding a volume of force which inrepose ensures preeminence without an effort, and in commotion remindsus rather of the fury of the elements than of the tumult of common humanpassion. 1What is the peculiarity of _Othello_? What is the distinctive impressionthat it leaves? Of all Shakespeare's tragedies, I would answer, not evenexcepting _King Lear_, _Othello_ is the most painfully exciting and themost terrible. From the moment when the temptation of the hero begins,the reader's heart and mind are held in a vice, experiencing theextremes of pity and fear, sympathy and repulsion, sickening hope anddreadful expectation. Evil is displayed before him, not indeed with theprofusion found in _King Lear_, but forming, as it were, the soul of asingle character, and united with an intellectual superiority so greatthat he watches its advance fascinated and appalled. He sees it, initself almost irresistible, aided at every step by fortunate accidentsand the innocent mistakes of its victims. He seems to breathe anatmosphere as fateful as that of _King Lear_, but more confined andoppressive, the darkness not of night but of a close-shut murderousroom. His imagination is excited to intense activity, but it is theactivity of concentration rather than dilation. I will not dwell now on aspects of the play which modify thisimpression, and I reserve for later discussion one of its principalsources, the character of Iago. But if we glance at some of its othersources, we shall find at the same time certain distinguishingcharacteristics of _Othello_. (1) One of these has been already mentioned in our discussion ofShakespeare's technique. _Othello_ is not only the most masterly of thetragedies in point of construction, but its method of construction isunusual. And this method, by which the conflict begins late, andadvances without appreciable pause and with accelerating speed to thecatastrophe, is a main cause of the painful tension just described. Tothis may be added that, after the conflict has begun, there is verylittle relief by way of the ridiculous. Henceforward at any rate Iago'shumour never raises a smile. The clown is a poor one; we hardly attendto him and quickly forget him; I believe most readers of Shakespeare, ifasked whether there is a clown in _Othello_, would answer No. (2) In the second place, there is no subject more exciting than sexualjealousy rising to the pitch of passion; and there can hardly be anyspectacle at once so engrossing and so painful as that of a great naturesuffering the torment of this passion, and driven by it to a crime whichis also a hideous blunder. Such a passion as ambition, however terribleits results, is not itself ignoble; if we separate it in thought fromthe conditions which make it guilty, it does not appear despicable; itis not a kind of suffering, its nature is active; and therefore we canwatch its course without shrinking. But jealousy, and especially sexualjealousy, brings with it a sense of shame and humiliation. For thisreason it is generally hidden; if we perceive it we ourselves areashamed and turn our eyes away; and when it is not hidden it commonlystirs contempt as well as pity. Nor is this all. Such jealousy asOthello's converts human nature into chaos, and liberates the beast inman; and it does this in relation to one of the most intense and alsothe most ideal of human feelings. What spectacle can be more painfulthan that of this feeling turned into a tortured mixture of longing andloathing, the 'golden purity' of passion split by poison into fragments,the animal in man forcing itself into his consciousness in nakedgrossness, and he writhing before it but powerless to deny it entrance,gasping inarticulate images of pollution, and finding relief only in abestial thirst for blood? This is what we have to witness in one who wasindeed 'great of heart' and no less pure and tender than he was great. And this, with what it leads to, the blow to Desdemona, and the scenewhere she is treated as the inmate of a brothel, a scene far morepainful than the murder scene, is another cause of the special effect ofthis tragedy. [86](3) The mere mention of these scenes will remind us painfully of a thirdcause; and perhaps it is the most potent of all. I mean the suffering ofDesdemona. This is, unless I mistake, the most nearly intolerablespectacle that Shakespeare offers us. For one thing, it is _mere_suffering; and, _ceteris paribus_, that is much worse to witness thansuffering that issues in action. Desdemona is helplessly passive. Shecan do nothing whatever. She cannot retaliate even in speech; no, noteven in silent feeling. And the chief reason of her helplessness onlymakes the sight of her suffering more exquisitely painful. She ishelpless because her nature is infinitely sweet and her love absolute. Iwould not challenge Mr. Swinburne's statement that we _pity_ Othelloeven more than Desdemona; but we watch Desdemona with more unmitigateddistress. We are never wholly uninfluenced by the feeling that Othellois a man contending with another man; but Desdemona's suffering is likethat of the most loving of dumb creatures tortured without cause by thebeing he adores. (4) Turning from the hero and heroine to the third principal character,we observe (what has often been pointed out) that the action andcatastrophe of _Othello_ depend largely on intrigue. We must not saymore than this. We must not call the play a tragedy of intrigue asdistinguished from a tragedy of character. Iago's plot is Iago'scharacter in action; and it is built on his knowledge of Othello'scharacter, and could not otherwise have succeeded. Still it remains truethat an elaborate plot was necessary to elicit the catastrophe; forOthello was no Leontes, and his was the last nature to engender suchjealousy from itself. Accordingly Iago's intrigue occupies a position inthe drama for which no parallel can be found in the other tragedies; theonly approach, and that a distant one, being the intrigue of Edmund inthe secondary plot of _King Lear_. Now in any novel or play, even if thepersons rouse little interest and are never in serious danger, askilfully-worked intrigue will excite eager attention and suspense. Andwhere, as in _Othello_, the persons inspire the keenest sympathy andantipathy, and life and death depend on the intrigue, it becomes thesource of a tension in which pain almost overpowers pleasure. Nowhereelse in Shakespeare do we hold our breath in such anxiety and for solong a time as in the later Acts of _Othello_. (5) One result of the prominence of the element of intrigue is that_Othello_ is less unlike a story of private life than any other of thegreat tragedies. And this impression is strengthened in further ways. Inthe other great tragedies the action is placed in a distant period, sothat its general significance is perceived through a thin veil whichseparates the persons from ourselves and our own world. But _Othello_ isa drama of modern life; when it first appeared it was a drama almost ofcontemporary life, for the date of the Turkish attack on Cyprus is 1570. The characters come close to us, and the application of the drama toourselves (if the phrase may be pardoned) is more immediate than it canbe in _Hamlet_ or _Lear_. Besides this, their fortunes affect us asthose of private individuals more than is possible in any of the latertragedies with the exception of _Timon_. I have not forgotten theSenate, nor Othello's position, nor his service to the State;[87] buthis deed and his death have not that influence on the interests of anation or an empire which serves to idealise, and to remove far from ourown sphere, the stories of Hamlet and Macbeth, of Coriolanus and Antony. Indeed he is already superseded at Cyprus when his fate is consummated,and as we leave him no vision rises on us, as in other tragedies, ofpeace descending on a distracted land. (6) The peculiarities so far considered combine with others to producethose feelings of oppression, of confinement to a comparatively narrowworld, and of dark fatality, which haunt us in reading _Othello_. In_Macbeth_ the fate which works itself out alike in the external conflictand in the hero's soul, is obviously hostile to evil; and theimagination is dilated both by the consciousness of its presence and bythe appearance of supernatural agencies. These, as we have seen, producein _Hamlet_ a somewhat similar effect, which is increased by the hero'sacceptance of the accidents as a providential shaping of his end. _KingLear_ is undoubtedly the tragedy which comes nearest to _Othello_ in theimpression of darkness and fatefulness, and in the absence of directindications of any guiding power. [88] But in _King Lear_, apart fromother differences to be considered later, the conflict assumesproportions so vast that the imagination seems, as in _Paradise Lost_,to traverse spaces wider than the earth. In reading _Othello_ the mindis not thus distended. It is more bound down to the spectacle of noblebeings caught in toils from which there is no escape; while theprominence of the intrigue diminishes the sense of the dependence of thecatastrophe on character, and the part played by accident[89] in thiscatastrophe accentuates the feeling of fate. This influence of accidentis keenly felt in _King Lear_ only once, and at the very end of theplay. In _Othello_, after the temptation has begun, it is incessant andterrible. The skill of Iago was extraordinary, but so was his goodfortune. Again and again a chance word from Desdemona, a chance meetingof Othello and Cassio, a question which starts to our lips and whichanyone but Othello would have asked, would have destroyed Iago's plotand ended his life. In their stead, Desdemona drops her handkerchief atthe moment most favourable to him,[90] Cassio blunders into the presenceof Othello only to find him in a swoon, Bianca arrives precisely whenshe is wanted to complete Othello's deception and incense his anger intofury. All this and much more seems to us quite natural, so potent is theart of the dramatist; but it confounds us with a feeling, such as weexperience in the _Oedipus Tyrannus_, that for these star-crossedmortals--both [Greek: dysdaimones]--there is no escape from fate, andeven with a feeling, absent from that play, that fate has taken sideswith villainy. [91] It is not surprising, therefore, that _Othello_should affect us as _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_ never do, and as _King Lear_does only in slighter measure. On the contrary, it is marvellous that,before the tragedy is over, Shakespeare should have succeeded in toningdown this impression into harmony with others more solemn and serene. But has he wholly succeeded? Or is there a justification for the fact--afact it certainly is--that some readers, while acknowledging, of course,the immense power of _Othello_, and even admitting that it isdramatically perhaps Shakespeare's greatest triumph, still regard itwith a certain distaste, or, at any rate, hardly allow it a place intheir minds beside _Hamlet_, _King Lear_ and _Macbeth_? The distaste to which I refer is due chiefly to two causes. First, tomany readers in our time, men as well as women, the subject of sexualjealousy, treated with Elizabethan fulness and frankness, is not merelypainful but so repulsive that not even the intense tragic emotions whichthe story generates can overcome this repulsion. But, while it is easyto understand a dislike of _Othello_ thus caused, it does not seemnecessary to discuss it, for it may fairly be called personal orsubjective. It would become more than this, and would amount to acriticism of the play, only if those who feel it maintained that thefulness and frankness which are disagreeable to them are also needlessfrom a dramatic point of view, or betray a design of appealing tounpoetic feelings in the audience. But I do not think that this ismaintained, or that such a view would be plausible. To some readers, again, parts of _Othello_ appear shocking or evenhorrible. They think--if I may formulate their objection--that in theseparts Shakespeare has sinned against the canons of art, by representingon the stage a violence or brutality the effect of which isunnecessarily painful and rather sensational than tragic. The passageswhich thus give offence are probably those already referred to,--thatwhere Othello strikes Desdemona (IV. i. 251), that where he affects totreat her as an inmate of a house of ill-fame (IV. ii. ), and finally thescene of her death. The issues thus raised ought not to be ignored or impatiently dismissed,but they cannot be decided, it seems to me, by argument. All we canprofitably do is to consider narrowly our experience, and to askourselves this question: If we feel these objections, do we feel themwhen we are reading the play with all our force, or only when we arereading it in a half-hearted manner? For, however matters may stand inthe former case, in the latter case evidently the fault is ours and notShakespeare's. And if we try the question thus, I believe we shall findthat on the whole the fault is ours. The first, and least important, ofthe three passages--that of the blow--seems to me the most doubtful. Iconfess that, do what I will, I cannot reconcile myself with it. Itseems certain that the blow is by no means a tap on the shoulder with aroll of paper, as some actors, feeling the repulsiveness of the passage,have made it. It must occur, too, on the open stage. And there is not, Ithink, a sufficiently overwhelming tragic feeling in the passage to makeit bearable. But in the other two scenes the case is different. There,it seems to me, if we fully imagine the inward tragedy in the souls ofthe persons as we read, the more obvious and almost physical sensationsof pain or horror do not appear in their own likeness, and only serve tointensify the tragic feelings in which they are absorbed. Whether thiswould be so in the murder-scene if Desdemona had to be imagined asdragged about the open stage (as in some modern performances) may bedoubtful; but there is absolutely no warrant in the text for imaginingthis, and it is also quite clear that the bed where she is stifled waswithin the curtains,[92] and so, presumably, in part concealed. Here, then, _Othello_ does not appear to be, unless perhaps at onepoint,[93] open to criticism, though it has more passages than the otherthree tragedies where, if imagination is not fully exerted, it isshocked or else sensationally excited. If nevertheless we feel it tooccupy a place in our minds a little lower than the other three (and Ibelieve this feeling, though not general, is not rare), the reason liesnot here but in another characteristic, to which I have alreadyreferred,--the comparative confinement of the imaginative atmosphere. _Othello_ has not equally with the other three the power of dilating theimagination by vague suggestions of huge universal powers working in theworld of individual fate and passion. It is, in a sense, less'symbolic. ' We seem to be aware in it of a certain limitation, a partialsuppression of that element in Shakespeare's mind which unites him withthe mystical poets and with the great musicians and philosophers. In oneor two of his plays, notably in _Troilus and Cressida_, we are almostpainfully conscious of this suppression; we feel an intense intellectualactivity, but at the same time a certain coldness and hardness, asthough some power in his soul, at once the highest and the sweetest,were for a time in abeyance. In other plays, notably in the _Tempest_,we are constantly aware of the presence of this power; and in such caseswe seem to be peculiarly near to Shakespeare himself. Now this is so in_Hamlet_ and _King Lear_, and, in a slighter degree, in _Macbeth_; butit is much less so in _Othello_. I do not mean that in _Othello_ thesuppression is marked, or that, as in _Troilus and Cressida_, it strikesus as due to some unpleasant mood; it seems rather to follow simply fromthe design of a play on a contemporary and wholly mundane subject. Stillit makes a difference of the kind I have attempted to indicate, and itleaves an impression that in _Othello_ we are not in contact with thewhole of Shakespeare. And it is perhaps significant in this respect thatthe hero himself strikes us as having, probably, less of the poet'spersonality in him than many characters far inferior both as dramaticcreations and as men. 2The character of Othello is comparatively simple, but, as I have dwelton the prominence of intrigue and accident in the play, it is desirableto show how essentially the success of Iago's plot is connected withthis character. Othello's description of himself as one not easily jealous, but, being wrought, Perplexed in the extreme,is perfectly just. His tragedy lies in this--that his whole nature wasindisposed to jealousy, and yet was such that he was unusually open todeception, and, if once wrought to passion, likely to act with littlereflection, with no delay, and in the most decisive manner conceivable. Let me first set aside a mistaken view. I do not mean the ridiculousnotion that Othello was jealous by temperament, but the idea, which hassome little plausibility, that the play is primarily a study of a noblebarbarian, who has become a Christian and has imbibed some of thecivilisation of his employers, but who retains beneath the surface thesavage passions of his Moorish blood and also the suspiciousnessregarding female chastity common among Oriental peoples, and that thelast three Acts depict the outburst of these original feelings throughthe thin crust of Venetian culture. It would take too long to discussthis idea,[94] and it would perhaps be useless to do so, for allarguments against it must end in an appeal to the reader's understandingof Shakespeare. If he thinks it is like Shakespeare to look at things inthis manner; that he had a historical mind and occupied himself withproblems of 'Culturgeschichte'; that he laboured to make his Romansperfectly Roman, to give a correct view of the Britons in the days ofLear or Cymbeline, to portray in Hamlet a stage of the moralconsciousness not yet reached by the people around him, the reader willalso think this interpretation of _Othello_ probable. To me it appearshopelessly un-Shakespearean. I could as easily believe that Chaucermeant the Wife of Bath for a study of the peculiarities ofSomersetshire. I do not mean that Othello's race is a matter of noaccount. It has, as we shall presently see, its importance in the play. It makes a difference to our idea of him; it makes a difference to theaction and catastrophe. But in regard to the essentials of his characterit is not important; and if anyone had told Shakespeare that noEnglishman would have acted like the Moor, and had congratulated him onthe accuracy of his racial psychology, I am sure he would have laughed. Othello is, in one sense of the word, by far the most romantic figureamong Shakespeare's heroes; and he is so partly from the strange life ofwar and adventure which he has lived from childhood. He does not belongto our world, and he seems to enter it we know not whence--almost as iffrom wonderland. There is something mysterious in his descent from menof royal siege; in his wanderings in vast deserts and among marvellouspeoples; in his tales of magic handkerchiefs and prophetic Sibyls; inthe sudden vague glimpses we get of numberless battles and sieges inwhich he has played the hero and has borne a charmed life; even inchance references to his baptism, his being sold to slavery, his sojournin Aleppo. And he is not merely a romantic figure; his own nature is romantic. Hehas not, indeed, the meditative or speculative imagination of Hamlet;but in the strictest sense of the word he is more poetic than Hamlet. Indeed, if one recalls Othello's most famous speeches--those that begin,'Her father loved me,' 'O now for ever,' 'Never, Iago,' 'Had it pleasedHeaven,' 'It is the cause,' 'Behold, I have a weapon,' 'Soft you, a wordor two before you go'--and if one places side by side with thesespeeches an equal number by any other hero, one will not doubt thatOthello is the greatest poet of them all. There is the same poetry inhis casual phrases--like 'These nine moons wasted,' 'Keep up your brightswords, for the dew will rust them,' 'You chaste stars,' 'It is a swordof Spain, the ice-brook's temper,' 'It is the very error of themoon'--and in those brief expressions of intense feeling which eversince have been taken as the absolute expression, like If it were now to die, 'Twere now to be most happy; for, I fear, My soul hath her content so absolute That not another comfort like to this Succeeds in unknown fate,or If she be false, O then Heaven mocks itself. I'll not believe it;or No, my heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand,or But yet the pity of it, Iago! O Iago, the pity of it, Iago! or 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. And this imagination, we feel, has accompanied his whole life. He haswatched with a poet's eye the Arabian trees dropping their med'cinablegum, and the Indian throwing away his chance-found pearl; and has gazedin a fascinated dream at the Pontic sea rushing, never to return, to thePropontic and the Hellespont; and has felt as no other man ever felt(for he speaks of it as none other ever did) the poetry of the pride,pomp, and circumstance of glorious war. So he comes before us, dark and grand, with a light upon him from thesun where he was born; but no longer young, and now grave,self-controlled, steeled by the experience of countless perils,hardships and vicissitudes, at once simple and stately in bearing and inspeech, a great man naturally modest but fully conscious of his worth,proud of his services to the state, unawed by dignitaries and unelatedby honours, secure, it would seem, against all dangers from without andall rebellion from within. And he comes to have his life crowned withthe final glory of love, a love as strange, adventurous and romantic asany passage of his eventful history, filling his heart with tendernessand his imagination with ecstasy. For there is no love, not that ofRomeo in his youth, more steeped in imagination than Othello's. The sources of danger in this character are revealed but too clearly bythe story. In the first place, Othello's mind, for all its poetry, isvery simple. He is not observant. His nature tends outward. He is quitefree from introspection, and is not given to reflection. Emotion exciteshis imagination, but it confuses and dulls his intellect. On this sidehe is the very opposite of Hamlet, with whom, however, he shares a greatopenness and trustfulness of nature. In addition, he has littleexperience of the corrupt products of civilised life, and is ignorant ofEuropean women. In the second place, for all his dignity and massive calm (and he hasgreater dignity than any other of Shakespeare's men), he is by naturefull of the most vehement passion. Shakespeare emphasises hisself-control, not only by the wonderful pictures of the First Act, butby references to the past. Lodovico, amazed at his violence, exclaims: Is this the noble Moor whom our full Senate Call all in all sufficient? Is this the nature Whom passion could not shake? whose solid virtue The shot of accident nor dart of chance Could neither graze nor pierce? Iago, who has here no motive for lying, asks: Can he be angry? I have seen the cannon When it hath blown his ranks into the air, And, like the devil, from his very arm Puffed his own brother--and can he be angry? [95]This, and other aspects of his character, are best exhibited by a singleline--one of Shakespeare's miracles--the words by which Othello silencesin a moment the night-brawl between his attendants and those ofBrabantio: Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them. And the same self-control is strikingly shown where Othello endeavoursto elicit some explanation of the fight between Cassio and Montano. Here, however, there occur ominous words, which make us feel hownecessary was this self-control, and make us admire it the more: Now, by heaven, My blood begins my safer guides to rule, And passion, having my best judgment collied, Assays to lead the way. We remember these words later, when the sun of reason is 'collied,'blackened and blotted out in total eclipse. Lastly, Othello's nature is all of one piece. His trust, where hetrusts, is absolute. Hesitation is almost impossible to him. He isextremely self-reliant, and decides and acts instantaneously. If stirredto indignation, as 'in Aleppo once,' he answers with one lightningstroke. Love, if he loves, must be to him the heaven where either hemust live or bear no life. If such a passion as jealousy seizes him, itwill swell into a well-nigh incontrollable flood. He will press forimmediate conviction or immediate relief. Convinced, he will act withthe authority of a judge and the swiftness of a man in mortal pain. Undeceived, he will do like execution on himself. This character is so noble, Othello's feelings and actions follow soinevitably from it and from the forces brought to bear on it, and hissufferings are so heart-rending, that he stirs, I believe, in mostreaders a passion of mingled love and pity which they feel for no otherhero in Shakespeare, and to which not even Mr. Swinburne can do morethan justice. Yet there are some critics and not a few readers whocherish a grudge against him. They do not merely think that in the laterstages of his temptation he showed a certain obtuseness, and that, tospeak pedantically, he acted with unjustifiable precipitance andviolence; no one, I suppose, denies that. But, even when they admit thathe was not of a jealous temper, they consider that he _was_ 'easilyjealous'; they seem to think that it was inexcusable in him to feel anysuspicion of his wife at all; and they blame him for never suspectingIago or asking him for evidence. I refer to this attitude of mindchiefly in order to draw attention to certain points in the story. Itcomes partly from mere inattention (for Othello did suspect Iago and didask him for evidence); partly from a misconstruction of the text whichmakes Othello appear jealous long before he really is so;[96] and partlyfrom failure to realise certain essential facts. I will begin withthese. (1) Othello, we have seen, was trustful, and thorough in his trust. Heput entire confidence in the honesty of Iago, who had not only been hiscompanion in arms, but, as he believed, had just proved his faithfulnessin the matter of the marriage. This confidence was misplaced, and wehappen to know it; but it was no sign of stupidity in Othello. For hisopinion of Iago was the opinion of practically everyone who knew him:and that opinion was that Iago was before all things 'honest,' his veryfaults being those of excess in honesty. This being so, even if Othellohad not been trustful and simple, it would have been quite unnatural inhim to be unmoved by the warnings of so honest a friend, warningsoffered with extreme reluctance and manifestly from a sense of afriend's duty. [97] _Any_ husband would have been troubled by them. (2) Iago does not bring these warnings to a husband who had lived with awife for months and years and knew her like his sister or hisbosom-friend. Nor is there any ground in Othello's character forsupposing that, if he had been such a man, he would have felt and actedas he does in the play.

But he was newly married; in the circumstanceshe cannot have known much of Desdemona before his marriage; and furtherhe was conscious of being under the spell of a feeling which can giveglory to the truth but can also give it to a dream. (3) This consciousness in any imaginative man is enough, in suchcircumstances, to destroy his confidence in his powers of perception. InOthello's case, after a long and most artful preparation, there nowcomes, to reinforce its effect, the suggestions that he is not anItalian, not even a European; that he is totally ignorant of thethoughts and the customary morality of Venetian women;[98] that he hadhimself seen in Desdemona's deception of her father how perfect anactress she could be. As he listens in horror, for a moment at least thepast is revealed to him in a new and dreadful light, and the groundseems to sink under his feet. These suggestions are followed by atentative but hideous and humiliating insinuation of what his honest andmuch-experienced friend fears may be the true explanation of Desdemona'srejection of acceptable suitors, and of her strange, and naturallytemporary, preference for a black man. Here Iago goes too far. He seessomething in Othello's face that frightens him, and he breaks off. Nordoes this idea take any hold of Othello's mind. But it is not surprisingthat his utter powerlessness to repel it on the ground of knowledge ofhis wife, or even of that instinctive interpretation of character whichis possible between persons of the same race,[99] should complete hismisery, so that he feels he can bear no more, and abruptly dismisses hisfriend (III. iii. 238). Now I repeat that _any_ man situated as Othello was would have beendisturbed by Iago's communications, and I add that many men would havebeen made wildly jealous. But up to this point, where Iago is dismissed,Othello, I must maintain, does not show jealousy. His confidence isshaken, he is confused and deeply troubled, he feels even horror; but heis not yet jealous in the proper sense of that word. In his soliloquy(III. iii. 258 ff. ) the beginning of this passion may be traced; but itis only after an interval of solitude, when he has had time to dwell onthe idea presented to him, and especially after statements of fact, notmere general grounds of suspicion, are offered, that the passion layshold of him. Even then, however, and indeed to the very end, he is quiteunlike the essentially jealous man, quite unlike Leontes. No doubt thethought of another man's possessing the woman he loves is intolerable tohim; no doubt the sense of insult and the impulse of revenge are attimes most violent; and these are the feelings of jealousy proper. Butthese are not the chief or the deepest source of Othello's suffering. Itis the wreck of his faith and his love. It is the feeling, If she be false, oh then Heaven mocks itself;the feeling, O Iago, the pity of it, Iago! the feeling, But there where I have garner'd up my heart, Where either I must live, or bear no life; The fountain from the which my current runs, Or else dries up--to be discarded thence. . . . You will find nothing like this in Leontes. Up to this point, it appears to me, there is not a syllable to be saidagainst Othello. But the play is a tragedy, and from this point we mayabandon the ungrateful and undramatic task of awarding praise and blame. When Othello, after a brief interval, re-enters (III. iii. 330), we seeat once that the poison has been at work and 'burns like the mines ofsulphur. ' Look where he comes! Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou owedst yesterday. He is 'on the rack,' in an agony so unbearable that he cannot endure thesight of Iago. Anticipating the probability that Iago has spared him thewhole truth, he feels that in that case his life is over and his'occupation gone' with all its glories. But he has not abandoned hope. The bare possibility that his friend is deliberately deceivinghim--though such a deception would be a thing so monstrously wicked thathe can hardly conceive it credible--is a kind of hope. He furiouslydemands proof, ocular proof. And when he is compelled to see that he isdemanding an impossibility he still demands evidence. He forces it fromthe unwilling witness, and hears the maddening tale of Cassio's dream. It is enough. And if it were not enough, has he not sometimes seen ahandkerchief spotted with strawberries in his wife's hand? Yes, it washis first gift to her. I know not that; but such a handkerchief-- I am sure it was your wife's--did I to-day See Cassio wipe his beard with. 'If it be that,' he answers--but what need to test the fact? The'madness of revenge' is in his blood, and hesitation is a thing he neverknew. He passes judgment, and controls himself only to make his sentencea solemn vow. The Othello of the Fourth Act is Othello in his fall. His fall is nevercomplete, but he is much changed. Towards the close of theTemptation-scene he becomes at times most terrible, but his grandeurremains almost undiminished. Even in the following scene (III. iv. ),where he goes to test Desdemona in the matter of the handkerchief, andreceives a fatal confirmation of her guilt, our sympathy with him ishardly touched by any feeling of humiliation. But in the Fourth Act'Chaos has come. ' A slight interval of time may be admitted here. It isbut slight; for it was necessary for Iago to hurry on, and terriblydangerous to leave a chance for a meeting of Cassio with Othello; andhis insight into Othello's nature taught him that his plan was todeliver blow on blow, and never to allow his victim to recover from theconfusion of the first shock. Still there is a slight interval; and whenOthello reappears we see at a glance that he is a changed man. He isphysically exhausted, and his mind is dazed. [100] He sees everythingblurred through a mist of blood and tears. He has actually forgotten theincident of the handkerchief, and has to be reminded of it. When Iago,perceiving that he can now risk almost any lie, tells him that Cassiohas confessed his guilt, Othello, the hero who has seemed to us onlysecond to Coriolanus in physical power, trembles all over; he muttersdisjointed words; a blackness suddenly intervenes between his eyes andthe world; he takes it for the shuddering testimony of nature to thehorror he has just heard,[101] and he falls senseless to the ground. When he recovers it is to watch Cassio, as he imagines, laughing overhis shame. It is an imposition so gross, and should have been one soperilous, that Iago would never have ventured it before. But he is safenow. The sight only adds to the confusion of intellect the madness ofrage; and a ravenous thirst for revenge, contending with motions ofinfinite longing and regret, conquers them. The delay till night-fall istorture to him. His self-control has wholly deserted him, and he strikeshis wife in the presence of the Venetian envoy. He is so lost to allsense of reality that he never asks himself what will follow the deathsof Cassio and his wife. An ineradicable instinct of justice, rather thanany last quiver of hope, leads him to question Emilia; but nothing couldconvince him now, and there follows the dreadful scene of accusation;and then, to allow us the relief of burning hatred and burning tears,the interview of Desdemona with Iago, and that last talk of hers withEmilia, and her last song. But before the end there is again a change. The supposed death of Cassio(V. i. ) satiates the thirst for vengeance. The Othello who enters thebed-chamber with the words, It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul,is not the man of the Fourth Act. The deed he is bound to do is nomurder, but a sacrifice. He is to save Desdemona from herself, not inhate but in honour; in honour, and also in love. His anger has passed; aboundless sorrow has taken its place; and this sorrow's heavenly: It strikes where it doth love. Even when, at the sight of her apparent obduracy, and at the hearing ofwords which by a crowning fatality can only reconvince him of her guilt,these feelings give way to others, it is to righteous indignation theygive way, not to rage; and, terribly painful as this scene is, there isalmost nothing here to diminish the admiration and love which heightenpity. [102] And pity itself vanishes, and love and admiration aloneremain, in the majestic dignity and sovereign ascendancy of the close. Chaos has come and gone; and the Othello of the Council-chamber and thequay of Cyprus has returned, or a greater and nobler Othello still. Ashe speaks those final words in which all the glory and agony of hislife--long ago in India and Arabia and Aleppo, and afterwards in Venice,and now in Cyprus--seem to pass before us, like the pictures that flashbefore the eyes of a drowning man, a triumphant scorn for the fetters ofthe flesh and the littleness of all the lives that must survive himsweeps our grief away, and when he dies upon a kiss the most painful ofall tragedies leaves us for the moment free from pain, and exulting inthe power of 'love and man's unconquerable mind. '3The words just quoted come from Wordsworth's sonnet to Toussaintl'Ouverture. Toussaint was a Negro; and there is a question, which,though of little consequence, is not without dramatic interest, whetherShakespeare imagined Othello as a Negro or as a Moor. Now I will not saythat Shakespeare imagined him as a Negro and not as a Moor, for thatmight imply that he distinguished Negroes and Moors precisely as we do;but what appears to me nearly certain is that he imagined Othello as ablack man, and not as a light-brown one. In the first place, we must remember that the brown or bronze to whichwe are now accustomed in the Othellos of our theatres is a recentinnovation. Down to Edmund Kean's time, so far as is known, Othello wasalways quite black. This stage-tradition goes back to the Restoration,and it almost settles our question. For it is impossible that the colourof the original Othello should have been forgotten so soon afterShakespeare's time, and most improbable that it should have been changedfrom brown to black. If we turn to the play itself, we find many references to Othello'scolour and appearance. Most of these are indecisive; for the word'black' was of course used then where we should speak of a 'dark'complexion now; and even the nickname 'thick-lips,' appealed to as proofthat Othello was a Negro, might have been applied by an enemy to what wecall a Moor. On the other hand, it is hard to believe that, if Othellohad been light-brown, Brabantio would have taunted him with having a'sooty bosom,' or that (as Mr. Furness observes) he himself would haveused the words, her name, that was as fresh As Dian's visage, is now begrimed and black As mine own face. These arguments cannot be met by pointing out that Othello was of royalblood, is not called an Ethiopian, is called a Barbary horse, and issaid to be going to Mauritania. All this would be of importance if wehad reason to believe that Shakespeare shared our ideas, knowledge andterms. Otherwise it proves nothing. And we know that sixteenth-centurywriters called any dark North-African a Moor, or a black Moor, or ablackamoor. Sir Thomas Elyot, according to Hunter,[103] calls EthiopiansMoors; and the following are the first two illustrations of 'Blackamoor'in the Oxford _English Dictionary_: 1547, 'I am a blake More borne inBarbary'; 1548, '_Ethiopo_, a blake More, or a man of Ethiope. ' Thusgeographical names can tell us nothing about the question howShakespeare imagined Othello. He may have known that a Mauritanian isnot a Negro nor black, but we cannot assume that he did. He may haveknown, again, that the Prince of Morocco, who is described in the_Merchant of Venice_ as having, like Othello, the complexion of a devil,was no Negro. But we cannot tell: nor is there any reason why he shouldnot have imagined the Prince as a brown Moor and Othello as aBlackamoor. _Titus Andronicus_ appeared in the Folio among Shakespeare's works. Itis believed by some good critics to be his: hardly anyone doubts that hehad a hand in it: it is certain that he knew it, for reminiscences of itare scattered through his plays. Now no one who reads _Titus Andronicus_with an open mind can doubt that Aaron was, in our sense, black; and heappears to have been a Negro. To mention nothing else, he is twicecalled 'coal-black'; his colour is compared with that of a raven and aswan's legs; his child is coal-black and thick-lipped; he himself has a'fleece of woolly hair. ' Yet he is 'Aaron the Moor,' just as Othello is'Othello the Moor. ' In the _Battle of Alcazar_ (Dyce's _Peele_, p. 421)Muly the Moor is called 'the negro'; and Shakespeare himself in a singleline uses 'negro' and 'Moor' of the same person (_Merchant of Venice_,III. v. 42). The horror of most American critics (Mr. Furness is a bright exception)at the idea of a black Othello is very amusing, and their arguments arehighly instructive. But they were anticipated, I regret to say, byColeridge, and we will hear him. 'No doubt Desdemona saw Othello'svisage in his mind; yet, as we are constituted, and most surely as anEnglish audience was disposed in the beginning of the seventeenthcentury, it would be something monstrous to conceive this beautifulVenetian girl falling in love with a veritable negro. It would argue adisproportionateness, a want of balance, in Desdemona, which Shakespearedoes not appear to have in the least contemplated. '[104] Could anyargument be more self-destructive? It actually _did_ appear to Brabantio'something monstrous to conceive' his daughter falling in love withOthello,--so monstrous that he could account for her love only by drugsand foul charms. And the suggestion that such love would argue'disproportionateness' is precisely the suggestion that Iago _did_ makein Desdemona's case: Foh! one may smell in such a will most rank, Foul _disproportion_, thoughts unnatural. In fact he spoke of the marriage exactly as a filthy-minded cynic nowmight speak of the marriage of an English lady to a negro likeToussaint. Thus the argument of Coleridge and others points straight tothe conclusion against which they argue. But this is not all. The question whether to Shakespeare Othello wasblack or brown is not a mere question of isolated fact or historicalcuriosity; it concerns the character of Desdemona. Coleridge, and stillmore the American writers, regard her love, in effect, as Brabantioregarded it, and not as Shakespeare conceived it. They are simplyblurring this glorious conception when they try to lessen the distancebetween her and Othello, and to smooth away the obstacle which his'visage' offered to her romantic passion for a hero. Desdemona, the'eternal womanly' in its most lovely and adorable form, simple andinnocent as a child, ardent with the courage and idealism of a saint,radiant with that heavenly purity of heart which men worship the morebecause nature so rarely permits it to themselves, had no theories aboutuniversal brotherhood, and no phrases about 'one blood in all thenations of the earth' or 'barbarian, Scythian, bond and free'; but whenher soul came in sight of the noblest soul on earth, she made nothing ofthe shrinking of her senses, but followed her soul until her senses tookpart with it, and 'loved him with the love which was her doom. ' It wasnot prudent. It even turned out tragically. She met in life with thereward of those who rise too far above our common level; and we continueto allot her the same reward when we consent to forgive her for loving abrown man, but find it monstrous that she should love a black one. [105]There is perhaps a certain excuse for our failure to rise toShakespeare's meaning, and to realise how extraordinary and splendid athing it was in a gentle Venetian girl to love Othello, and to assailfortune with such a 'downright violence and storm' as is expected onlyin a hero. It is that when first we hear of her marriage we have not yetseen the Desdemona of the later Acts; and therefore we do not perceivehow astonishing this love and boldness must have been in a maiden soquiet and submissive. And when we watch her in her suffering and deathwe are so penetrated by the sense of her heavenly sweetness andself-surrender that we almost forget that she had shown herself quite asexceptional in the active assertion of her own soul and will. She tendsto become to us predominantly pathetic, the sweetest and most patheticof Shakespeare's women, as innocent as Miranda and as loving as Viola,yet suffering more deeply than Cordelia or Imogen. And she seems to lackthat independence and strength of spirit which Cordelia and Imogenpossess, and which in a manner raises them above suffering. She appearspassive and defenceless, and can oppose to wrong nothing but theinfinite endurance and forgiveness of a love that knows not how toresist or resent. She thus becomes at once the most beautiful example ofthis love, and the most pathetic heroine in Shakespeare's world. If herpart were acted by an artist equal to Salvini, and with a Salvini forOthello, I doubt if the spectacle of the last two Acts would not bepronounced intolerable. Of course this later impression of Desdemona is perfectly right, but itmust be carried back and united with the earlier before we can see whatShakespeare imagined. Evidently, we are to understand, innocence,gentleness, sweetness, lovingness were the salient and, in a sense, theprincipal traits in Desdemona's character. She was, as her fathersupposed her to be, a maiden never bold, Of spirit so still and quiet that her motion Blushed at herself. But suddenly there appeared something quite different--something whichcould never have appeared, for example, in Ophelia--a love not only fullof romance but showing a strange freedom and energy of spirit, andleading to a most unusual boldness of action; and this action wascarried through with a confidence and decision worthy of Juliet orCordelia. Desdemona does not shrink before the Senate; and her languageto her father, though deeply respectful, is firm enough to stir in ussome sympathy with the old man who could not survive his daughter'sloss. This then, we must understand, was the emergence in Desdemona, asshe passed from girlhood to womanhood, of an individuality and strengthwhich, if she had lived, would have been gradually fused with her moreobvious qualities and have issued in a thousand actions, sweet and good,but surprising to her conventional or timid neighbours. And, indeed, wehave already a slight example in her overflowing kindness, her boldnessand her ill-fated persistence in pleading Cassio's cause. But the fullripening of her lovely and noble nature was not to be. In her briefwedded life she appeared again chiefly as the sweet and submissive beingof her girlhood; and the strength of her soul, first evoked by love,found scope to show itself only in a love which, when harshly repulsed,blamed only its own pain; when bruised, only gave forth a more exquisitefragrance; and, when rewarded with death, summoned its last labouringbreath to save its murderer. Many traits in Desdemona's character have been described withsympathetic insight by Mrs. Jameson, and I will pass them by and add buta few words on the connection between this character and the catastropheof _Othello_. Desdemona, as Mrs. Jameson remarks, shows less quicknessof intellect and less tendency to reflection than most of Shakespeare'sheroines; but I question whether the critic is right in adding that sheshows much of the 'unconscious address common in women. ' She seems to medeficient in this address, having in its place a frank childlikeboldness and persistency, which are full of charm but are unhappilyunited with a certain want of perception. And these graces and thisdeficiency appear to be inextricably intertwined, and in thecircumstances conspire tragically against her. They, with her innocence,hinder her from understanding Othello's state of mind, and lead her tothe most unlucky acts and words; and unkindness or anger subdues her socompletely that she becomes passive and seems to drift helplesslytowards the cataract in front. In Desdemona's incapacity to resist there is also, in addition to herperfect love, something which is very characteristic. She is, in asense, a child of nature. That deep inward division which leads to clearand conscious oppositions of right and wrong, duty and inclination,justice and injustice, is alien to her beautiful soul. She is not good,kind and true in spite of a temptation to be otherwise, any more thanshe is charming in spite of a temptation to be otherwise. She seems toknow evil only by name, and, her inclinations being good, she acts oninclination. This trait, with its results, may be seen if we compareher, at the crises of the story, with Cordelia. In Desdemona's place,Cordelia, however frightened at Othello's anger about the losthandkerchief, would not have denied its loss. Painful experience hadproduced in her a conscious principle of rectitude and a proud hatred offalseness, which would have made a lie, even one wholly innocent inspirit, impossible to her; and the clear sense of justice and rightwould have led her, instead, to require an explanation of Othello'sagitation which would have broken Iago's plot to pieces. In the sameway, at the final crisis, no instinctive terror of death would havecompelled Cordelia suddenly to relinquish her demand for justice and toplead for life. But these moments are fatal to Desdemona, who actsprecisely as if she were guilty; and they are fatal because they ask forsomething which, it seems to us, could hardly be united with thepeculiar beauty of her nature. This beauty is all her own. Something as beautiful may be found inCordelia, but not the same beauty. Desdemona, confronted with Lear'sfoolish but pathetic demand for a profession of love, could have done, Ithink, what Cordelia could not do--could have refused to compete withher sisters, and yet have made her father feel that she loved him well. And I doubt if Cordelia, 'falsely murdered,' would have been capable ofthose last words of Desdemona--her answer to Emilia's 'O, who hath donethis deed? ' Nobody: I myself. Farewell. Commend me to my kind lord. O, farewell! Were we intended to remember, as we hear this last 'falsehood,' thatother falsehood, 'It is not lost,' and to feel that, alike in themomentary child's fear and the deathless woman's love, Desdemona isherself and herself alone? [106]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 85: One instance is worth pointing out, because the passage in_Othello_ has, oddly enough, given trouble. Desdemona says of the maidBarbara: 'She was in love, and he she loved proved mad And did forsakeher. ' Theobald changed 'mad' to 'bad. ' Warburton read 'and he she lovedforsook her, And she proved mad'! Johnson said 'mad' meant only 'wild,frantic, uncertain. ' But what Desdemona says of Barbara is just whatOphelia might have said of herself. ][Footnote 86: The whole force of the passages referred to can be feltonly by a reader. The Othello of our stage can never be Shakespeare'sOthello, any more than the Cleopatra of our stage can be his Cleopatra. ][Footnote 87: See p. 9. ][Footnote 88: Even here, however, there is a great difference; foralthough the idea of such a power is not suggested by _King Lear_ as itis by _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_, it is repeatedly expressed by persons _in_the drama. Of such references there are very few in _Othello_. But forsomewhat frequent allusions to hell and the devil the view of thecharacters is almost strictly secular. Desdemona's sweetness andforgivingness are not based on religion, and her only way of accountingfor her undeserved suffering is by an appeal to Fortune: 'It is mywretched fortune' (IV. ii. 128). In like manner Othello can only appealto Fate (V. ii. 264): but, oh vain boast! Who can control his fate? ][Footnote 89: Ulrici has good remarks, though he exaggerates, on thispoint and the element of intrigue. ][Footnote 90: And neither she nor Othello observes what handkerchief itis. Else she would have remembered how she came to lose it, and wouldhave told Othello; and Othello, too, would at once have detected Iago'slie (III. iii. 438) that he had seen Cassio wipe his beard with thehandkerchief 'to-day. ' For in fact the handkerchief had been lost _notan hour_ before Iago told that lie (line 288 of the _same scene_), andit was at that moment in his pocket. He lied therefore most rashly, butwith his usual luck. ][Footnote 91: For those who know the end of the story there is aterrible irony in the enthusiasm with which Cassio greets the arrival ofDesdemona in Cyprus. Her ship (which is also Iago's) sets out fromVenice a week later than the others, but reaches Cyprus on the same daywith them: Tempests themselves, high seas and howling winds, The gutter'd rocks and congregated sands-- Traitors ensteep'd to clog the guiltless keel-- As having sense of beauty, do omit Their mortal natures, letting go safely by The divine Desdemona. So swiftly does Fate conduct her to her doom. ][Footnote 92: The dead bodies are not carried out at the end, as theymust have been if the bed had been on the main stage (for this had nofront curtain). The curtains within which the bed stood were drawntogether at the words, 'Let it be hid' (V. ii. 365). ][Footnote 93: Against which may be set the scene of the blinding ofGloster in _King Lear_. ][Footnote 94: The reader who is tempted by it should, however, first askhimself whether Othello does act like a barbarian, or like a man who,though wrought almost to madness, does 'all in honour. '][Footnote 95: For the actor, then, to represent him as violently angrywhen he cashiers Cassio is an utter mistake. ][Footnote 96: I cannot deal fully with this point in the lecture. SeeNote L. ][Footnote 97: It is important to observe that, in his attempt to arriveat the facts about Cassio's drunken misdemeanour, Othello had just hadan example of Iago's unwillingness to tell the whole truth where it mustinjure a friend. No wonder he feels in the Temptation-scene that 'thishonest creature doubtless Sees and knows more, much more, than heunfolds. '][Footnote 98: To represent that Venetian women do not regard adultery soseriously as Othello does, and again that Othello would be wise toaccept the situation like an Italian husband, is one of Iago's mostartful and most maddening devices. ][Footnote 99: If the reader has ever chanced to see an African violentlyexcited, he may have been startled to observe how completely at a losshe was to interpret those bodily expressions of passion which in afellow-countryman he understands at once, and in a European foreignerwith somewhat less certainty. The effect of difference in blood inincreasing Othello's bewilderment regarding his wife is not sufficientlyrealised. The same effect has to be remembered in regard to Desdemona'smistakes in dealing with Othello in his anger. ][Footnote 100: See Note M. ][Footnote 101: Cf. _Winter's Tale_, I. ii. 137 ff. : Can thy dam? --may't be? -- Affection! thy intention stabs the centre: Thou dost make possible things not so held, Communicatest with dreams;--how can this be? With what's unreal thou coactive art, And fellow'st nothing: then 'tis very credent Thou may'st cojoin with something; and thou dost, And that beyond commission, and I find it, And that to the infection of my brains And hardening of my brows. ][Footnote 102: See Note O. ][Footnote 103: New Illustrations, ii. 281. ][Footnote 104: _Lectures on Shakespeare_, ed. Ashe, p. 386. ][Footnote 105: I will not discuss the further question whether, grantedthat to Shakespeare Othello was a black, he should be represented as ablack in our theatres now. I dare say not. We do not like the realShakespeare. We like to have his language pruned and his conceptionsflattened into something that suits our mouths and minds. And even if wewere prepared to make an effort, still, as Lamb observes, to imagine isone thing and to see is another. Perhaps if we saw Othello coal-blackwith the bodily eye, the aversion of our blood, an aversion which comesas near to being merely physical as anything human can, would overpowerour imagination and sink us below not Shakespeare only but the audiencesof the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. As I have mentioned Lamb, I may observe that he differed from Coleridgeas to Othello's colour, but, I am sorry to add, thought Desdemona tostand in need of excuse. 'This noble lady, with a singularity rather tobe wondered at than imitated, had chosen for the object of heraffections a Moor, a black. . . . Neither is Desdemona to be altogethercondemned for the unsuitableness of the person whom she selected for herlover' (_Tales from Shakespeare_). Others, of course, have gone muchfurther and have treated all the calamities of the tragedy as a sort ofjudgment on Desdemona's rashness, wilfulness and undutifulness. There isno arguing with opinions like this; but I cannot believe that even Lambis true to Shakespeare in implying that Desdemona is in some degree tobe condemned. What is there in the play to show that Shakespeareregarded her marriage differently from Imogen's? ][Footnote 106: When Desdemona spoke her last words, perhaps that line ofthe ballad which she sang an hour before her death was still busy in herbrain, Let nobody blame him: his scorn I approve. Nature plays such strange tricks, and Shakespeare almost alone amongpoets seems to create in somewhat the same manner as Nature. In the sameway, as Malone pointed out, Othello's exclamation, 'Goats and monkeys! '(IV. i. 274) is an unconscious reminiscence of Iago's words at III. iii. 403. ]LECTURE VIOTHELLO1Evil has nowhere else been portrayed with such mastery as in thecharacter of Iago. Richard III. , for example, beside being less subtlyconceived, is a far greater figure and a less repellent. His physicaldeformity, separating him from other men, seems to offer some excuse forhis egoism. In spite of his egoism, too, he appears to us more than amere individual: he is the representative of his family, the Fury of theHouse of York. Nor is he so negative as Iago: he has strong passions, hehas admirations, and his conscience disturbs him. There is the glory ofpower about him. Though an excellent actor, he prefers force to fraud,and in his world there is no general illusion as to his true nature. Again, to compare Iago with the Satan of _Paradise Lost_ seems almostabsurd, so immensely does Shakespeare's man exceed Milton's Fiend inevil. That mighty Spirit, whose form had yet not lost All her original brightness, nor appeared Less than archangel ruined and the excess Of glory obscured;who knew loyalty to comrades and pity for victims; who felt how awful goodness is, and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely; saw, and pined His loss;who could still weep--how much further distant is he than Iago fromspiritual death, even when, in procuring the fall of Man, he completeshis own fall! It is only in Goethe's Mephistopheles that a fit companionfor Iago can be found. Here there is something of the same deadlycoldness, the same gaiety in destruction. But then Mephistopheles, likeso many scores of literary villains, has Iago for his father. AndMephistopheles, besides, is not, in the strict sense, a character. He ishalf person, half symbol. A metaphysical idea speaks through him. He isearthy, but could never live upon the earth. Of Shakespeare's characters Falstaff, Hamlet, Iago, and Cleopatra (Iname them in the order of their births) are probably the most wonderful. Of these, again, Hamlet and Iago, whose births come nearest together,are perhaps the most subtle. And if Iago had been a person as attractiveas Hamlet, as many thousands of pages might have been written about him,containing as much criticism good and bad. As it is, the majority ofinterpretations of his character are inadequate not only toShakespeare's conception, but, I believe, to the impressions of mostreaders of taste who are unbewildered by analysis. These falseinterpretations, if we set aside the usual lunacies,[107] fall into twogroups. The first contains views which reduce Shakespeare tocommonplace. In different ways and degrees they convert his Iago intoan ordinary villain. Their Iago is simply a man who has been slightedand revenges himself; or a husband who believes he has been wronged, andwill make his enemy suffer a jealousy worse than his own; or anambitious man determined to ruin his successful rival--one of these, ora combination of these, endowed with unusual ability and cruelty. Theseare the more popular views. The second group of false interpretations ismuch smaller, but it contains much weightier matter than the first. HereIago is a being who hates good simply because it is good, and loves evilpurely for itself. His action is not prompted by any plain motive likerevenge, jealousy or ambition. It springs from a 'motiveless malignity,'or a disinterested delight in the pain of others; and Othello, Cassioand Desdemona are scarcely more than the material requisite for the fullattainment of this delight. This second Iago, evidently, is noconventional villain, and he is much nearer to Shakespeare's Iago thanthe first. Only he is, if not a psychological impossibility, at any ratenot a _human_ being. He might be in place, therefore, in a symbolicalpoem like _Faust_, but in a purely human drama like _Othello_ he wouldbe a ruinous blunder. Moreover, he is not in _Othello_: he is a productof imperfect observation and analysis. Coleridge, the author of that misleading phrase 'motiveless malignity,'has some fine remarks on Iago; and the essence of the character has beendescribed, first in some of the best lines Hazlitt ever wrote, and thenrather more fully by Mr. Swinburne,--so admirably described that I amtempted merely to read and illustrate these two criticisms. This plan,however, would make it difficult to introduce all that I wish to say. Ipropose, therefore, to approach the subject directly, and, first, toconsider how Iago appeared to those who knew him, and what inferencesmay be drawn from their illusions; and then to ask what, if we judgefrom the play, his character really was. And I will indicate the pointswhere I am directly indebted to the criticisms just mentioned. But two warnings are first required. One of these concerns Iago'snationality. It has been held that he is a study of that peculiarlyItalian form of villainy which is considered both too clever and toodiabolical for an Englishman. I doubt if there is much more to be saidfor this idea than for the notion that Othello is a study of Moorishcharacter. No doubt the belief in that Italian villainy was prevalent inShakespeare's time, and it may perhaps have influenced him in someslight degree both here and in drawing the character of Iachimo in_Cymbeline_. But even this slight influence seems to me doubtful. If DonJohn in _Much Ado_ had been an Englishman, critics would have admiredShakespeare's discernment in making his English villain sulky andstupid. If Edmund's father had been Duke of Ferrara instead of Earl ofGloster, they would have said that Edmund could have been nothing but anItalian. Change the name and country of Richard III. , and he would becalled a typical despot of the Italian Renaissance. Change those ofJuliet, and we should find her wholesome English nature contrasted withthe southern dreaminess of Romeo. But this way of interpretingShakespeare is not Shakespearean. With him the differences of period,race, nationality and locality have little bearing on the inwardcharacter, though they sometimes have a good deal on the totalimaginative effect, of his figures. When he does lay stress on suchdifferences his intention is at once obvious, as in characters likeFluellen or Sir Hugh Evans, or in the talk of the French princes beforethe battle of Agincourt. I may add that Iago certainly cannot be takento exemplify the popular Elizabethan idea of a disciple of Macchiavelli. There is no sign that he is in theory an atheist or even an unbelieverin the received religion. On the contrary, he uses its language, andsays nothing resembling the words of the prologue to the _Jew of Malta_: I count religion but a childish toy, And hold there is no sin but ignorance. Aaron in _Titus Andronicus_ might have said this (and is not more likelyto be Shakespeare's creation on that account), but not Iago. I come to a second warning. One must constantly remember not to believea syllable that Iago utters on any subject, including himself, until onehas tested his statement by comparing it with known facts and with otherstatements of his own or of other people, and by considering whether hehad in the particular circumstances any reason for telling a lie or fortelling the truth. The implicit confidence which his acquaintancesplaced in his integrity has descended to most of his critics; and this,reinforcing the comical habit of quoting as Shakespeare's own statementeverything said by his characters, has been a fruitful source ofmisinterpretation. I will take as an instance the very first assertionsmade by Iago. In the opening scene he tells his dupe Roderigo that threegreat men of Venice went to Othello and begged him to make Iago hislieutenant; that Othello, out of pride and obstinacy, refused; that inrefusing he talked a deal of military rigmarole, and ended by declaring(falsely, we are to understand) that he had already filled up thevacancy; that Cassio, whom he chose, had absolutely no practicalknowledge of war, nothing but bookish theoric, mere prattle, arithmetic,whereas Iago himself had often fought by Othello's side, and by 'oldgradation' too ought to have been preferred. Most or all of this isrepeated by some critics as though it were information given byShakespeare, and the conclusion is quite naturally drawn that Iago hadsome reason to feel aggrieved. But if we ask ourselves how much of allthis is true we shall answer, I believe, as follows. It is absolutelycertain that Othello appointed Cassio his lieutenant, and _nothing_ elseis absolutely certain. But there is no reason to doubt the statementthat Iago had seen service with him, nor is there anything inherentlyimprobable in the statement that he was solicited by three greatpersonages on Iago's behalf. On the other hand, the suggestions that herefused out of pride and obstinacy, and that he lied in saying he hadalready chosen his officer, have no verisimilitude; and if there is anyfact at all (as there probably is) behind Iago's account of theconversation, it doubtless is the fact that Iago himself was ignorant ofmilitary science, while Cassio was an expert, and that Othello explainedthis to the great personages. That Cassio, again, was an interloper anda mere closet-student without experience of war is incredible,considering first that Othello chose him for lieutenant, and secondlythat the senate appointed him to succeed Othello in command at Cyprus;and we have direct evidence that part of Iago's statement is a lie, forDesdemona happens to mention that Cassio was a man who 'all his time hadfounded his good fortunes' on Othello's love and had 'shared dangers'with him (III. iv. 93). There remains only the implied assertion that,if promotion had gone by old gradation, Iago, as the senior, would havebeen preferred. It may be true: Othello was not the man to hesitate topromote a junior for good reasons. But it is just as likely to be a pureinvention; and, though Cassio was young, there is nothing to show thathe was younger, in years or in service, than Iago. Iago, for instance,never calls him 'young,' as he does Roderigo; and a mere youth would nothave been made Governor of Cyprus. What is certain, finally, in thewhole business is that Othello's mind was perfectly at ease about theappointment, and that he never dreamed of Iago's being discontented atit, not even when the intrigue was disclosed and he asked himself how hehad offended Iago. 2It is necessary to examine in this manner every statement made by Iago. But it is not necessary to do so in public, and I proceed to thequestion what impression he made on his friends and acquaintances. Inthe main there is here no room for doubt. Nothing could be less likeIago than the melodramatic villain so often substituted for him on thestage, a person whom everyone in the theatre knows for a scoundrel atthe first glance. Iago, we gather, was a Venetian[108] soldier,eight-and-twenty years of age, who had seen a good deal of service andhad a high reputation for courage. Of his origin we are ignorant, but,unless I am mistaken, he was not of gentle birth or breeding. [109] Hedoes not strike one as a degraded man of culture: for all his greatpowers, he is vulgar, and his probable want of military science may wellbe significant. He was married to a wife who evidently lackedrefinement, and who appears in the drama almost in the relation of aservant to Desdemona. His manner was that of a blunt, bluff soldier, whospoke his mind freely and plainly. He was often hearty, and could bethoroughly jovial; but he was not seldom rather rough and caustic ofspeech, and he was given to making remarks somewhat disparaging to humannature. He was aware of this trait in himself, and frankly admitted thathe was nothing if not critical, and that it was his nature to spy intoabuses. In these admissions he characteristically exaggerated his fault,as plain-dealers are apt to do; and he was liked none the less for it,seeing that his satire was humorous, that on serious matters he did notspeak lightly (III. iii. 119), and that the one thing perfectly obviousabout him was his honesty. 'Honest' is the word that springs to the lipsof everyone who speaks of him. It is applied to him some fifteen timesin the play, not to mention some half-dozen where he employs it, inderision, of himself. In fact he was one of those sterling men who, indisgust at gush, say cynical things which they do not believe, and then,the moment you are in trouble, put in practice the very sentiment theyhad laughed at. On such occasions he showed the kindliest sympathy andthe most eager desire to help. When Cassio misbehaved so dreadfully andwas found fighting with Montano, did not Othello see that 'honest Iagolooked dead with grieving'? With what difficulty was he induced, nay,compelled, to speak the truth against the lieutenant! Another man mighthave felt a touch of satisfaction at the thought that the post he hadcoveted was now vacant; but Iago not only comforted Cassio, talking tohim cynically about reputation, just to help him over his shame, but heset his wits to work and at once perceived that the right plan forCassio to get his post again was to ask Desdemona to intercede. Sotroubled was he at his friend's disgrace that his own wife was sure 'itgrieved her husband as if the case was his. ' What wonder that anyone insore trouble, like Desdemona, should send at once for Iago (IV. ii. 106)? If this rough diamond had any flaw, it was that Iago's warm loyalheart incited him to too impulsive action. If he merely heard a friendlike Othello calumniated, his hand flew to his sword; and though herestrained himself he almost regretted his own virtue (I. ii. 1-10). Such seemed Iago to the people about him, even to those who, likeOthello, had known him for some time. And it is a fact too littlenoticed but most remarkable, that he presented an appearance not verydifferent to his wife. There is no sign either that Emilia's marriagewas downright unhappy, or that she suspected the true nature of herhusband. [110] No doubt she knew rather more of him than others. Thus wegather that he was given to chiding and sometimes spoke shortly andsharply to her (III. iii. 300 f. ); and it is quite likely that she gavehim a good deal of her tongue in exchange (II. i. 101 f. ). He was alsounreasonably jealous; for his own statement that he was jealous ofOthello is confirmed by Emilia herself, and must therefore be believed(IV. ii. 145). [111] But it seems clear that these defects of his had notseriously impaired Emilia's confidence in her husband or her affectionfor him. She knew in addition that he was not quite so honest as heseemed, for he had often begged her to steal Desdemona's handkerchief. But Emilia's nature was not very delicate or scrupulous about trifles. She thought her husband odd and 'wayward,' and looked on his fancy forthe handkerchief as an instance of this (III. iii. 292); but she neverdreamed he was a villain, and there is no reason to doubt the sincerityof her belief that he was heartily sorry for Cassio's disgrace. Herfailure, on seeing Othello's agitation about the handkerchief, to formany suspicion of an intrigue, shows how little she doubted her husband. Even when, later, the idea strikes her that some scoundrel has poisonedOthello's mind, the tone of all her speeches, and her mention of therogue who (she believes) had stirred up Iago's jealousy of her, provebeyond doubt that the thought of Iago's being the scoundrel has notcrossed her mind (IV. ii. 115-147). And if any hesitation on the subjectcould remain, surely it must be dispelled by the thrice-repeated cry ofastonishment and horror, 'My husband! ', which follows Othello's words,'Thy husband knew it all'; and by the choking indignation and desperatehope which we hear in her appeal when Iago comes in: Disprove this villain if thou be'st a man: He says thou told'st him that his wife was false: I know thou did'st not, thou'rt not such a villain: Speak, for my heart is full. Even if Iago _had_ betrayed much more of his true self to his wife thanto others, it would make no difference to the contrast between his trueself and the self he presented to the world in general. But he never didso. Only the feeble eyes of the poor gull Roderigo were allowed aglimpse into that pit. The bearing of this contrast upon the apparently excessive credulity ofOthello has been already pointed out. What further conclusions can bedrawn from it? Obviously, to begin with, the inference, which isaccompanied by a thrill of admiration, that Iago's powers ofdissimulation and of self-control must have been prodigious: for he wasnot a youth, like Edmund, but had worn this mask for years, and he hadapparently never enjoyed, like Richard, occasional explosions of thereality within him. In fact so prodigious does his self-control appearthat a reader might be excused for feeling a doubt of its possibility. But there are certain observations and further inferences which, apartfrom confidence in Shakespeare, would remove this doubt. It is to beobserved, first, that Iago was able to find a certain relief from thediscomfort of hypocrisy in those caustic or cynical speeches which,being misinterpreted, only heightened confidence in his honesty. Theyacted as a safety-valve, very much as Hamlet's pretended insanity did. Next, I would infer from the entire success of his hypocrisy--what mayalso be inferred on other grounds, and is of great importance--that hewas by no means a man of strong feelings and passions, like Richard, butdecidedly cold by temperament. Even so, his self-control was wonderful,but there never was in him any violent storm to be controlled. Thirdly,I would suggest that Iago, though thoroughly selfish and unfeeling, wasnot by nature malignant, nor even morose, but that, on the contrary, hehad a superficial good-nature, the kind of good-nature that winspopularity and is often taken as the sign, not of a good digestion, butof a good heart. And lastly, it may be inferred that, before the giantcrime which we witness, Iago had never been detected in any seriousoffence and may even never have been guilty of one, but had pursued aselfish but outwardly decent life, enjoying the excitement of war and ofcasual pleasures, but never yet meeting with any sufficient temptationto risk his position and advancement by a dangerous crime. So that, infact, the tragedy of _Othello_ is in a sense his tragedy too. It showsus not a violent man, like Richard, who spends his life in murder, but athoroughly bad, _cold_ man, who is at last tempted to let loose theforces within him, and is at once destroyed. 3In order to see how this tragedy arises let us now look more closelyinto Iago's inner man. We find here, in the first place, as has beenimplied in part, very remarkable powers both of intellect and of will. Iago's insight, within certain limits, into human nature; his ingenuityand address in working upon it; his quickness and versatility in dealingwith sudden difficulties and unforeseen opportunities, have probably noparallel among dramatic characters. Equally remarkable is his strengthof will. Not Socrates himself, not the ideal sage of the Stoics, wasmore lord of himself than Iago appears to be. It is not merely that henever betrays his true nature; he seems to be master of _all_ themotions that might affect his will. In the most dangerous moments of hisplot, when the least slip or accident would be fatal, he never shows atrace of nervousness. When Othello takes him by the throat he merelyshifts his part with his usual instantaneous adroitness. When he isattacked and wounded at the end he is perfectly unmoved. As Mr. Swinburne says, you cannot believe for a moment that the pain of torturewill ever open Iago's lips. He is equally unassailable by thetemptations of indolence or of sensuality. It is difficult to imaginehim inactive; and though he has an obscene mind, and doubtless took hispleasures when and how he chose, he certainly took them by choice andnot from weakness, and if pleasure interfered with his purposes theholiest of ascetics would not put it more resolutely by. 'What should Ido? ' Roderigo whimpers to him; 'I confess it is my shame to be so fond;but it is not in my virtue to amend it. ' He answers: 'Virtue! a fig! 'tis in ourselves that we are thus and thus. It all depends on our will. Love is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will. Come,be a man. . . . Ere I would say I would drown myself for the love of aguinea-hen, I would change my humanity with a baboon. ' Forget for amoment that love is for Iago the appetite of a baboon; forget that he isas little assailable by pity as by fear or pleasure; and you willacknowledge that this lordship of the will, which is his practice aswell as his doctrine, is great, almost sublime. Indeed, in intellect(always within certain limits) and in will (considered as a mere power,and without regard to its objects) Iago _is_ great. To what end does he use these great powers? His creed--for he is nosceptic, he has a definite creed--is that absolute egoism is the onlyrational and proper attitude, and that conscience or honour or any kindof regard for others is an absurdity. He does not deny that thisabsurdity exists. He does not suppose that most people secretly sharehis creed, while pretending to hold and practise another. On thecontrary, he regards most people as honest fools. He declares that hehas never yet met a man who knew how to love himself; and his oneexpression of admiration in the play is for servants Who, trimmed in forms and visages of duty, Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves. 'These fellows,' he says, 'have some soul. ' He professes to stand, andhe, attempts to stand, wholly outside the world of morality. The existence of Iago's creed and of his corresponding practice isevidently connected with a characteristic in which he surpasses nearlyall the other inhabitants of Shakespeare's world. Whatever he may oncehave been, he appears, when we meet him, to be almost destitute ofhumanity, of sympathetic or social feeling. He shows no trace ofaffection, and in presence of the most terrible suffering he showseither pleasure or an indifference which, if not complete, is nearly so. Here, however, we must be careful. It is important to realise, and fewreaders are in danger of ignoring, this extraordinary deadness offeeling, but it is also important not to confuse it with a generalpositive ill-will. When Iago has no dislike or hostility to a person hedoes _not_ show pleasure in the suffering of that person: he shows atmost the absence of pain. There is, for instance, not the least sign ofhis enjoying the distress of Desdemona. But his sympathetic feelings areso abnormally feeble and cold that, when his dislike is roused, or whenan indifferent person comes in the way of his purpose, there is scarcelyanything within him to prevent his applying the torture. What is it that provokes his dislike or hostility? Here again we mustlook closely. Iago has been represented as an incarnation of envy, as aman who, being determined to get on in the world, regards everyone elsewith enmity as his rival. But this idea, though containing truth, seemsmuch exaggerated. Certainly he is devoted to himself; but if he were aneagerly ambitious man, surely we should see much more positive signs ofthis ambition; and surely too, with his great powers, he would alreadyhave risen high, instead of being a mere ensign, short of money, andplaying Captain Rook to Roderigo's Mr. Pigeon. Taking all the facts, onemust conclude that his desires were comparatively moderate and hisambition weak; that he probably enjoyed war keenly, but, if he had moneyenough, did not exert himself greatly to acquire reputation or position;and, therefore, that he was not habitually burning with envy andactively hostile to other men as possible competitors. But what is clear is that Iago is keenly sensitive to anything thattouches his pride or self-esteem. It would be most unjust to call himvain, but he has a high opinion of himself and a great contempt forothers. He is quite aware of his superiority to them in certainrespects; and he either disbelieves in or despises the qualities inwhich they are superior to him. Whatever disturbs or wounds his sense ofsuperiority irritates him at once; and in _that_ sense he is highlycompetitive. This is why the appointment of Cassio provokes him. This iswhy Cassio's scientific attainments provoke him. This is the reason ofhis jealousy of Emilia. He does not care for his wife; but the fear ofanother man's getting the better of him, and exposing him to pity orderision as an unfortunate husband, is wormwood to him; and as he issure that no woman is virtuous at heart, this fear is ever with him. Formuch the same reason he has a spite against goodness in men (for it ischaracteristic that he is less blind to its existence in men, thestronger, than in women, the weaker). He has a spite against it, notfrom any love of evil for evil's sake, but partly because it annoys hisintellect as a stupidity; partly (though he hardly knows this) becauseit weakens his satisfaction with himself, and disturbs his faith thategoism is the right and proper thing; partly because, the world beingsuch a fool, goodness is popular and prospers. But he, a man ten timesas able as Cassio or even Othello, does not greatly prosper. Somehow,for all the stupidity of these open and generous people, they get onbetter than the 'fellow of some soul' And this, though he is notparticularly eager to get on, wounds his pride. Goodness thereforeannoys him. He is always ready to scoff at it, and would like to strikeat it. In ordinary circumstances these feelings of irritation are notvivid in Iago--_no_ feeling is so--but they are constantly present. 4Our task of analysis is not finished; but we are now in a position toconsider the rise of Iago's tragedy.

Why did he act as we see him actingin the play? What is the answer to that appeal of Othello's: Will you, I pray, demand that demi-devil Why he hath thus ensnared my soul and body? This question Why? is _the_ question about Iago, just as the questionWhy did Hamlet delay? is _the_ question about Hamlet. Iago refused toanswer it; but I will venture to say that he _could_ not have answeredit, any more than Hamlet could tell why he delayed. But Shakespeare knewthe answer, and if these characters are great creations and not blunderswe ought to be able to find it too. Is it possible to elicit it from Iago himself against his will? He makesvarious statements to Roderigo, and he has several soliloquies. Fromthese sources, and especially from the latter, we should learnsomething. For with Shakespeare soliloquy generally gives informationregarding the secret springs as well as the outward course of the plot;and, moreover, it is a curious point of technique with him that thesoliloquies of his villains sometimes read almost like explanationsoffered to the audience. [112] Now, Iago repeatedly offers explanationseither to Roderigo or to himself. In the first place, he says more thanonce that he 'hates' Othello. He gives two reasons for his hatred. Othello has made Cassio lieutenant; and he suspects, and has heard itreported, that Othello has an intrigue with Emilia. Next there isCassio. He never says he hates Cassio, but he finds in him three causesof offence: Cassio has been preferred to him; he suspects _him_ too ofan intrigue with Emilia; and, lastly, Cassio has a daily beauty in hislife which makes Iago ugly. In addition to these annoyances he wantsCassio's place. As for Roderigo, he calls him a snipe, and who can hatea snipe? But Roderigo knows too much; and he is becoming a nuisance,getting angry, and asking for the gold and jewels he handed to Iago togive to Desdemona. So Iago kills Roderigo. Then for Desdemona: afig's-end for her virtue! but he has no ill-will to her. In fact he'loves' her, though he is good enough to explain, varying the word, thathis 'lust' is mixed with a desire to pay Othello in his own coin. To besure she must die, and so must Emilia, and so would Bianca if only theauthorities saw things in their true light; but he did not set out withany hostile design against these persons. Is the account which Iago gives of the causes of his action the trueaccount? The answer of the most popular view will be, 'Yes. Iago was, ashe says, chiefly incited by two things, the desire of advancement, and ahatred of Othello due principally to the affair of the lieutenancy. These are perfectly intelligible causes; we have only to add to themunusual ability and cruelty, and all is explained. Why should Coleridgeand Hazlitt and Swinburne go further afield? ' To which last question Iwill at once oppose these: If your view is correct, why should Iago beconsidered an extraordinary creation; and is it not odd that the peoplewho reject it are the people who elsewhere show an exceptionalunderstanding of Shakespeare? The difficulty about this popular view is, in the first place, that itattributes to Iago what cannot be found in the Iago of the play. ItsIago is impelled by _passions_, a passion of ambition and a passion ofhatred; for no ambition or hatred short of passion could drive a man whois evidently so clear-sighted, and who must hitherto have been soprudent, into a plot so extremely hazardous. Why, then, in the Iago ofthe play do we find no sign of these passions or of anything approachingto them? Why, if Shakespeare meant that Iago was impelled by them, doeshe suppress the signs of them? Surely not from want of ability todisplay them. The poet who painted Macbeth and Shylock understood hisbusiness. Who ever doubted Macbeth's ambition or Shylock's hate? Andwhat resemblance is there between these passions and any feeling that wecan trace in Iago? The resemblance between a volcano in eruption and aflameless fire of coke; the resemblance between a consuming desire tohack and hew your enemy's flesh, and the resentful wish, only toofamiliar in common life, to inflict pain in return for a slight. Passion, in Shakespeare's plays, is perfectly easy to recognise. Whatvestige of it, of passion unsatisfied or of passion gratified, isvisible in Iago? None: that is the very horror of him. He has _less_passion than an ordinary man, and yet he does these frightful things. The only ground for attributing to him, I do not say a passionatehatred, but anything deserving the name of hatred at all, is his ownstatement, 'I hate Othello'; and we know what his statements are worth. But the popular view, beside attributing to Iago what he does not show,ignores what he does show. It selects from his own account of hismotives one or two, and drops the rest; and so it makes everythingnatural. But it fails to perceive how unnatural, how strange andsuspicious, his own account is. Certainly he assigns motives enough; thedifficulty is that he assigns so many. A man moved by simple passionsdue to simple causes does not stand fingering his feelings,industriously enumerating their sources, and groping about for new ones. But this is what Iago does. And this is not all. These motives appearand disappear in the most extraordinary manner. Resentment at Cassio'sappointment is expressed in the first conversation with Roderigo, andfrom that moment is never once mentioned again in the whole play. Hatredof Othello is expressed in the First Act alone. Desire to get Cassio'splace scarcely appears after the first soliloquy, and when it isgratified Iago does not refer to it by a single word. The suspicion ofCassio's intrigue with Emilia emerges suddenly, as an after-thought, notin the first soliloquy but the second, and then disappears forever. [113] Iago's 'love' of Desdemona is alluded to in the secondsoliloquy; there is not the faintest trace of it in word or deed eitherbefore or after. The mention of jealousy of Othello is followed bydeclarations that Othello is infatuated about Desdemona and is of aconstant nature, and during Othello's sufferings Iago never shows a signof the idea that he is now paying his rival in his own coin. In thesecond soliloquy he declares that he quite believes Cassio to be in lovewith Desdemona; it is obvious that he believes no such thing, for henever alludes to the idea again, and within a few hours describes Cassioin soliloquy as an honest fool. His final reason for ill-will to Cassionever appears till the Fifth Act. What is the meaning of all this? Unless Shakespeare was out of his mind,it must have a meaning. And certainly this meaning is not contained inany of the popular accounts of Iago. Is it contained then in Coleridge's word 'motive-hunting'? Yes,'motive-hunting' exactly answers to the impression that Iago'ssoliloquies produce. He is pondering his design, and unconsciouslytrying to justify it to himself. He speaks of one or two real feelings,such as resentment against Othello, and he mentions one or two realcauses of these feelings. But these are not enough for him. Along withthem, or alone, there come into his head, only to leave it again, ideasand suspicions, the creations of his own baseness or uneasiness, someold, some new, caressed for a moment to feed his purpose and give it areasonable look, but never really believed in, and never the main forceswhich are determining his action. In fact, I would venture to describeIago in these soliloquies as a man setting out on a project whichstrongly attracts his desire, but at the same time conscious of aresistance to the desire, and unconsciously trying to argue theresistance away by assigning reasons for the project. He is thecounterpart of Hamlet, who tries to find reasons for his delay inpursuing a design which excites his aversion. And most of Iago's reasonsfor action are no more the real ones than Hamlet's reasons for delaywere the real ones. Each is moved by forces which he does notunderstand; and it is probably no accident that these two studies ofstates psychologically so similar were produced at about the sameperiod. What then were the real moving forces of Iago's action? Are we to fallback on the idea of a 'motiveless malignity;'[114] that is to say, adisinterested love of evil, or a delight in the pain of others as simpleand direct as the delight in one's own pleasure? Surely not. I will notinsist that this thing or these things are inconceivable, mere phrases,not ideas; for, even so, it would remain possible that Shakespeare hadtried to represent an inconceivability. But there is not the slightestreason to suppose that he did so. Iago's action is intelligible; andindeed the popular view contains enough truth to refute this desperatetheory. It greatly exaggerates his desire for advancement, and theill-will caused by his disappointment, and it ignores other forces moreimportant than these; but it is right in insisting on the presence ofthis desire and this ill-will, and their presence is enough to destroyIago's claims to be more than a demi-devil. For love of the evil thatadvances my interest and hurts a person I dislike, is a very differentthing from love of evil simply as evil; and pleasure in the pain of aperson disliked or regarded as a competitor is quite distinct frompleasure in the pain of others simply as others. The first isintelligible, and we find it in Iago. The second, even if it wereintelligible, we do not find in Iago. Still, desire of advancement and resentment about the lieutenancy,though factors and indispensable factors in the cause of Iago's action,are neither the principal nor the most characteristic factors. To findthese, let us return to our half-completed analysis of the character. Let us remember especially the keen sense of superiority, the contemptof others, the sensitiveness to everything which wounds these feelings,the spite against goodness in men as a thing not only stupid but, bothin its nature and by its success, contrary to Iago's nature andirritating to his pride. Let us remember in addition the annoyance ofhaving always to play a part, the consciousness of exceptional butunused ingenuity and address, the enjoyment of action, and the absenceof fear. And let us ask what would be the greatest pleasure of such aman, and what the situation which might tempt him to abandon hishabitual prudence and pursue this pleasure. Hazlitt and Mr. Swinburne donot put this question, but the answer I proceed to give to it is inprinciple theirs. [115]The most delightful thing to such a man would be something that gave anextreme satisfaction to his sense of power and superiority; and if itinvolved, secondly, the triumphant exertion of his abilities, and,thirdly, the excitement of danger, his delight would be consummated. Andthe moment most dangerous to such a man would be one when his sense ofsuperiority had met with an affront, so that its habitual craving wasreinforced by resentment, while at the same time he saw an opportunityof satisfying it by subjecting to his will the very persons who hadaffronted it. Now, this is the temptation that comes to Iago. Othello'seminence, Othello's goodness, and his own dependence on Othello, musthave been a perpetual annoyance to him. At _any_ time he would haveenjoyed befooling and tormenting Othello. Under ordinary circumstanceshe was restrained, chiefly by self-interest, in some slight degreeperhaps by the faint pulsations of conscience or humanity. Butdisappointment at the loss of the lieutenancy supplied the touch oflively resentment that was required to overcome these obstacles; and theprospect of satisfying the sense of power by mastering Othello throughan intricate and hazardous intrigue now became irresistible. Iago didnot clearly understand what was moving his desire; though he tried togive himself reasons for his action, even those that had some realitymade but a small part of the motive force; one may almost say they wereno more than the turning of the handle which admits the driving powerinto the machine. Only once does he appear to see something of thetruth. It is when he uses the phrase '_to plume up my will_ in doubleknavery. 'To 'plume up the will,' to heighten the sense of power orsuperiority--this seems to be the unconscious motive of many acts ofcruelty which evidently do not spring chiefly from ill-will, and whichtherefore puzzle and sometimes horrify us most. It is often this thatmakes a man bully the wife or children of whom he is fond. The boy whotorments another boy, as we say, 'for no reason,' or who without anyhatred for frogs tortures a frog, is pleased with his victim's pain, notfrom any disinterested love of evil or pleasure in pain, but mainlybecause this pain is the unmistakable proof of his own power over hisvictim. So it is with Iago. His thwarted sense of superiority wantssatisfaction. What fuller satisfaction could it find than theconsciousness that he is the master of the General who has undervaluedhim and of the rival who has been preferred to him; that these worthypeople, who are so successful and popular and stupid, are mere puppetsin his hands, but living puppets, who at the motion of his finger mustcontort themselves in agony, while all the time they believe that he istheir one true friend and comforter? It must have been an ecstasy ofbliss to him. And this, granted a most abnormal deadness of humanfeeling, is, however horrible, perfectly intelligible. There is nomystery in the psychology of Iago; the mystery lies in a furtherquestion, which the drama has not to answer, the question why such abeing should exist. Iago's longing to satisfy the sense of power is, I think, the strongestof the forces that drive him on. But there are two others to be noticed. One is the pleasure in an action very difficult and perilous and,therefore, intensely exciting. This action sets all his powers on thestrain. He feels the delight of one who executes successfully a featthoroughly congenial to his special aptitude, and only just within hiscompass; and, as he is fearless by nature, the fact that a single slipwill cost him his life only increases his pleasure. His exhilarationbreaks out in the ghastly words with which he greets the sunrise afterthe night of the drunken tumult which has led to Cassio's disgrace: 'Bythe mass, 'tis morning. Pleasure and action make the hours seem short. 'Here, however, the joy in exciting action is quickened by otherfeelings. It appears more simply elsewhere in such a way as to suggestthat nothing but such actions gave him happiness, and that his happinesswas greater if the action was destructive as well as exciting. We findit, for instance, in his gleeful cry to Roderigo, who proposes to shoutto Brabantio in order to wake him and tell him of his daughter's flight: Do, with like timorous[116] accent and dire yell As when, by night and negligence, the fire Is spied in populous cities. All through that scene; again, in the scene where Cassio is attacked andRoderigo murdered; everywhere where Iago is in physical action, we catchthis sound of almost feverish enjoyment. His blood, usually so cold andslow, is racing through his veins. But Iago, finally, is not simply a man of action; he is an artist. Hisaction is a plot, the intricate plot of a drama, and in the conceptionand execution of it he experiences the tension and the joy of artisticcreation. 'He is,' says Hazlitt, 'an amateur of tragedy in real life;and, instead of employing his invention on imaginary characters orlong-forgotten incidents, he takes the bolder and more dangerous courseof getting up his plot at home, casts the principal parts among hisnewest friends and connections, and rehearses it in downright earnest,with steady nerves and unabated resolution. ' Mr. Swinburne lays evengreater stress on this aspect of Iago's character, and even declaresthat 'the very subtlest and strongest component of his complex nature'is 'the instinct of what Mr. Carlyle would call an inarticulate poet. 'And those to whom this idea is unfamiliar, and who may suspect it atfirst sight of being fanciful, will find, if they examine the play inthe light of Mr. Swinburne's exposition, that it rests on a true anddeep perception, will stand scrutiny, and might easily be illustrated. They may observe, to take only one point, the curious analogy betweenthe early stages of dramatic composition and those soliloquies in whichIago broods over his plot, drawing at first only an outline, puzzled howto fix more than the main idea, and gradually seeing it develop andclarify as he works upon it or lets it work. Here at any rateShakespeare put a good deal of himself into Iago. But the tragedian inreal life was not the equal of the tragic poet. His psychology, as weshall see, was at fault at a critical point, as Shakespeare's never was. And so his catastrophe came out wrong, and his piece was ruined. Such, then, seem to be the chief ingredients of the force which,liberated by his resentment at Cassio's promotion, drives Iago frominactivity into action, and sustains him through it. And, to pass to anew point, this force completely possesses him; it is his fate. It islike the passion with which a tragic hero wholly identifies himself, andwhich bears him on to his doom. It is true that, once embarked on hiscourse, Iago _could_ not turn back, even if this passion did abate; andit is also true that he is compelled, by his success in convincingOthello, to advance to conclusions of which at the outset he did notdream. He is thus caught in his own web, and could not liberate himselfif he would. But, in fact, he never shows a trace of wishing to do so,not a trace of hesitation, of looking back, or of fear, any more than ofremorse; there is no ebb in the tide. As the crisis approaches therepasses through his mind a fleeting doubt whether the deaths of Cassioand Roderigo are indispensable; but that uncertainty, which does notconcern the main issue, is dismissed, and he goes forward withundiminished zest. Not even in his sleep--as in Richard's before hisfinal battle--does any rebellion of outraged conscience or pity, or anyforeboding of despair, force itself into clear consciousness. Hisfate--which is himself--has completely mastered him: so that, in thelater scenes, where the improbability of the entire success of a designbuilt on so many different falsehoods forces itself on the reader, Iagoappears for moments not as a consummate schemer, but as a man absolutelyinfatuated and delivered over to certain destruction. 5Iago stands supreme among Shakespeare's evil characters because thegreatest intensity and subtlety of imagination have gone to his making,and because he illustrates in the most perfect combination the two factsconcerning evil which seem to have impressed Shakespeare most. The firstof these is the fact that perfectly sane people exist in whomfellow-feeling of any kind is so weak that an almost absolute egoismbecomes possible to them, and with it those hard vices--such asingratitude and cruelty--which to Shakespeare were far the worst. Thesecond is that such evil is compatible, and even appears to ally itselfeasily, with exceptional powers of will and intellect. In the latterrespect Iago is nearly or quite the equal of Richard, in egoism he isthe superior, and his inferiority in passion and massive force onlymakes him more repulsive. How is it then that we can bear to contemplatehim; nay, that, if we really imagine him, we feel admiration and somekind of sympathy? Henry the Fifth tells us: There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distil it out;but here, it may be said, we are shown a thing absolutely evil,and--what is more dreadful still--this absolute evil is united withsupreme intellectual power. Why is the representation tolerable, and whydo we not accuse its author either of untruth or of a desperatepessimism? To these questions it might at once be replied: Iago does not standalone; he is a factor in a whole; and we perceive him there and not inisolation, acted upon as well as acting, destroyed as well asdestroying. [117] But, although this is true and important, I pass it byand, continuing to regard him by himself, I would make three remarks inanswer to the questions. In the first place, Iago is not merely negative or evil--far from it. Those very forces that moved him and made his fate--sense of power,delight in performing a difficult and dangerous action, delight in theexercise of artistic skill--are not at all evil things. We sympathisewith one or other of them almost every day of our lives. And,accordingly, though in Iago they are combined with something detestableand so contribute to evil, our perception of them is accompanied withsympathy. In the same way, Iago's insight, dexterity, quickness,address, and the like, are in themselves admirable things; the perfectman would possess them. And certainly he would possess also Iago'scourage and self-control, and, like Iago, would stand above the impulsesof mere feeling, lord of his inner world. All this goes to evil ends inIago, but in itself it has a great worth; and, although in reading, ofcourse, we do not sift it out and regard it separately, it inevitablyaffects us and mingles admiration with our hatred or horror. All this, however, might apparently co-exist with absolute egoism andtotal want of humanity. But, in the second place, it is not true that inIago this egoism and this want are absolute, and that in this sense heis a thing of mere evil. They are frightful, but if they were absoluteIago would be a monster, not a man. The fact is, he _tries_ to make themabsolute and cannot succeed; and the traces of conscience, shame andhumanity, though faint, are discernible. If his egoism were absolute hewould be perfectly indifferent to the opinion of others; and he clearlyis not so. His very irritation at goodness, again, is a sign that hisfaith in his creed is not entirely firm; and it is not entirely firmbecause he himself has a perception, however dim, of the goodness ofgoodness. What is the meaning of the last reason he gives himself forkilling Cassio: He hath a daily beauty in his life That makes me ugly? Does he mean that he is ugly to others? Then he is not an absoluteegoist. Does he mean that he is ugly to himself? Then he makes an openconfession of moral sense. And, once more, if he really possessed nomoral sense, we should never have heard those soliloquies which soclearly betray his uneasiness and his unconscious desire to persuadehimself that he has some excuse for the villainy he contemplates. Theseseem to be indubitable proofs that, against his will, Iago is a littlebetter than his creed, and has failed to withdraw himself wholly fromthe human atmosphere about him. And to these proofs I would add, thoughwith less confidence, two others. Iago's momentary doubt towards the endwhether Roderigo and Cassio must be killed has always surprised me. As amere matter of calculation it is perfectly obvious that they must; and Ibelieve his hesitation is not merely intellectual, it is another symptomof the obscure working of conscience or humanity. Lastly, is it notsignificant that, when once his plot has begun to develop, Iago neverseeks the presence of Desdemona; that he seems to leave her as quicklyas he can (III. iv. 138); and that, when he is fetched byEmilia to see her in her distress (IV. ii. 110 ff. ), we fail tocatch in his words any sign of the pleasure he shows in Othello'smisery, and seem rather to perceive a certain discomfort, and, if onedare say it, a faint touch of shame or remorse? This interpretation ofthe passage, I admit, is not inevitable, but to my mind (quite apartfrom any theorising about Iago) it seems the natural one. [118] And if itis right, Iago's discomfort is easily understood; for Desdemona is theone person concerned against whom it is impossible for him even toimagine a ground of resentment, and so an excuse for cruelty. [119]There remains, thirdly, the idea that Iago is a man of supremeintellect who is at the same time supremely wicked. That he is supremelywicked nobody will doubt; and I have claimed for him nothing that willinterfere with his right to that title. But to say that his intellectualpower is supreme is to make a great mistake. Within certain limits hehas indeed extraordinary penetration, quickness, inventiveness,adaptiveness; but the limits are defined with the hardest of lines, andthey are narrow limits. It would scarcely be unjust to call him simplyastonishingly clever, or simply a consummate master of intrigue. Butcompare him with one who may perhaps be roughly called a bad man ofsupreme intellectual power, Napoleon, and you see how small and negativeIago's mind is, incapable of Napoleon's military achievements, and muchmore incapable of his political constructions. Or, to keep within theShakespearean world, compare him with Hamlet, and you perceive howmiserably close is his intellectual horizon; that such a thing as athought beyond the reaches of his soul has never come near him; that heis prosaic through and through, deaf and blind to all but a tinyfragment of the meaning of things. Is it not quite absurd, then, to callhim a man of supreme intellect? And observe, lastly, that his failure in perception is closely connectedwith his badness. He was destroyed by the power that he attacked, thepower of love; and he was destroyed by it because he could notunderstand it; and he could not understand it because it was not in him. Iago never meant his plot to be so dangerous to himself. He knew thatjealousy is painful, but the jealousy of a love like Othello's he couldnot imagine, and he found himself involved in murders which were no partof his original design. That difficulty he surmounted, and his changedplot still seemed to prosper. Roderigo and Cassio and Desdemona oncedead, all will be well. Nay, when he fails to kill Cassio, all may stillbe well. He will avow that he told Othello of the adultery, and persistthat he told the truth, and Cassio will deny it in vain. And then, in amoment, his plot is shattered by a blow from a quarter where he neverdreamt of danger. He knows his wife, he thinks. She is notover-scrupulous, she will do anything to please him, and she has learntobedience. But one thing in her he does not know--that she _loves_ hermistress and would face a hundred deaths sooner than see her fair famedarkened. There is genuine astonishment in his outburst 'What! Are youmad? ' as it dawns upon him that she means to speak the truth about thehandkerchief. But he might well have applied to himself the words sheflings at Othello, O gull! O dolt! As ignorant as dirt! The foulness of his own soul made him so ignorant that he built into themarvellous structure of his plot a piece of crass stupidity. To the thinking mind the divorce of unusual intellect from goodness is athing to startle; and Shakespeare clearly felt it so. The combination ofunusual intellect with extreme evil is more than startling, it isfrightful. It is rare, but it exists; and Shakespeare represented it inIago. But the alliance of evil like Iago's with _supreme_ intellect isan impossible fiction; and Shakespeare's fictions were truth. 6The characters of Cassio and Emilia hardly require analysis, and I willtouch on them only from a single point of view. In their combination ofexcellences and defects they are good examples of that truth to naturewhich in dramatic art is the one unfailing source of moral instruction. Cassio is a handsome, light-hearted, good-natured young fellow, whotakes life gaily, and is evidently very attractive and popular. Othello,who calls him by his Christian name, is fond of him; Desdemona likes himmuch; Emilia at once interests herself on his behalf. He has warmgenerous feelings, an enthusiastic admiration for the General, and achivalrous adoration for his peerless wife. But he is too easy-going. Hefinds it hard to say No; and accordingly, although he is aware that hehas a very weak head, and that the occasion is one on which he is boundto run no risk, he gets drunk--not disgustingly so, but ludicrouslyso. [120] And, besides, he amuses himself without any scruple byfrequenting the company of a woman of more than doubtful reputation, whohas fallen in love with his good looks. Moralising critics point outthat he pays for the first offence by losing his post, and for thesecond by nearly losing his life. They are quite entitled to do so,though the careful reader will not forget Iago's part in thesetransactions. But they ought also to point out that Cassio's loosenessdoes not in the least disturb our confidence in him in his relationswith Desdemona and Othello. He is loose, and we are sorry for it; but wenever doubt that there was 'a daily beauty in his life,' or that hisrapturous admiration of Desdemona was as wholly beautiful a thing as itappears, or that Othello was perfectly safe when in his courtship heemployed Cassio to 'go between' Desdemona and himself. It is fortunatelya fact in human nature that these aspects of Cassio's character arequite compatible. Shakespeare simply sets it down; and it is justbecause he is truthful in these smaller things that in greater things wetrust him absolutely never to pervert the truth for the sake of somedoctrine or purpose of his own. There is something very lovable about Cassio, with his fresh eagerfeelings; his distress at his disgrace and still more at having lostOthello's trust; his hero-worship; and at the end his sorrow and pity,which are at first too acute for words. He is carried in, wounded, on achair. He looks at Othello and cannot speak. His first words come laterwhen, to Lodovico's question, 'Did you and he consent in Cassio'sdeath? ' Othello answers 'Ay. ' Then he falters out, 'Dear General, Inever gave you cause. ' One is sure he had never used that adjectivebefore. The love in it makes it beautiful, but there is something elsein it, unknown to Cassio, which goes to one's heart. It tells us thathis hero is no longer unapproachably above him. Few of Shakespeare's minor characters are more distinct than Emilia, andtowards few do our feelings change so much within the course of a play. Till close to the end she frequently sets one's teeth on edge; and atthe end one is ready to worship her. She nowhere shows any sign ofhaving a bad heart; but she is common, sometimes vulgar, in minormatters far from scrupulous, blunt in perception and feeling, and quitedestitute of imagination. She let Iago take the handkerchief though sheknew how much its loss would distress Desdemona; and she said nothingabout it though she saw that Othello was jealous. We rightly resent herunkindness in permitting the theft, but--it is an important point--weare apt to misconstrue her subsequent silence, because we know thatOthello's jealousy was intimately connected with the loss of thehandkerchief. Emilia, however, certainly failed to perceive this; forotherwise, when Othello's anger showed itself violently and she wasreally distressed for her mistress, she could not have failed to thinkof the handkerchief, and would, I believe, undoubtedly have told thetruth about it. But, in fact, she never thought of it, although sheguessed that Othello was being deceived by some scoundrel. Even afterDesdemona's death, nay, even when she knew that Iago had brought itabout, she still did not remember the handkerchief; and when Othello atlast mentions, as a proof of his wife's guilt, that he had seen thehandkerchief in Cassio's hand, the truth falls on Emilia like athunder-bolt. 'O God! ' she bursts out, 'O heavenly God! '[121] Herstupidity in this matter is gross, but it is stupidity and nothingworse. But along with it goes a certain coarseness of nature. The contrastbetween Emilia and Desdemona in their conversation about the infidelityof wives (IV. iii. ) is too famous to need a word,--unless it be a wordof warning against critics who take her light talk too seriously. Butthe contrast in the preceding scene is hardly less remarkable. Othello,affecting to treat Emilia as the keeper of a brothel, sends her away,bidding her shut the door behind her; and then he proceeds to torturehimself as well as Desdemona by accusations of adultery. But, as acritic has pointed out, Emilia listens at the door, for we find, as soonas Othello is gone and Iago has been summoned, that she knows whatOthello has said to Desdemona. And what could better illustrate thosedefects of hers which make one wince, than her repeating again and againin Desdemona's presence the word Desdemona could not repeat; than hertalking before Desdemona of Iago's suspicions regarding Othello andherself; than her speaking to Desdemona of husbands who strike theirwives; than the expression of her honest indignation in the words, Has she forsook so many noble matches, Her father and her country and her friends, To be called whore? If one were capable of laughing or even of smiling when this point inthe play is reached, the difference between Desdemona's anguish at theloss of Othello's love, and Emilia's recollection of the noble matchesshe might have secured, would be irresistibly ludicrous. And yet how all this, and all her defects, vanish into nothingness whenwe see her face to face with that which she can understand and feel! From the moment of her appearance after the murder to the moment of herdeath she is transfigured; and yet she remains perfectly true toherself, and we would not have her one atom less herself. She is theonly person who utters for us the violent common emotions which we feel,together with those more tragic emotions which she does not comprehend. She has done this once already, to our great comfort. When she suggeststhat some villain has poisoned Othello's mind, and Iago answers, Fie, there is no such man; it is impossible;and Desdemona answers, If any such there be, Heaven pardon him;Emilia's retort, A halter pardon him, and Hell gnaw his bones,says what we long to say, and helps us. And who has not felt in the lastscene how her glorious carelessness of her own life, and her outburstsagainst Othello--even that most characteristic one, She was too fond of her most filthy bargain--lift the overwhelming weight of calamity that oppresses us, and bring usan extraordinary lightening of the heart? Terror and pity are here toomuch to bear; we long to be allowed to feel also indignation, if notrage; and Emilia lets us feel them and gives them words. She brings ustoo the relief of joy and admiration,--a joy that is not lessened by herdeath. Why should she live? If she lived for ever she never could soar ahigher pitch, and nothing in her life became her like the losingit. [122]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 107: It has been held, for example, that Othello treated Iagoabominably in preferring Cassio to him; that he _did_ seduce Emilia;that he and Desdemona were too familiar before marriage; and that in anycase his fate was a moral judgment on his sins, and Iago a righteous, ifsharp, instrument of Providence. ][Footnote 108: See III. iii. 201, V. i. 89 f. The statements are hisown, but he has no particular reason for lying. One reason of hisdisgust at Cassio's appointment was that Cassio was a Florentine (I. i. 20). When Cassio says (III. i. 42) 'I never knew a Florentine more kindand honest,' of course he means, not that Iago is a Florentine, but thathe could not be kinder and honester if he were one. ][Footnote 109: I am here merely recording a general impression. There isno specific evidence, unless we take Cassio's language in his drink (II. ii. 105 f. ) to imply that Iago was not a 'man of quality' like himself. I do not know if it has been observed that Iago uses more nauticalphrases and metaphors than is at all usual with Shakespeare'scharacters. This might naturally be explained by his roving militarylife, but it is curious that almost all the examples occur in theearlier scenes (see _e. g. _ I. i. 30, 153, 157; I. ii. 17, 50; I. iii. 343; II. iii. 65), so that the use of these phrases and metaphors maynot be characteristic of Iago but symptomatic of a particular state ofShakespeare's mind. ][Footnote 110: See further Note P. ][Footnote 111: But it by no means follows that we are to believe hisstatement that there was a report abroad about an intrigue between hiswife and Othello (I. iii. 393), or his statement (which may be divinedfrom IV. ii. 145) that someone had spoken to him on the subject. ][Footnote 112: See, for instance, Aaron in _Titus Andronicus_, II. iii. ;Richard in _3 Henry VI. _, III. ii. and V. vi. , and in _Richard III. _, I. i. (twice), I. ii. ; Edmund in _King Lear_, I. ii. (twice), III. iii. andv. , V. i. ][Footnote 113: See, further, Note Q. ][Footnote 114: On the meaning which this phrase had for its author,Coleridge, see note on p. 228. ][Transcriber's note: Reference is toFootnote 115. ][Footnote 115: Coleridge's view is not materially different, though lesscomplete. When he speaks of 'the motive-hunting of a motivelessmalignity,' he does not mean by the last two words that 'disinterestedlove of evil' or 'love of evil for evil's sake' of which I spoke justnow, and which other critics attribute to Iago. He means really thatIago's malignity does not spring from the causes to which Iago himselfrefers it, nor from any 'motive' in the sense of an idea present toconsciousness. But unfortunately his phrase suggests the theory whichhas been criticised above. On the question whether there is such a thingas this supposed pure malignity, the reader may refer to a discussionbetween Professor Bain and F. H. Bradley in _Mind_, vol. viii. ][Footnote 116: _I. e. _ terrifying. ][Footnote 117: Cf. note at end of lecture. ][Transcriber's note: Refersto Footnote 122. ][Footnote 118: It was suggested to me by a Glasgow student. ][Footnote 119: A curious proof of Iago's inability to hold by his creedthat absolute egoism is the only proper attitude, and that loyalty andaffection are mere stupidity or want of spirit, may be found in his onemoment of real passion, where he rushes at Emilia with the cry,'Villainous whore! ' (V. ii. 229). There is more than fury in his cry,there is indignation. She has been false to him, she has betrayed him. Well, but why should she not, if his creed is true? And what amelancholy exhibition of human inconsistency it is that he should use asterms of reproach words which, according to him, should be quiteneutral, if not complimentary! ][Footnote 120: Cassio's invective against drink may be compared withHamlet's expressions of disgust at his uncle's drunkenness. Possibly thesubject may for some reason have been prominent in Shakespeare's mindabout this time. ][Footnote 121: So the Quarto, and certainly rightly, though moderneditors reprint the feeble alteration of the Folio, due to fear of theCensor, 'O heaven! O heavenly Powers! '][Footnote 122: The feelings evoked by Emilia are one of the causes whichmitigate the excess of tragic pain at the conclusion. Others are thedownfall of Iago, and the fact, already alluded to, that both Desdemonaand Othello show themselves at their noblest just before death. ]LECTURE VIIKING LEAR_King Lear_ has again and again been described as Shakespeare's greatestwork, the best of his plays, the tragedy in which he exhibits most fullyhis multitudinous powers; and if we were doomed to lose all his dramasexcept one, probably the majority of those who know and appreciate himbest would pronounce for keeping _King Lear_. Yet this tragedy is certainly the least popular of the famous four. The'general reader' reads it less often than the others, and, though heacknowledges its greatness, he will sometimes speak of it with a certaindistaste. It is also the least often presented on the stage, and theleast successful there. And when we look back on its history we find acurious fact. Some twenty years after the Restoration, Nahum Tatealtered _King Lear_ for the stage, giving it a happy ending, and puttingEdgar in the place of the King of France as Cordelia's lover. From thattime Shakespeare's tragedy in its original form was never seen on thestage for a century and a half. Betterton acted Tate's version; Garrickacted it and Dr. Johnson approved it. Kemble acted it, Kean acted it. In1823 Kean, 'stimulated by Hazlitt's remonstrances and Charles Lamb'sessays,' restored the original tragic ending. At last, in 1838, Macreadyreturned to Shakespeare's text throughout. What is the meaning of these opposite sets of facts? Are the lovers ofShakespeare wholly in the right; and is the general reader andplay-goer, were even Tate and Dr. Johnson, altogether in the wrong? Iventure to doubt it. When I read _King Lear_ two impressions are left onmy mind, which seem to answer roughly to the two sets of facts. _KingLear_ seems to me Shakespeare's greatest achievement, but it seems to me_not_ his best play. And I find that I tend to consider it from tworather different points of view. When I regard it strictly as a drama,it appears to me, though in certain parts overwhelming, decidedlyinferior as a whole to _Hamlet_, _Othello_ and _Macbeth_. When I amfeeling that it is greater than any of these, and the fullest revelationof Shakespeare's power, I find I am not regarding it simply as a drama,but am grouping it in my mind with works like the _Prometheus Vinctus_and the _Divine Comedy_, and even with the greatest symphonies ofBeethoven and the statues in the Medici Chapel. This two-fold character of the play is to some extent illustrated by theaffinities and the probable chronological position of _King Lear_. It isallied with two tragedies, _Othello_ and _Timon of Athens_; and thesetwo tragedies are utterly unlike. [123] _Othello_ was probably composedabout 1604, and _King Lear_ about 1605; and though there is a somewhatmarked change in style and versification, there are obvious resemblancesbetween the two. The most important have been touched on already: theseare the most painful and the most pathetic of the four tragedies, thosein which evil appears in its coldest and most inhuman forms, and thosewhich exclude the supernatural from the action. But there is also in_King Lear_ a good deal which sounds like an echo of _Othello_,--a factwhich should not surprise us, since there are other instances where thematter of a play seems to go on working in Shakespeare's mind andre-appears, generally in a weaker form, in his next play. So, in _KingLear_, the conception of Edmund is not so fresh as that of Goneril. Goneril has no predecessor; but Edmund, though of course essentiallydistinguished from Iago, often reminds us of him, and the soliloquy,'This is the excellent foppery of the world,' is in the very tone ofIago's discourse on the sovereignty of the will. The gulling of Gloster,again, recalls the gulling of Othello. Even Edmund's idea (not carriedout) of making his father witness, without over-hearing, hisconversation with Edgar, reproduces the idea of the passage whereOthello watches Iago and Cassio talking about Bianca; and the conclusionof the temptation, where Gloster says to Edmund: and of my land, Loyal and natural boy, I'll work the means To make thee capable,reminds us of Othello's last words in the scene of temptation, 'Now artthou my lieutenant. ' This list might be extended; and the appearance ofcertain unusual words and phrases in both the plays increases thelikelihood that the composition of the one followed at no great distanceon that of the other. [124]When we turn from _Othello_ to _Timon of Athens_ we find a play of quiteanother kind. _Othello_ is dramatically the most perfect of thetragedies. _Timon_, on the contrary, is weak, ill-constructed andconfused; and, though care might have made it clear, no mere care couldmake it really dramatic. Yet it is undoubtedly Shakespearean in part,probably in great part; and it immediately reminds us of _King Lear_. Both plays deal with the tragic effects of ingratitude. In both thevictim is exceptionally unsuspicious, soft-hearted and vehement. In bothhe is completely overwhelmed, passing through fury to madness in the onecase, to suicide in the other. Famous passages in both plays are curses. The misanthropy of Timon pours itself out in a torrent of maledictionson the whole race of man; and these at once recall, alike by their formand their substance, the most powerful speeches uttered by Lear in hismadness. In both plays occur repeated comparisons between man and thebeasts; the idea that 'the strain of man's bred out into baboon,' wolf,tiger, fox; the idea that this bestial degradation will end in a furiousstruggle of all with all, in which the race will perish. The'pessimistic' strain in _Timon_ suggests to many readers, even moreimperatively than _King Lear_, the notion that Shakespeare was givingvent to some personal feeling, whether present or past; for the signs ofhis hand appear most unmistakably when the hero begins to pour the vialsof his wrath upon mankind. _Timon_, lastly, in some of theunquestionably Shakespearean parts, bears (as it appears to me) sostrong a resemblance to _King Lear_ in style and in versification thatit is hard to understand how competent judges can suppose that itbelongs to a time at all near that of the final romances, or even thatit was written so late as the last Roman plays. It is more likely tohave been composed immediately after _King Lear_ and before_Macbeth_. [125]Drawing these comparisons together, we may say that, while as a work ofart and in tragic power _King Lear_ is infinitely nearer to _Othello_than to _Timon_, in its spirit and substance its affinity with _Timon_is a good deal the stronger. And, returning to the point from whichthese comparisons began, I would now add that there is in _King Lear_ areflection or anticipation, however faint, of the structural weakness of_Timon_. This weakness in _King Lear_ is not due, however, to anythingintrinsically undramatic in the story, but to characteristics which werenecessary to an effect not wholly dramatic. The stage is the test ofstrictly dramatic quality, and _King Lear_ is too huge for the stage. Ofcourse, I am not denying that it is a great stage-play. It has scenesimmensely effective in the theatre; three of them--the two between Learand Goneril and between Lear, Goneril and Regan, and the ineffablybeautiful scene in the Fourth Act between Lear and Cordelia--lose in thetheatre very little of the spell they have for imagination; and thegradual interweaving of the two plots is almost as masterly as in _MuchAdo_. But (not to speak of defects due to mere carelessness) that whichmakes the _peculiar_ greatness of King Lear,--the immense scope of thework; the mass and variety of intense experience which it contains; theinterpenetration of sublime imagination, piercing pathos, and humouralmost as moving as the pathos; the vastness of the convulsion both ofnature and of human passion; the vagueness of the scene where the actiontakes place, and of the movements of the figures which cross this scene;the strange atmosphere, cold and dark, which strikes on us as we enterthis scene, enfolding these figures and magnifying their dim outlineslike a winter mist; the half-realised suggestions of vast universalpowers working in the world of individual fates and passions,--all thisinterferes with dramatic clearness even when the play is read, and inthe theatre not only refuses to reveal itself fully through the sensesbut seems to be almost in contradiction with their reports. This is notso with the other great tragedies. No doubt, as Lamb declared,theatrical representation gives only a part of what we imagine when weread them; but there is no _conflict_ between the representation and theimagination, because these tragedies are, in essentials, perfectlydramatic. But _King Lear_, as a whole, is imperfectly dramatic, andthere is something in its very essence which is at war with the senses,and demands a purely imaginative realisation. It is thereforeShakespeare's greatest work, but it is not what Hazlitt called it, thebest of his plays; and its comparative unpopularity is due, not merelyto the extreme painfulness of the catastrophe, but in part to itsdramatic defects, and in part to a failure in many readers to catch thepeculiar effects to which I have referred,--a failure which is naturalbecause the appeal is made not so much to dramatic perception as to ararer and more strictly poetic kind of imagination. For this reason,too, even the best attempts at exposition of _King Lear_ aredisappointing; they remind us of attempts to reduce to prose theimpalpable spirit of the _Tempest_. I propose to develop some of these ideas by considering, first, thedramatic defects of the play, and then some of the causes of itsextraordinary imaginative effect. 1We may begin, however, by referring to two passages which have oftenbeen criticised with injustice. The first is that where the blindedGloster, believing that he is going to leap down Dover cliff, does infact fall flat on the ground at his feet, and then is persuaded that he_has_ leaped down Dover cliff but has been miraculously preserved. Imagine this incident transferred to _Othello_, and you realise howcompletely the two tragedies differ in dramatic atmosphere. In _Othello_it would be a shocking or a ludicrous dissonance, but it is in harmonywith the spirit of _King Lear_. And not only is this so, but, contraryto expectation, it is not, if properly acted, in the least absurd on thestage. The imagination and the feelings have been worked upon with sucheffect by the description of the cliff, and by the portrayal of the oldman's despair and his son's courageous and loving wisdom, that we areunconscious of the grotesqueness of the incident for common sense. The second passage is more important, for it deals with the origin ofthe whole conflict. The oft-repeated judgment that the first scene of_King Lear_ is absurdly improbable, and that no sane man would think ofdividing his kingdom among his daughters in proportion to the strengthof their several protestations of love, is much too harsh and is basedupon a strange misunderstanding. This scene acts effectively, and toimagination the story is not at all incredible. It is merely strange,like so many of the stories on which our romantic dramas are based. Shakespeare, besides, has done a good deal to soften the improbabilityof the legend, and he has done much more than the casual readerperceives. The very first words of the drama, as Coleridge pointed out,tell us that the division of the kingdom is already settled in all itsdetails, so that only the public announcement of it remains. [126] Laterwe find that the lines of division have already been drawn on the map ofBritain (l. 38), and again that Cordelia's share, which is her dowry, isperfectly well known to Burgundy, if not to France (ll. 197, 245). Thatthen which is censured as absurd, the dependence of the division on thespeeches of the daughters, was in Lear's intention a mere form, devisedas a childish scheme to gratify his love of absolute power and hishunger for assurances of devotion. And this scheme is perfectly incharacter. We may even say that the main cause of its failure was notthat Goneril and Regan were exceptionally hypocritical, but thatCordelia was exceptionally sincere and unbending. And it is essential toobserve that its failure, and the consequent necessity of publiclyreversing his whole well-known intention, is one source of Lear'sextreme anger. He loved Cordelia most and knew that she loved him best,and the supreme moment to which he looked forward was that in which sheshould outdo her sisters in expressions of affection, and should berewarded by that 'third' of the kingdom which was the most 'opulent. 'And then--so it naturally seemed to him--she put him to open shame. There is a further point, which seems to have escaped the attention ofColeridge and others. Part of the absurdity of Lear's plan is taken tobe his idea of living with his three daughters in turn. But he nevermeant to do this. He meant to live with Cordelia, and with heralone. [127] The scheme of his alternate monthly stay with Goneril andRegan is forced on him at the moment by what he thinks the undutifulnessof his favourite child. In fact his whole original plan, though foolishand rash, was not a 'hideous rashness'[128] or incredible folly. Ifcarried out it would have had no such consequences as followed itsalteration. It would probably have led quickly to war,[129] but not tothe agony which culminated in the storm upon the heath. The first scene,therefore, is not absurd, though it must be pronounced dramaticallyfaulty in so far as it discloses the true position of affairs only to anattention more alert than can be expected in a theatrical audience orhas been found in many critics of the play. Let us turn next to two passages of another kind, the two which aremainly responsible for the accusation of excessive painfulness, and sofor the distaste of many readers and the long theatrical eclipse of_King Lear_. The first of these is much the less important; it is thescene of the blinding of Gloster. The blinding of Gloster on the stagehas been condemned almost universally; and surely with justice, becausethe mere physical horror of such a spectacle would in the theatre be asensation so violent as to overpower the purely tragic emotions, andtherefore the spectacle would seem revolting or shocking. But it isotherwise in reading. For mere imagination the physical horror, thoughnot lost, is so far deadened that it can do its duty as a stimulus topity, and to that appalled dismay at the extremity of human crueltywhich it is of the essence of the tragedy to excite. Thus the blindingof Gloster belongs rightly to _King Lear_ in its proper world ofimagination; it is a blot upon _King Lear_ as a stage-play. But what are we to say of the second and far more important passage, theconclusion of the tragedy, the 'unhappy ending,' as it is called, thoughthe word 'unhappy' sounds almost ironical in its weakness? Is this too ablot upon _King Lear_ as a stage-play? The question is not so easilyanswered as might appear. Doubtless we are right when we turn withdisgust from Tate's sentimental alterations, from his marriage of Edgarand Cordelia, and from that cheap moral which every one of Shakespeare'stragedies contradicts, 'that Truth and Virtue shall at last succeed. 'But are we so sure that we are right when we unreservedly condemn thefeeling which prompted these alterations, or at all events the feelingwhich beyond question comes naturally to many readers of _King Lear_ whowould like Tate as little as we? What they wish, though they have notalways the courage to confess it even to themselves, is that the deathsof Edmund, Goneril, Regan and Gloster should be followed by the escapeof Lear and Cordelia from death, and that we should be allowed toimagine the poor old King passing quietly in the home of his belovedchild to the end which cannot be far off. Now, I do not dream of sayingthat we ought to wish this, so long as we regard _King Lear_ simply as awork of poetic imagination. But if _King Lear_ is to be consideredstrictly as a drama, or simply as we consider _Othello_, it is not soclear that the wish is unjustified. In fact I will take my courage inboth hands and say boldly that I share it, and also that I believeShakespeare would have ended his play thus had he taken the subject inhand a few years later, in the days of _Cymbeline_ and the _Winter'sTale_. If I read _King Lear_ simply as a drama, I find that my feelingscall for this 'happy ending. ' I do not mean the human, thephilanthropic, feelings, but the dramatic sense. The former wish Hamletand Othello to escape their doom; the latter does not; but it does wishLear and Cordelia to be saved. Surely, it says, the tragic emotions havebeen sufficiently stirred already. Surely the tragic outcome of Lear'serror and his daughters' ingratitude has been made clear enough andmoving enough. And, still more surely, such a tragic catastrophe as thisshould seem _inevitable_. But this catastrophe, unlike those of all theother mature tragedies, does not seem at all inevitable. It is not evensatisfactorily motived. [130] In fact it seems expressly designed to fallsuddenly like a bolt from a sky cleared by the vanished storm. Andalthough from a wider point of view one may fully recognise the value ofthis effect, and may even reject with horror the wish for a 'happyending,' this wider point of view, I must maintain, is not strictlydramatic or tragic. Of course this is a heresy and all the best authority is against it. Butthen the best authority, it seems to me, is either influencedunconsciously by disgust at Tate's sentimentalism or unconsciously takesthat wider point of view.

When Lamb--there is no higherauthority--writes, 'A happy ending! --as if the living martyrdom thatLear had gone through, the flaying of his feelings alive, did not make afair dismissal from the stage of life the only decorous thing for him,'I answer, first, that it is precisely this _fair_ dismissal which wedesire for him instead of renewed anguish; and, secondly, that what wedesire for him during the brief remainder of his days is not 'thechildish pleasure of getting his gilt robes and sceptre again,' not whatTate gives him, but what Shakespeare himself might have given him--peaceand happiness by Cordelia's fireside. And if I am told that he hassuffered too much for this, how can I possibly believe it with thesewords ringing in my ears: 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 again when Schlegel declares that, if Lear were saved, 'the whole'would 'lose its significance,' because it would no longer show us thatthe belief in Providence 'requires a wider range than the darkpilgrimage on earth to be established in its whole extent,' I answerthat, if the drama does show us that, it takes us beyond the strictlytragic point of view. [131]A dramatic mistake in regard to the catastrophe, however, even supposingit to exist, would not seriously affect the whole play. The principalstructural weakness of _King Lear_ lies elsewhere. It is felt to someextent in the earlier Acts, but still more (as from our study ofShakespeare's technique we have learnt to expect) in the Fourth and thefirst part of the Fifth. And it arises chiefly from the double action,which is a peculiarity of _King Lear_ among the tragedies. By the sideof Lear, his daughters, Kent, and the Fool, who are the principalfigures in the main plot, stand Gloster and his two sons, the chiefpersons of the secondary plot. Now by means of this double actionShakespeare secured certain results highly advantageous even from thestrictly dramatic point of view, and easy to perceive. But thedisadvantages were dramatically greater. The number of essentialcharacters is so large, their actions and movements are so complicated,and events towards the close crowd on one another so thickly, that thereader's attention,[132] rapidly transferred from one centre of interestto another, is overstrained. He becomes, if not intellectually confused,at least emotionally fatigued. The battle, on which everything turns,scarcely affects him. The deaths of Edmund, Goneril, Regan and Glosterseem 'but trifles here'; and anything short of the incomparable pathosof the close would leave him cold. There is something almost ludicrousin the insignificance of this battle, when it is compared with thecorresponding battles in _Julius Caesar_ and _Macbeth_; and though theremay have been further reasons for its insignificance, the main one issimply that there was no room to give it its due effect among such ahost of competing interests. [133]A comparison of the last two Acts of _Othello_ with the last two Acts of_King Lear_ would show how unfavourable to dramatic clearness is amultiplicity of figures. But that this multiplicity is not in itself afatal obstacle is evident from the last two Acts of _Hamlet_, andespecially from the final scene. This is in all respects one ofShakespeare's triumphs, yet the stage is crowded with characters. Onlythey are not _leading_ characters. The plot is single; Hamlet and theKing are the 'mighty opposites'; and Ophelia, the only other person inwhom we are obliged to take a vivid interest, has already disappeared. It is therefore natural and right that the deaths of Laertes and theQueen should affect us comparatively little. But in _King Lear_, becausethe plot is double, we have present in the last scene no less than fivepersons who are technically of the first importance--Lear, his threedaughters and Edmund; not to speak of Kent and Edgar, of whom the latterat any rate is technically quite as important as Laertes. And again,owing to the pressure of persons and events, and owing to theconcentration of our anxiety on Lear and Cordelia, the combat of Edgarand Edmund, which occupies so considerable a space, fails to excite atithe of the interest of the fencing-match in _Hamlet_. The truth isthat all through these Acts Shakespeare has too vast a material to usewith complete dramatic effectiveness, however essential this veryvastness was for effects of another kind. Added to these defects there are others, which suggest that in _KingLear_ Shakespeare was less concerned than usual with dramatic fitness:improbabilities, inconsistencies, sayings and doings which suggestquestions only to be answered by conjecture. The improbabilities in_King Lear_ surely far surpass those of the other great tragedies innumber and in grossness. And they are particularly noticeable in thesecondary plot. For example, no sort of reason is given why Edgar, wholives in the same house with Edmund, should write a letter to himinstead of speaking; and this is a letter absolutely damning to hischaracter. Gloster was very foolish, but surely not so foolish as topass unnoticed this improbability; or, if so foolish, what need forEdmund to forge a letter rather than a conversation, especially asGloster appears to be unacquainted with his son's handwriting? [134] Isit in character that Edgar should be persuaded without the slightestdemur to avoid his father instead of confronting him and asking him thecause of his anger? Why in the world should Gloster, when expelled fromhis castle, wander painfully all the way to Dover simply in order todestroy himself (IV. i. 80)? And is it not extraordinary that, afterGloster's attempted suicide, Edgar should first talk to him in thelanguage of a gentleman, then to Oswald in his presence in broad peasantdialect, then again to Gloster in gentle language, and yet that Glostershould not manifest the least surprise? Again, to take three instances of another kind; (_a_) only a fortnightseems to have elapsed between the first scene and the breach withGoneril; yet already there are rumours not only of war between Goneriland Regan but of the coming of a French army; and this, Kent says, isperhaps connected with the harshness of _both_ the sisters to theirfather, although Regan has apparently had no opportunity of showing anyharshness till the day before. (_b_) In the quarrel with Goneril Learspeaks of his having to dismiss fifty of his followers at a clap, yetshe has neither mentioned any number nor had any opportunity ofmentioning it off the stage. (_c_) Lear and Goneril, intending to hurryto Regan, both send off messengers to her, and both tell the messengersto bring back an answer. But it does not appear either how themessengers _could_ return or what answer could be required, as theirsuperiors are following them with the greatest speed. Once more, (_a_) why does Edgar not reveal himself to his blind father,as he truly says he ought to have done? The answer is left to mereconjecture. (_b_) Why does Kent so carefully preserve his incognito tillthe last scene? He says he does it for an important purpose, but whatthe purpose is we have to guess. (_c_) Why Burgundy rather than Franceshould have first choice of Cordelia's hand is a question we cannot helpasking, but there is no hint of any answer. [135] (_d_) I have referredalready to the strange obscurity regarding Edmund's delay in trying tosave his victims, and I will not extend this list of examples. No one ofsuch defects is surprising when considered by itself, but their numberis surely significant. Taken in conjunction with other symptoms it meansthat Shakespeare, set upon the dramatic effect of the great scenes andupon certain effects not wholly dramatic, was exceptionally careless ofprobability, clearness and consistency in smaller matters, introducingwhat was convenient or striking for a momentary purpose withouttroubling himself about anything more than the moment. In presence ofthese signs it seems doubtful whether his failure to give informationabout the fate of the Fool was due to anything more than carelessness oran impatient desire to reduce his overloaded material. [136]Before I turn to the other side of the subject I will refer to one morecharacteristic of this play which is dramatically disadvantageous. InShakespeare's dramas, owing to the absence of scenery from theElizabethan stage, the question, so vexatious to editors, of the exactlocality of a particular scene is usually unimportant and oftenunanswerable; but, as a rule, we know, broadly speaking, where thepersons live and what their journeys are. The text makes this plain, forexample, almost throughout _Hamlet_, _Othello_ and _Macbeth_; and theimagination is therefore untroubled. But in _King Lear_ the indicationsare so scanty that the reader's mind is left not seldom both vague andbewildered. Nothing enables us to imagine whereabouts in Britain Lear'spalace lies, or where the Duke of Albany lives. In referring to thedividing-lines on the map, Lear tells us of shadowy forests andplenteous rivers, but, unlike Hotspur and his companions, he studiouslyavoids proper names. The Duke of Cornwall, we presume in the absence ofinformation, is likely to live in Cornwall; but we suddenly find, fromthe introduction of a place-name which all readers take at first for asurname, that he lives at Gloster (I. v. 1). [137] This seems likely tobe also the home of the Earl of Gloster, to whom Cornwall is patron. Butno: it is a night's journey from Cornwall's 'house' to Gloster's, andGloster's is in the middle of an uninhabited heath. [138] Here, for thepurpose of the crisis, nearly all the persons assemble, but they do soin a manner which no casual spectator or reader could follow. Afterwardsthey all drift towards Dover for the purpose of the catastrophe; butagain the localities and movements are unusually indefinite. And thisindefiniteness is found in smaller matters. One cannot help asking, forexample, and yet one feels one had better not ask, where that 'lodging'of Edmund's can be, in which he hides Edgar from his father, and whetherEdgar is mad that he should return from his hollow tree (in a districtwhere 'for many miles about there's scarce a bush') to his father'scastle in order to soliloquise (II. iii. ):--for the favouritestage-direction, 'a wood' (which is more than 'a bush'), howeverconvenient to imagination, is scarcely compatible with the presence ofKent asleep in the stocks. [139] Something of the confusion whichbewilders the reader's mind in _King Lear_ recurs in _Antony andCleopatra_, the most faultily constructed of all the tragedies; butthere it is due not so much to the absence or vagueness of theindications as to the necessity of taking frequent and fatiguingjourneys over thousands of miles. Shakespeare could not help himself inthe Roman play: in _King Lear_ he did not choose to help himself,perhaps deliberately chose to be vague. From these defects, or from some of them, follows one result which mustbe familiar to many readers of _King Lear_. It is far more difficult toretrace in memory the steps of the action in this tragedy than in_Hamlet_, _Othello_, or _Macbeth_. The outline is of course quite clear;anyone could write an 'argument' of the play. But when an attempt ismade to fill in the detail, it issues sooner or later in confusion evenwith readers whose dramatic memory is unusually strong. [140]2How is it, now, that this defective drama so overpowers us that we areeither unconscious of its blemishes or regard them as almost irrelevant? As soon as we turn to this question we recognise, not merely that _KingLear_ possesses purely dramatic qualities which far outweigh itsdefects, but that its greatness consists partly in imaginative effectsof a wider kind. And, looking for the sources of these effects, we findamong them some of those very things which appeared to us dramaticallyfaulty or injurious. Thus, to take at once two of the simplest examplesof this, that very vagueness in the sense of locality which we have justconsidered, and again that excess in the bulk of the material and thenumber of figures, events and movements, while they interfere with theclearness of vision, have at the same time a positive value forimagination. They give the feeling of vastness, the feeling not of ascene or particular place, but of a world; or, to speak more accurately,of a particular place which is also a world. This world is dim to us,partly from its immensity, and partly because it is filled with gloom;and in the gloom shapes approach and recede, whose half-seen faces andmotions touch us with dread, horror, or the most painfulpity,--sympathies and antipathies which we seem to be feeling not onlyfor them but for the whole race. This world, we are told, is calledBritain; but we should no more look for it in an atlas than for theplace, called Caucasus, where Prometheus was chained by Strength andForce and comforted by the daughters of Ocean, or the place whereFarinata stands erect in his glowing tomb, 'Come avesse lo Inferno ingran dispitto. 'Consider next the double action. It has certain strictly dramaticadvantages, and may well have had its origin in purely dramaticconsiderations. To go no further, the secondary plot fills out a storywhich would by itself have been somewhat thin, and it provides a mosteffective contrast between its personages and those of the main plot,the tragic strength and stature of the latter being heightened bycomparison with the slighter build of the former. But its chief valuelies elsewhere, and is not merely dramatic. It lies in the fact--inShakespeare without a parallel--that the sub-plot simply repeats thetheme of the main story. Here, as there, we see an old man 'with a whitebeard. ' He, like Lear, is affectionate, unsuspicious, foolish, andself-willed. He, too, wrongs deeply a child who loves him not less forthe wrong. He, too, meets with monstrous ingratitude from the child whomhe favours, and is tortured and driven to death. This repetition doesnot simply double the pain with which the tragedy is witnessed: itstartles and terrifies by suggesting that the folly of Lear and theingratitude of his daughters are no accidents or merely individualaberrations, but that in that dark cold world some fateful malignantinfluence is abroad, turning the hearts of the fathers against theirchildren and of the children against their fathers, smiting the earthwith a curse, so that the brother gives the brother to death and thefather the son, blinding the eyes, maddening the brain, freezing thesprings of pity, numbing all powers except the nerves of anguish and thedull lust of life. [141]Hence too, as well as from other sources, comes that feeling whichhaunts us in _King Lear_, as though we were witnessing somethinguniversal,--a conflict not so much of particular persons as of thepowers of good and evil in the world. And the treatment of many of thecharacters confirms this feeling. Considered simply as psychologicalstudies few of them, surely, are of the highest interest. Fine andsubtle touches could not be absent from a work of Shakespeare'smaturity; but, with the possible exception of Lear himself, no one ofthe characters strikes us as psychologically a _wonderful_ creation,like Hamlet or Iago or even Macbeth; one or two seem even to be somewhatfaint and thin. And, what is more significant, it is not quite naturalto us to regard them from this point of view at all. Rather we observe amost unusual circumstance. If Lear, Gloster and Albany are set apart,the rest fall into two distinct groups, which are strongly, evenviolently, contrasted: Cordelia, Kent, Edgar, the Fool on one side,Goneril, Regan, Edmund, Cornwall, Oswald on the other. These charactersare in various degrees individualised, most of them completely so; butstill in each group there is a quality common to all the members, or onespirit breathing through them all. Here we have unselfish and devotedlove, there hard self-seeking. On both sides, further, the commonquality takes an extreme form; the love is incapable of being chilled byinjury, the selfishness of being softened by pity; and, it may be added,this tendency to extremes is found again in the characters of Lear andGloster, and is the main source of the accusations of improbabilitydirected against their conduct at certain points. Hence the members ofeach group tend to appear, at least in part, as varieties of onespecies; the radical differences of the two species are emphasized inbroad hard strokes; and the two are set in conflict, almost as ifShakespeare, like Empedocles, were regarding Love and Hate as the twoultimate forces of the universe. The presence in _King Lear_ of so large a number of characters in whomlove or self-seeking is so extreme, has another effect. They do notmerely inspire in us emotions of unusual strength, but they also stirthe intellect to wonder and speculation. How can there be such men andwomen? we ask ourselves. How comes it that humanity can take suchabsolutely opposite forms? And, in particular, to what omission ofelements which should be present in human nature, or, if there is noomission, to what distortion of these elements is it due that suchbeings as some of these come to exist? This is a question which Iago(and perhaps no previous creation of Shakespeare's) forces us to ask,but in _King Lear_ it is provoked again and again. And more, it seems tous that the author himself is asking this question. 'Then let themanatomise Regan, see what breeds about her heart. Is there any cause innature that makes these hard hearts? '--the strain of thought whichappears here seems to be present in some degree throughout the play. Weseem to trace the tendency which, a few years later, produced Ariel andCaliban, the tendency of imagination to analyse and abstract, todecompose human nature into its constituent factors, and then toconstruct beings in whom one or more of these factors is absent oratrophied or only incipient. This, of course, is a tendency whichproduces symbols, allegories, personifications of qualities and abstractideas; and we are accustomed to think it quite foreign to Shakespeare'sgenius, which was in the highest degree concrete. No doubt in the mainwe are right here; but it is hazardous to set limits to that genius. TheSonnets, if nothing else, may show us how easy it was to Shakespeare'smind to move in a world of 'Platonic' ideas;[142] and, while it would begoing too far to suggest that he was employing conscious symbolism orallegory in _King Lear_, it does appear to disclose a mode ofimagination not so very far removed from the mode with which, we mustremember, Shakespeare was perfectly familiar in Morality plays and inthe _Fairy Queen_. This same tendency shows itself in _King Lear_ in other forms. To it isdue the idea of monstrosity--of beings, actions, states of mind, whichappear not only abnormal but absolutely contrary to nature; an idea,which, of course, is common enough in Shakespeare, but appears withunusual frequency in _King Lear_, for instance in the lines: Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend, More hideous when thou show'st thee in a child Than the sea-monster! or in the exclamation, Filial ingratitude! Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand For lifting food to't? It appears in another shape in that most vivid passage where Albany, ashe looks at the face which had bewitched him, now distorted withdreadful passions, suddenly sees it in a new light and exclaims inhorror: Thou changed and self-cover'd thing, for shame. Be-monster not thy feature. Were't my fitness To let these hands obey my blood, They are apt enough to dislocate and tear Thy flesh and bones: howe'er thou art a fiend, A woman's shape doth shield thee. [143]It appears once more in that exclamation of Kent's, as he listens tothe description of Cordelia's grief: It is the stars, The stars above us, govern our conditions; Else one self mate and mate could not beget Such different issues. (This is not the only sign that Shakespeare had been musing overheredity, and wondering how it comes about that the composition of twostrains of blood or two parent souls can produce such astonishinglydifferent products. )This mode of thought is responsible, lastly, for a very strikingcharacteristic of _King Lear_--one in which it has no parallel except_Timon_--the incessant references to the lower animals[144] and man'slikeness to them. These references are scattered broadcast through thewhole play, as though Shakespeare's mind were so busy with the subjectthat he could hardly write a page without some allusion to it. The dog,the horse, the cow, the sheep, the hog, the lion, the bear, the wolf,the fox, the monkey, the pole-cat, the civet-cat, the pelican, the owl,the crow, the chough, the wren, the fly, the butterfly, the rat, themouse, the frog, the tadpole, the wall-newt, the water-newt, the worm--Iam sure I cannot have completed the list, and some of them are mentionedagain and again. Often, of course, and especially in the talk of Edgaras the Bedlam, they have no symbolical meaning; but not seldom, even inhis talk, they are expressly referred to for their typicalqualities--'hog in sloth, fox in stealth, wolf in greediness, dog inmadness, lion in prey,' 'The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to't Witha more riotous appetite. ' Sometimes a person in the drama is compared,openly or implicitly, with one of them. Goneril is a kite: heringratitude has a serpent's tooth: she has struck her father mostserpent-like upon the very heart: her visage is wolvish: she has tiedsharp-toothed unkindness like a vulture on her father's breast: for herhusband she is a gilded serpent: to Gloster her cruelty seems to havethe fangs of a boar. She and Regan are dog-hearted: they are tigers, notdaughters: each is an adder to the other: the flesh of each is coveredwith the fell of a beast. Oswald is a mongrel, and the son and heir of amongrel: ducking to everyone in power, he is a wag-tail: white withfear, he is a goose. Gloster, for Regan, is an ingrateful fox: Albany,for his wife, has a cowish spirit and is milk-liver'd: when Edgar as theBedlam first appeared to Lear he made him think a man a worm. As weread, the souls of all the beasts in turn seem to us to have entered thebodies of these mortals; horrible in their venom, savagery, lust,deceitfulness, sloth, cruelty, filthiness; miserable in theirfeebleness, nakedness, defencelessness, blindness; and man, 'considerhim well,' is even what they are. Shakespeare, to whom the idea of thetransmigration of souls was familiar and had once been material forjest,[145] seems to have been brooding on humanity in the light of it. It is remarkable, and somewhat sad, that he seems to find none of man'sbetter qualities in the world of the brutes (though he might well havefound the prototype of the self-less love of Kent and Cordelia in thedog whom he so habitually maligns);[146] but he seems to have beenasking himself whether that which he loathes in man may not be due tosome strange wrenching of this frame of things, through which the loweranimal souls have found a lodgment in human forms, and there found--tothe horror and confusion of the thinking mind--brains to forge, tonguesto speak, and hands to act, enormities which no mere brute can conceiveor execute. He shows us in _King Lear_ these terrible forces burstinginto monstrous life and flinging themselves upon those human beings whoare weak and defenceless, partly from old age, but partly because they_are_ human and lack the dreadful undivided energy of the beast. And theonly comfort he might seem to hold out to us is the prospect that atleast this bestial race, strong only where it is vile, cannot endure:though stars and gods are powerless, or careless, or empty dreams, yetthere must be an end of this horrible world: It will come; Humanity must perforce prey on itself Like monsters of the deep. [147]The influence of all this on imagination as we read _King Lear_ is verygreat; and it combines with other influences to convey to us, not in theform of distinct ideas but in the manner proper to poetry, the wider oruniversal significance of the spectacle presented to the inward eye. Butthe effect of theatrical exhibition is precisely the reverse. There thepoetic atmosphere is dissipated; the meaning of the very words whichcreate it passes half-realised; in obedience to the tyranny of the eyewe conceive the characters as mere particular men and women; and allthat mass of vague suggestion, if it enters the mind at all, appears inthe shape of an allegory which we immediately reject. A similar conflictbetween imagination and sense will be found if we consider the dramaticcentre of the whole tragedy, the Storm-scenes. The temptation of Othelloand the scene of Duncan's murder may lose upon the stage, but they donot lose their essence, and they gain as well as lose. The Storm-scenesin _King Lear_ gain nothing and their very essence is destroyed. It iscomparatively a small thing that the theatrical storm, not to drown thedialogue, must be silent whenever a human being wishes to speak, and iswretchedly inferior to many a storm we have witnessed. Nor is it simplythat, as Lamb observed, the corporal presence of Lear, 'an old mantottering about the stage with a walking-stick,' disturbs and depressesthat sense of the greatness of his mind which fills the imagination. There is a further reason, which is not expressed, but still emerges, inthese words of Lamb's: 'the explosions of his passion are terrible as avolcano: they are storms turning up and disclosing to the bottom thatsea, his mind, with all its vast riches. ' Yes, 'they are _storms_. ' Forimagination, that is to say, the explosions of Lear's passion, and thebursts of rain and thunder, are not, what for the senses they must be,two things, but manifestations of one thing. It is the powers of thetormented soul that we hear and see in the 'groans of roaring wind andrain' and the 'sheets of fire'; and they that, at intervals almost moreoverwhelming, sink back into darkness and silence. Nor yet is even thisall; but, as those incessant references to wolf and tiger made us seehumanity 'reeling back into the beast' and ravening against itself, soin the storm we seem to see Nature herself convulsed by the samehorrible passions; the 'common mother,' Whose womb immeasurable and infinite breast Teems and feeds all,turning on her children, to complete the ruin they have wrought uponthemselves. Surely something not less, but much more, than thesehelpless words convey, is what comes to us in these astounding scenes;and if, translated thus into the language of prose, it becomes confusedand inconsistent, the reason is simply that it itself is poetry, andsuch poetry as cannot be transferred to the space behind thefoot-lights, but has its being only in imagination. Here then isShakespeare at his very greatest, but not the mere dramatistShakespeare. [148]And now we may say this also of the catastrophe, which we foundquestionable from the strictly dramatic point of view. Its purpose isnot merely dramatic. This sudden blow out of the darkness, which seemsso far from inevitable, and which strikes down our reviving hopes forthe victims of so much cruelty, seems now only what we might haveexpected in a world so wild and monstrous. It is as if Shakespeare saidto us: 'Did you think weakness and innocence have any chance here? Wereyou beginning to dream that? I will show you it is not so. 'I come to a last point. As we contemplate this world, the questionpresses on us, What can be the ultimate power that moves it, thatexcites this gigantic war and waste, or, perhaps, that suffers them andoverrules them? And in _King Lear_ this question is not left to us toask, it is raised by the characters themselves. References to religiousor irreligious beliefs and feelings are more frequent than is usual inShakespeare's tragedies, as frequent perhaps as in his final plays. Heintroduces characteristic differences in the language of the differentpersons about fortune or the stars or the gods, and shows how thequestion What rules the world? is forced upon their minds. They answerit in their turn: Kent, for instance: It is the stars, The stars above us, govern our condition:Edmund: Thou, nature, art my goddess; to thy law My services are bound:and again, This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune--often the surfeit of our own behaviour--we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon and the stars; as if we were villains by necessity, fools by heavenly compulsion, . . . and all that we are evil in by a divine thrusting on:Gloster: As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; They kill us for their sport;Edgar: Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours Of men's impossibilities, have preserved thee. Here we have four distinct theories of the nature of the ruling power. And besides this, in such of the characters as have any belief in godswho love good and hate evil, the spectacle of triumphant injustice orcruelty provokes questionings like those of Job, or else the thought,often repeated, of divine retribution. To Lear at one moment the stormseems the messenger of heaven: Let the great gods, That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads, Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes. . . . At another moment those habitual miseries of the poor, of which he hastaken too little account, seem to him to accuse the gods of injustice: Take physic, pomp; Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou mayst shake the superflux to them And show the heavens more just;and Gloster has almost the same thought (IV. i. 67 ff. ). Gloster again,thinking of the cruelty of Lear's daughters, breaks out, but I shall see The winged vengeance overtake such children. The servants who have witnessed the blinding of Gloster by Cornwall andRegan, cannot believe that cruelty so atrocious will pass unpunished. One cries, I'll never care what wickedness I do, If this man come to good;and another, if she live long, And in the end meet the old course of death, Women will all turn monsters. Albany greets the news of Cornwall's death with the exclamation, This shows you are above, You justicers, that these our nether crimes So speedily can venge;and the news of the deaths of the sisters with the words, This judgment[149] of the heavens, that makes us tremble, Touches us not with pity. Edgar, speaking to Edmund of their father, declares The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us,and Edmund himself assents. Almost throughout the latter half of thedrama we note in most of the better characters a pre-occupation with thequestion of the ultimate power, and a passionate need to explain byreference to it what otherwise would drive them to despair. And theinfluence of this pre-occupation and need joins with other influences inaffecting the imagination, and in causing it to receive from _King Lear_an impression which is at least as near of kin to the _Divine Comedy_ asto _Othello_. 3For Dante that which is recorded in the _Divine Comedy_ was the justiceand love of God. What did _King Lear_ record for Shakespeare? Something,it would seem, very different. This is certainly the most terriblepicture that Shakespeare painted of the world. In no other of histragedies does humanity appear more pitiably infirm or more hopelesslybad. What is Iago's malignity against an envied stranger compared withthe cruelty of the son of Gloster and the daughters of Lear? What arethe sufferings of a strong man like Othello to those of helpless age? Much too that we have already observed--the repetition of the main themein that of the under-plot, the comparisons of man with the most wretchedand the most horrible of the beasts, the impression of Nature'shostility to him, the irony of the unexpected catastrophe--these, withmuch else, seem even to indicate an intention to show things at theirworst, and to return the sternest of replies to that question of theultimate power and those appeals for retribution. Is it an accident, forexample, that Lear's first appeal to something beyond the earth, O heavens, If you do love old men, if your sweet sway Allow[150] obedience, if yourselves are old, Make it your cause:is immediately answered by the iron voices of his daughters, raising byturns the conditions on which they will give him a humiliatingharbourage; or that his second appeal, heart-rending in its piteousness, You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both:is immediately answered from the heavens by the sounds of the breakingstorm? [151] Albany and Edgar may moralise on the divine justice as theywill, but how, in face of all that we see, shall we believe that theyspeak Shakespeare's mind? Is not his mind rather expressed in the bittercontrast between their faith and the events we witness, or in thescornful rebuke of those who take upon them the mystery of things as ifthey were God's spies? [152] Is it not Shakespeare's judgment on his kindthat we hear in Lear's appeal, And thou, all-shaking thunder, Smite flat the thick rotundity o' the world! Crack nature's moulds, all germens spill at once, That make ingrateful man! and Shakespeare's judgment on the worth of existence that we hear inLear's agonised cry, 'No, no, no life! '? Beyond doubt, I think, some such feelings as these possess us, and, ifwe follow Shakespeare, ought to possess us, from time to time as we read_King Lear_. And some readers will go further and maintain that this isalso the ultimate and total impression left by the tragedy. _King Lear_has been held to be profoundly 'pessimistic' in the full meaning of thatword,--the record of a time when contempt and loathing for his kind hadovermastered the poet's soul, and in despair he pronounced man's life tobe simply hateful and hideous. And if we exclude the biographical partof this view,[153] the rest may claim some support even from thegreatest of Shakespearean critics since the days of Coleridge, Hazlittand Lamb. Mr. Swinburne, after observing that _King Lear_ is 'by far themost Aeschylean' of Shakespeare's works, proceeds thus:'But in one main point it differs radically from the work and the spiritof Aeschylus. Its fatalism is of a darker and harder nature. ToPrometheus the fetters of the lord and enemy of mankind were bitter;upon Orestes the hand of heaven was laid too heavily to bear; yet in thenot utterly infinite or everlasting distance we see beyond them thepromise of the morning on which mystery and justice shall be made one;when righteousness and omnipotence at last shall kiss each other. But onthe horizon of Shakespeare's tragic fatalism we see no such twilight ofatonement, such pledge of reconciliation as this. Requital, redemption,amends, equity, explanation, pity and mercy, are words without a meaninghere. As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; They kill us for their sport. Here is no need of the Eumenides, children of Night everlasting; forhere is very Night herself. 'The words just cited are not casual or episodical; they strike thekeynote of the whole poem, lay the keystone of the whole arch ofthought. There is no contest of conflicting forces, no judgment so muchas by casting of lots: far less is there any light of heavenly harmonyor of heavenly wisdom, of Apollo or Athene from above. We have heardmuch and often from theologians of the light of revelation: and somesuch thing indeed we find in Aeschylus; but the darkness of revelationis here. '[154]It is hard to refuse assent to these eloquent words, for they express inthe language of a poet what we feel at times in reading _King Lear_ butcannot express. But do they represent the total and final impressionproduced by the play? If they do, this impression, so far as thesubstance of the drama is concerned (and nothing else is in questionhere), must, it would seem, be one composed almost wholly of painfulfeelings,--utter depression, or indignant rebellion, or appalleddespair. And that would surely be strange. For _King Lear_ is admittedlyone of the world's greatest poems, and yet there is surely no other ofthese poems which produces on the whole this effect, and we regard it asa very serious flaw in any considerable work of art that this should beits ultimate effect. [155] So that Mr. Swinburne's description, if takenas final, and any description of King Lear as 'pessimistic' in theproper sense of that word, would imply a criticism which is notintended, and which would make it difficult to leave the work in theposition almost universally assigned to it. But in fact these descriptions, like most of the remarks made on _KingLear_ in the present lecture, emphasise only certain aspects of the playand certain elements in the total impression; and in that impression theeffect of these aspects, though far from being lost, is modified by thatof others. I do not mean that the final effect resembles that of the_Divine Comedy_ or the _Oresteia_: how should it, when the first ofthese can be called by its author a 'Comedy,' and when the second,ending (as doubtless the _Prometheus_ trilogy also ended) with asolution, is not in the Shakespearean sense a tragedy at all? [156] Nordo I mean that _King Lear_ contains a revelation of righteousomnipotence or heavenly harmony, or even a promise of the reconciliationof mystery and justice. But then, as we saw, neither do Shakespeare'sother tragedies contain these things. Any theological interpretation ofthe world on the author's part is excluded from them, and their effectwould be disordered or destroyed equally by the ideas of righteous or ofunrighteous omnipotence. Nor, in reading them, do we think of 'justice'or 'equity' in the sense of a strict requital or such an adjustment ofmerit and prosperity as our moral sense is said to demand; and therenever was vainer labour than that of critics who try to make out thatthe persons in these dramas meet with 'justice' or their 'deserts. '[157]But, on the other hand, man is not represented in these tragedies as themere plaything of a blind or capricious power, suffering woes which haveno relation to his character and actions; nor is the world representedas given over to darkness. And in these respects _King Lear_, though themost terrible of these works, does not differ in essence from the rest. Its keynote is surely to be heard neither in the words wrung fromGloster in his anguish, nor in Edgar's words 'the gods are just. ' Itsfinal and total result is one in which pity and terror, carried perhapsto the extreme limits of art, are so blended with a sense of law andbeauty that we feel at last, not depression and much less despair, but aconsciousness of greatness in pain, and of solemnity in the mystery wecannot fathom. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 123: I leave undiscussed the position of _King Lear_ inrelation to the 'comedies' of _Measure for Measure_, _Troilus andCressida_ and _All's Well_. ][Footnote 124: See Note R. ][Footnote 125: On some of the points mentioned in this paragraph seeNote S. ][Footnote 126: '_Kent. _ I thought the king had more affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall. _Glos. _ It did always seem so to us: but now, in the division of the kingdom, it appears not which of the dukes he values most. 'For (Gloster goes on to say) their shares are exactly equal in value. And if the shares of the two elder daughters are fixed, obviously thatof the third is so too. ][Footnote 127: I loved her most, and thought to set my rest On her kind nursery. ][Footnote 128: It is to Lear's altered plan that Kent applies thesewords. ][Footnote 129: There is talk of a war between Goneril and Regan within afortnight of the division of the kingdom (II. i. 11 f. ). ][Footnote 130: I mean that no sufficiently clear reason is supplied forEdmund's delay in attempting to save Cordelia and Lear. The matterstands thus. Edmund, after the defeat of the opposing army, sends Learand Cordelia to prison. Then, in accordance with a plan agreed onbetween himself and Goneril, he despatches a captain with secret ordersto put them both to death _instantly_ (V. iii. 26-37, 244, 252). He thenhas to fight with the disguised Edgar. He is mortally wounded, and, ashe lies dying, he says to Edgar (at line 162, _more than a hundredlines_ after he gave that commission to the captain): What you have charged me with, that have I done; And more, much more; the time will bring it out; 'Tis past, and so am I. In 'more, much more' he seems to be thinking of the order for the deathsof Lear and Cordelia (what else remained undisclosed? ); yet he saysnothing about it. A few lines later he recognises the justice of hisfate, yet still says nothing. Then he hears the story of his father'sdeath, says it has moved him and 'shall perchance do good' (What goodexcept saving his victims? ); yet he still says nothing. Even when hehears that Goneril is dead and Regan poisoned, he _still_ says nothing. It is only when directly questioned about Lear and Cordelia that hetries to save the victims who were to be killed 'instantly' (242). Howcan we explain his delay? Perhaps, thinking the deaths of Lear andCordelia would be of use to Goneril and Regan, he will not speak till heis sure that both the sisters are dead. Or perhaps, though he canrecognise the justice of his fate and can be touched by the account ofhis father's death, he is still too self-absorbed to rise to the activeeffort to 'do some good, despite of his own nature. ' But, while eitherof these conjectures is possible, it is surely far from satisfactorythat we should be left to mere conjecture as to the cause of the delaywhich permits the catastrophe to take place. The _real_ cause liesoutside the dramatic _nexus_. It is Shakespeare's wish to deliver asudden and crushing blow to the hopes which he has excited. ][Footnote 131: Everything in these paragraphs must, of course, be takenin connection with later remarks. ][Footnote 132: I say 'the reader's,' because on the stage, whenever Ihave seen _King Lear_, the 'cuts' necessitated by modern scenery wouldhave made this part of the play absolutely unintelligible to me if I hadnot been familiar with it. It is significant that Lamb in his _Tale ofKing Lear_ almost omits the sub-plot. ][Footnote 133: Even if Cordelia had won the battle, Shakespeare wouldprobably have hesitated to concentrate interest on it, for her victorywould have been a British defeat. On Spedding's view, that he did meanto make the battle more interesting, and that his purpose has beendefeated by our wrong division of Acts IV. and V. , see Note X. ][Footnote 134: It is vain to suggest that Edmund has only just comehome, and that the letter is supposed to have been sent to him when hewas 'out' See I. ii. 38-40, 65 f. ][Footnote 135: The idea in scene i. , perhaps, is that Cordelia'smarriage, like the division of the kingdom, has really beenpre-arranged, and that the ceremony of choosing between France andBurgundy (I. i. 46 f. ) is a mere fiction. Burgundy is to be her husband,and that is why, when Lear has cast her off, he offers her to Burgundyfirst (l. 192 ff. ). It might seem from 211 ff. that Lear's reason fordoing so is that he prefers France, or thinks him the greater man, andtherefore will not offer him first what is worthless: but the languageof France (240 ff. ) seems to show that he recognises a prior right inBurgundy. ][Footnote 136: See Note T. and p. 315. ][Footnote 137: See Note U. ][Footnote 138: The word 'heath' in the stage-directions of thestorm-scenes is, I may remark, Rowe's, not Shakespeare's, who never usedthe word till he wrote _Macbeth_. ][Footnote 139: It is pointed out in Note V. that what modern editorscall Scenes ii. , iii. , iv. of Act II. are really one scene, for Kent ison the stage through them all. ][Footnote 140: [On the locality of Act I. , Sc. ii. , see _Modern LanguageReview_ for Oct. , 1908, and Jan. , 1909. ]][Footnote 141: This effect of the double action seems to have beenpointed out first by Schlegel. ][Footnote 142: How prevalent these are is not recognised by readersfamiliar only with English poetry. See Simpson's _Introduction to thePhilosophy of Shakespeare's Sonnets_ (1868) and Mr. Wyndham's edition ofShakespeare's Poems. Perhaps both writers overstate, and Simpson'sinterpretations are often forced or arbitrary, but his book is valuableand ought not to remain out of print. ][Footnote 143: The monstrosity here is a being with a woman's body and afiend's soul. For the interpretation of the lines see Note Y. ][Footnote 144: Since this paragraph was written I have found that theabundance of these references has been pointed out and commented on byJ. Kirkman, _New Shaks. Soc. Trans. _, 1877. ][Footnote 145: _E. g. _ in _As You Like It_, III. ii. 187, 'I was never soberhymed since Pythagoras' time, that I was an Irish rat, which I canhardly remember'; _Twelfth Night_, IV. ii. 55, '_Clown. _ What is theopinion of Pythagoras concerning wild fowl? _Mal. _ That the soul of ourgrandam might haply inhabit a bird. _Clown. _ What thinkest thou of hisopinion? _Mal. _ I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve hisopinion,' etc. But earlier comes a passage which reminds us of _KingLear_, _Merchant of Venice_, IV. i. 128: O be thou damn'd, inexecrable dog! And for thy life let justice be accused. Thou almost makest me waver in my faith To hold opinion with Pythagoras, That souls of animals infuse themselves Into the trunks of men: thy currish spirit Govern'd a wolf, who, hang'd for human slaughter, Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet, And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam, Infused itself in thee; for thy desires Are wolvish, bloody, starved and ravenous. ][Footnote 146: I fear it is not possible, however, to refute, on thewhole, one charge,--that the dog is a snob, in the sense that herespects power and prosperity, and objects to the poor and despised. Itis curious that Shakespeare refers to this trait three times in _KingLear_, as if he were feeling a peculiar disgust at it. See III. vi. 65,'The little dogs and all,' etc. : IV. vi. 159, 'Thou hast seen a farmer'sdog bark at a beggar . . . and the creature run from the cur? There thoumightst behold the great image of authority': V. iii. 186, 'taught me toshift Into a madman's rags; to assume a semblance That very dogsdisdain'd. ' Cf. _Oxford Lectures_, p. 341. ][Footnote 147: With this compare the following lines in the great speechon 'degree' in _Troilus and Cressida_, I. iii. : Take but degree away, untune that string, And, hark, what discord follows! Each thing meets In mere oppugnancy: the bounded waters Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores And make a sop of all this solid globe: Strength should be lord of imbecility, And the rude son should strike his father dead: Force should be right; or, rather, right and wrong, Between whose endless jar justice resides, Should lose their names, and so should justice too. Then everything includes itself in power, Power into will, will into appetite; And appetite, an universal wolf, So doubly seconded with will and power, Must make perforce an universal prey, And last eat up himself. ][Footnote 148: Nor is it believable that Shakespeare, whose means ofimitating a storm were so greatly inferior even to ours, had thestage-performance only or chiefly in view in composing these scenes. Hemay not have thought of readers (or he may), but he must in any casehave written to satisfy his own imagination. I have taken no notice ofthe part played in these scenes by anyone except Lear. The matter is toohuge, and too strictly poetic, for analysis. I may observe that in ourpresent theatres, owing to the use of elaborate scenery, the threeStorm-scenes are usually combined, with disastrous effect. Shakespeare,as we saw (p. 49), interposed between them short scenes of much lowertone. ][Footnote 149: 'justice,' Qq. ][Footnote 150: =approve. ][Footnote 151: The direction 'Storm and tempest' at the end of thisspeech is not modern, it is in the Folio. ][Footnote 152: The gods are mentioned many times in _King Lear_, but'God' only here (V. ii. 16). ][Footnote 153: The whole question how far Shakespeare's works representhis personal feelings and attitude, and the changes in them, would carryus so far beyond the bounds of the four tragedies, is so needless forthe understanding of them, and is so little capable of decision, that Ihave excluded it from these lectures; and I will add here a note on itonly as it concerns the 'tragic period. 'There are here two distinct sets of facts, equally important, (1) On theone side there is the fact that, so far as we can make out, after_Twelfth Night_ Shakespeare wrote, for seven or eight years, no playwhich, like many of his earlier works, can be called happy, much lessmerry or sunny. He wrote tragedies; and if the chronological order_Hamlet_, _Othello_, _King Lear_, _Timon_, _Macbeth_, is correct, thesetragedies show for some time a deepening darkness, and _King Lear_ and_Timon_ lie at the nadir. He wrote also in these years (probably in theearlier of them) certain 'comedies,' _Measure for Measure_ and _Troilusand Cressida_, and perhaps _All's Well_. But about these comedies thereis a peculiar air of coldness; there is humour, of course, but littlemirth; in _Measure for Measure_ perhaps, certainly in _Troilus andCressida_, a spirit of bitterness and contempt seems to pervade anintellectual atmosphere of an intense but hard clearness. With _Macbeth_perhaps, and more decidedly in the two Roman tragedies which followed,the gloom seems to lift; and the final romances show a mellow serenitywhich sometimes warms into radiant sympathy, and even into a mirthalmost as light-hearted as that of younger days. When we consider thesefacts, not as barely stated thus but as they affect us in reading theplays, it is, to my mind, very hard to believe that their origin wassimply and solely a change in dramatic methods or choice of subjects, oreven merely such inward changes as may be expected to accompany thearrival and progress of middle age. (2) On the other side, and over against these facts, we have to set themultitudinousness of Shakespeare's genius, and his almost unlimitedpower of conceiving and expressing human experience of all kinds. And wehave to set more. Apparently during this period of years he never ceasedto write busily, or to exhibit in his writings the greatest mentalactivity. He wrote also either nothing or very little (_Troilus andCressida_ and his part of _Timon_ are the possible exceptions) in whichthere is any appearance of personal feeling overcoming or seriouslyendangering the self-control or 'objectivity' of the artist. And finallyit is not possible to make out any continuously deepening _personal_note: for although _Othello_ is darker than _Hamlet_ it surely strikesone as about as impersonal as a play can be; and, on grounds of styleand versification, it appears (to me, at least) impossible to bring_Troilus and Cressida_ chronologically close to _King Lear_ and _Timon_;even if parts of it are later than others, the late parts must bedecidedly earlier than those plays. The conclusion we may very tentatively draw from these sets of factswould seem to be as follows. Shakespeare during these years was probablynot a happy man, and it is quite likely that he felt at times even anintense melancholy, bitterness, contempt, anger, possibly even loathingand despair. It is quite likely too that he used these experiences ofhis in writing such plays as _Hamlet_, _Troilus and Cressida_, _KingLear_, _Timon_. But it is evident that he cannot have been for anyconsiderable time, if, ever, overwhelmed by such feelings, and there isno appearance of their having issued in any settled 'pessimistic'conviction which coloured his whole imagination and expressed itself inhis works. The choice of the subject of ingratitude, for instance, in_King Lear_ and _Timon_, and the method of handling it, may have beendue in part to personal feeling; but it does not follow that thisfeeling was particularly acute at this particular time, and, even if itwas, it certainly was not so absorbing as to hinder Shakespeare fromrepresenting in the most sympathetic manner aspects of life the veryreverse of pessimistic. Whether the total impression of _King Lear_ canbe called pessimistic is a further question, which is considered in thetext. ][Footnote 154: _A Study of Shakespeare_, pp. 171, 172. ][Footnote 155: A flaw, I mean, in a work of art considered not as amoral or theological document but as a work of art,--an aesthetic flaw. I add the word 'considerable' because we do not regard the effect inquestion as a flaw in a work like a lyric or a short piece of music,which may naturally be taken as expressions merely of a mood or asubordinate aspect of things. ][Footnote 156: Caution is very necessary in making comparisons betweenShakespeare and the Greek dramatists. A tragedy like the _Antigone_stands, in spite of differences, on the same ground as a Shakespeareantragedy; it is a self-contained whole with a catastrophe. A drama likethe _Philoctetes_ is a self-contained whole, but, ending with asolution, it corresponds not with a Shakespearean tragedy but with aplay like _Cymbeline_. A drama like the _Agamemnon_ or the _PrometheusVinctus_ answers to no Shakespearean form of play. It is not aself-contained whole, but a part of a trilogy. If the trilogy isconsidered as a unit, it answers not to _Hamlet_ but to _Cymbeline_. Ifthe part is considered as a whole, it answers to _Hamlet_, but may thenbe open to serious criticism. Shakespeare never made a tragedy end withthe complete triumph of the worse side: the _Agamemnon_ and_Prometheus_, if wrongly taken as wholes, would do this, and would sofar, I must think, be bad tragedies. [It can scarcely be necessary toremind the reader that, in point of 'self-containedness,' there is adifference of degree between the pure tragedies of Shakespeare and someof the historical. ]][Footnote 157: I leave it to better authorities to say how far theseremarks apply also to Greek Tragedy, however much the language of'justice' may be used there. ]LECTURE VIIIKING LEARWe have now to look at the characters in _King Lear_; and I propose toconsider them to some extent from the point of view indicated at theclose of the last lecture, partly because we have so far been regardingthe tragedy mainly from an opposite point of view, and partly becausethese characters are so numerous that it would not be possible withinour limits to examine them fully. 1The position of the hero in this tragedy is in one important respectpeculiar. The reader of _Hamlet_, _Othello_, or _Macbeth_, is in nodanger of forgetting, when the catastrophe is reached, the part playedby the hero in bringing it on. His fatal weakness, error, wrong-doing,continues almost to the end. It is otherwise with _King Lear_. When theconclusion arrives, the old King has for a long while been passive. Wehave long regarded him not only as 'a man more sinned against thansinning,' but almost wholly as a sufferer, hardly at all as an agent. His sufferings too have been so cruel, and our indignation against thosewho inflicted them has been so intense, that recollection of the wronghe did to Cordelia, to Kent, and to his realm, has been well-nigheffaced. Lastly, for nearly four Acts he has inspired in us, togetherwith this pity, much admiration and affection. The force of his passionhas made us feel that his nature was great; and his frankness andgenerosity, his heroic efforts to be patient, the depth of his shame andrepentance, and the ecstasy of his re-union with Cordelia, have meltedour very hearts. Naturally, therefore, at the close we are in somedanger of forgetting that the storm which has overwhelmed him wasliberated by his own deed. Yet it is essential that Lear's contribution to the action of the dramashould be remembered; not at all in order that we may feel that he'deserved' what he suffered, but because otherwise his fate would appearto us at best pathetic, at worst shocking, but certainly not tragic. Andwhen we were reading the earlier scenes of the play we recognised thiscontribution clearly enough. At the very beginning, it is true, we areinclined to feel merely pity and misgivings. The first lines tell usthat Lear's mind is beginning to fail with age. [158] Formerly he hadperceived how different were the characters of Albany and Cornwall, butnow he seems either to have lost this perception or to be unwiselyignoring it. The rashness of his division of the kingdom troubles us,and we cannot but see with concern that its motive is mainly selfish. The absurdity of the pretence of making the division depend onprotestations of love from his daughters, his complete blindness to thehypocrisy which is patent to us at a glance, his piteous delight inthese protestations, the openness of his expressions of preference forhis youngest daughter--all make us smile, but all pain us. But pitybegins to give way to another feeling when we witness the precipitance,the despotism, the uncontrolled anger of his injustice to Cordelia andKent, and the 'hideous rashness' of his persistence in dividing thekingdom after the rejection of his one dutiful child. We feel now thepresence of force, as well as weakness, but we feel also the presence ofthe tragic [Greek: hubris]. Lear, we see, is generous and unsuspicious,of an open and free nature, like Hamlet and Othello and indeed most ofShakespeare's heroes, who in this, according to Ben Jonson, resemble thepoet who made them. Lear, we see, is also choleric by temperament--thefirst of Shakespeare's heroes who is so. And a long life of absolutepower, in which he has been flattered to the top of his bent, hasproduced in him that blindness to human limitations, and thatpresumptuous self-will, which in Greek tragedy we have so often seenstumbling against the altar of Nemesis. Our consciousness that the decayof old age contributes to this condition deepens our pity and our senseof human infirmity, but certainly does not lead us to regard the oldKing as irresponsible, and so to sever the tragic _nexus_ which bindstogether his error and his calamities. The magnitude of this first error is generally fully recognised by thereader owing to his sympathy with Cordelia, though, as we have seen, heoften loses the memory of it as the play advances. But this is not so, Ithink, with the repetition of this error, in the quarrel with Goneril. Here the daughter excites so much detestation, and the father so muchsympathy, that we often fail to receive the due impression of hisviolence. There is not here, of course, the _injustice_ of his rejectionof Cordelia, but there is precisely the same [Greek: hubris]. This hadbeen shown most strikingly in the first scene when, _immediately_ uponthe apparently cold words of Cordelia, 'So young, my lord, and true,'there comes this dreadful answer: Let it be so; thy truth then be thy dower. For, by the sacred radiance of the sun, The mysteries of Hecate and the night; By all the operation of the orbs From whom we do exist and cease to be; Here I disclaim all my paternal care, Propinquity and property of blood, And as a stranger to my heart and me Hold thee from this for ever. The barbarous Scythian, Or he that makes his generation messes To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom Be as well neighbour'd, pitied and relieved, As thou my sometime daughter. Now the dramatic effect of this passage is exactly, and doubtlessintentionally, repeated in the curse pronounced against Goneril. Thisdoes not come after the daughters have openly and wholly turned againsttheir father. Up to the moment of its utterance Goneril has done no morethan to require him 'a little to disquantity' and reform his train ofknights. Certainly her manner and spirit in making this demand arehateful, and probably her accusations against the knights are false; andwe should expect from any father in Lear's position passionate distressand indignation. But surely the famous words which form Lear's immediatereply were meant to be nothing short of frightful: Hear, nature, hear; dear goddess, hear! Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend To make this creature fruitful! Into her womb convey sterility! Dry up in her the organs of increase; And from her derogate body never spring A babe to honour her! If she must teem, Create her child of spleen; that it may live, And be a thwart disnatured torment to her! Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth; With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks; Turn all her mother's pains and benefits To laughter and contempt; that she may feel How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is To have a thankless child! The question is not whether Goneril deserves these appallingimprecations, but what they tell us about Lear. They show that, althoughhe has already recognised his injustice towards Cordelia, is secretlyblaming himself, and is endeavouring to do better, the disposition fromwhich his first error sprang is still unchanged. And it is precisely thedisposition to give rise, in evil surroundings, to calamities dreadfulbut at the same time tragic, because due in some measure to the personwho endures them. The perception of this connection, if it is not lost as the playadvances, does not at all diminish our pity for Lear, but it makes itimpossible for us permanently to regard the world displayed in thistragedy as subject to a mere arbitrary or malicious power. It makes usfeel that this world is so far at least a rational and a moral order,that there holds in it the law, not of proportionate requital, but ofstrict connection between act and consequence. It is, so far, the worldof all Shakespeare's tragedies. But there is another aspect of Lear's story, the influence of whichmodifies, in a way quite different and more peculiar to this tragedy,the impressions called pessimistic and even this impression of law. There is nothing more noble and beautiful in literature thanShakespeare's exposition of the effect of suffering in reviving thegreatness and eliciting the sweetness of Lear's nature. The occasionalrecurrence, during his madness, of autocratic impatience or of desirefor revenge serves only to heighten this effect, and the moments whenhis insanity becomes merely infinitely piteous do not weaken it. The oldKing who in pleading with his daughters feels so intensely his ownhumiliation and their horrible ingratitude, and who yet, at fourscoreand upward, constrains himself to practise a self-control and patienceso many years disused; who out of old affection for his Fool, and inrepentance for his injustice to the Fool's beloved mistress, toleratesincessant and cutting reminders of his own folly and wrong; in whom therage of the storm awakes a power and a poetic grandeur surpassing eventhat of Othello's anguish; who comes in his affliction to think ofothers first, and to seek, in tender solicitude for his poor boy, theshelter he scorns for his own bare head; who learns to feel and to prayfor the miserable and houseless poor, to discern the falseness offlattery and the brutality of authority, and to pierce below thedifferences of rank and raiment to the common humanity beneath; whosesight is so purged by scalding tears that it sees at last how power andplace and all things in the world are vanity except love; who tastes inhis last hours the extremes both of love's rapture and of its agony, butcould never, if he lived on or lived again, care a jot for aughtbeside--there is no figure, surely, in the world of poetry at once sogrand, so pathetic, and so beautiful as his. Well, but Lear owes thewhole of this to those sufferings which made us doubt whether life werenot simply evil, and men like the flies which wanton boys torture fortheir sport. Should we not be at least as near the truth if we calledthis poem _The Redemption of King Lear_, and declared that the businessof 'the gods' with him was neither to torment him, nor to teach him a'noble anger,' but to lead him to attain through apparently hopelessfailure the very end and aim of life? One can believe that Shakespearehad been tempted at times to feel misanthropy and despair, but it isquite impossible that he can have been mastered by such feelings at thetime when he produced this conception. To dwell on the stages of this process of purification (the word isProfessor Dowden's) is impossible here; and there are scenes, such asthat of the meeting of Lear and Cordelia, which it seems almost aprofanity to touch. [159] But I will refer to two scenes which may remindus more in detail of some of the points just mentioned. The third andfourth scenes of Act III. present one of those contrasts which speak aseloquently even as Shakespeare's words, and which were made possible inhis theatre by the absence of scenery and the consequent absence ofintervals between the scenes. First, in a scene of twenty-three lines,mostly in prose, Gloster is shown, telling his son Edmund how Goneriland Regan have forbidden him on pain of death to succour the houselessKing; how a secret letter has reached him, announcing the arrival of aFrench force; and how, whatever the consequences may be, he isdetermined to relieve his old master. Edmund, left alone, soliloquisesin words which seem to freeze one's blood: This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the duke Instantly know; and of that letter too: This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me That which my father loses; no less than all: The younger rises when the old doth fall. He goes out; and the next moment, as the fourth scene opens, we findourselves in the icy storm with Lear, Kent and the Fool, and yet in theinmost shrine of love. I am not speaking of the devotion of the othersto Lear, but of Lear himself. He had consented, merely for the Fool'ssake, to seek shelter in the hovel: Come, your hovel. Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart That's sorry yet for thee.

But on the way he has broken down and has been weeping (III. iv. 17),and now he resists Kent's efforts to persuade him to enter. He does notfeel the storm: when the mind's free The body's delicate: the tempest in my mind Doth from my senses take all feeling else Save what beats there:and the thoughts that will drive him mad are burning in his brain: Filial ingratitude! Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand For lifting food to't? But I will punish home. No, I will weep no more. In such a night To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure. In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril! Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all,-- O, that way madness lies; let me shun that; No more of that. And then suddenly, as he controls himself, the blessed spirit ofkindness breathes on him 'like a meadow gale of spring,' and he turnsgently to Kent: Prithee, go in thyself; seek thine own ease: This tempest will not give me leave to ponder On things would hurt me more. But I'll go in. In, boy; go first. You houseless poverty-- Nay, get thee in. I'll pray, and then I'll sleep. But his prayer is not for himself. Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,it begins, and I need not quote more. This is one of those passageswhich make one worship Shakespeare. [160]Much has been written on the representation of insanity in _King Lear_,and I will confine myself to one or two points which may have escapednotice. The most obvious symptom of Lear's insanity, especially in itsfirst stages, is of course the domination of a fixed idea. Whateverpresents itself to his senses, is seized on by this idea and compelledto express it; as for example in those words, already quoted, whichfirst show that his mind has actually given way: Hast thou given all To thy two daughters? And art thou come to this? [161]But it is remarkable that what we have here is only, in an exaggeratedand perverted form, the very same action of imagination that, justbefore the breakdown of reason, produced those sublime appeals: O heavens, If you do love old men, if your sweet sway Allow obedience, if yourselves are old, Make it your cause;and: Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters: I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness; I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children, You owe me no subscription: then let fall Your horrible pleasure; here I stand, your slave, A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man: But yet I call you servile ministers, That have with two pernicious daughters join'd Your high engender'd battles 'gainst a head So old and white as this. O! O! 'tis foul! Shakespeare, long before this, in the _Midsummer Night's Dream_, hadnoticed the resemblance between the lunatic, the lover, and the poet;and the partial truth that genius is allied to insanity was quitefamiliar to him. But he presents here the supplementary half-truth thatinsanity is allied to genius. He does not, however, put into the mouth of the insane Lear any suchsublime passages as those just quoted. Lear's insanity, which destroysthe coherence, also reduces the poetry of his imagination. What itstimulates is that power of moral perception and reflection which hadalready been quickened by his sufferings. This, however partial andhowever disconnectedly used, first appears, quite soon after theinsanity has declared itself, in the idea that the naked beggarrepresents truth and reality, in contrast with those conventions,flatteries, and corruptions of the great world, by which Lear has solong been deceived and will never be deceived again: Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou owest the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Ha! here's three on's are sophisticated: thou art the thing itself. Lear regards the beggar therefore with reverence and delight, as aperson who is in the secret of things, and he longs to question himabout their causes. It is this same strain of thought which much later(IV. vi. ), gaining far greater force, though the insanity has otherwiseadvanced, issues in those famous Timon-like speeches which make usrealise the original strength of the old King's mind. And when thisstrain, on his recovery, unites with the streams of repentance and love,it produces that serene renunciation of the world, with its power andglory and resentments and revenges, which is expressed in the speech (V. iii. ): No, no, no, no! 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; and we'll talk with them too, Who loses, and who wins; who's in, who's out; And take upon's the mystery of things, As if we were God's spies: and we'll wear out, In a wall'd prison, packs and sets of great ones, That ebb and flow by the moon. This is that renunciation which is at the same time a sacrifice offeredto the gods, and on which the gods themselves throw incense; and, it maybe, it would never have been offered but for the knowledge that came toLear in his madness. I spoke of Lear's 'recovery,' but the word is too strong. The Lear ofthe Fifth Act is not indeed insane, but his mind is greatly enfeebled. The speech just quoted is followed by a sudden flash of the oldpassionate nature, reminding us most pathetically of Lear's efforts,just before his madness, to restrain his tears: Wipe thine eyes: The good-years shall devour them, flesh and fell, Ere they shall make us weep: we'll see 'em starve first. And this weakness is still more pathetically shown in the blindness ofthe old King to his position now that he and Cordelia are madeprisoners. It is evident that Cordelia knows well what mercy her fatheris likely to receive from her sisters; that is the reason of herweeping. But he does not understand her tears; it never crosses his mindthat they have anything more than imprisonment to fear. And what is thatto them? They have made that sacrifice, and all is well: Have I caught thee? He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven, And fire us hence like foxes. This blindness is most affecting to us, who know in what manner theywill be parted; but it is also comforting. And we find the same minglingof effects in the overwhelming conclusion of the story. If to thereader, as to the bystanders, that scene brings one unbroken pain, it isnot so with Lear himself. His shattered mind passes from the firsttransports of hope and despair, as he bends over Cordelia's body andholds the feather to her lips, into an absolute forgetfulness of thecause of these transports. This continues so long as he can conversewith Kent; becomes an almost complete vacancy; and is disturbed only toyield, as his eyes suddenly fall again on his child's corpse, to anagony which at once breaks his heart. And, finally, though he is killedby an agony of pain, the agony in which he actually dies is one not ofpain but of ecstasy. Suddenly, with a cry represented in the oldest textby a four-times repeated 'O,' he exclaims: Do you see this? Look on her, look, her lips, Look there, look there! These are the last words of Lear. He is sure, at last, that she _lives_:and what had he said when he was still in doubt? She lives! if it be so, It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows That ever I have felt! To us, perhaps, the knowledge that he is deceived may bring aculmination of pain: but, if it brings _only_ that, I believe we arefalse to Shakespeare, and it seems almost beyond question that any actoris false to the text who does not attempt to express, in Lear's lastaccents and gestures and look, an unbearable _joy_. [162]To dwell on the pathos of Lear's last speech would be an impertinence,but I may add a remark on the speech from the literary point of view. Inthe simplicity of its language, which consists almost wholly ofmonosyllables of native origin, composed in very brief sentences of theplainest structure, it presents an extraordinary contrast to the dyingspeech of Hamlet and the last words of Othello to the by-standers. Thefact that Lear speaks in passion is one cause of the difference, but notthe sole cause. The language is more than simple, it is familiar. Andthis familiarity is characteristic of Lear (except at certain moments,already referred to) from the time of his madness onwards, and is thesource of the peculiarly poignant effect of some of his sentences (suchas 'The little dogs and all. . . . '). We feel in them the loss of power tosustain his royal dignity; we feel also that everything external hasbecome nothingness to him, and that what remains is 'the thing itself,'the soul in its bare greatness. Hence also it is that two lines in thislast speech show, better perhaps than any other passage of poetry, oneof the qualities we have in mind when we distinguish poetry as'romantic. ' Nothing like Hamlet's mysterious sigh 'The rest is silence,'nothing like Othello's memories of his life of marvel and achievement,was possible to Lear. Those last thoughts are romantic in theirstrangeness: Lear's five-times repeated 'Never,' in which the simplestand most unanswerable cry of anguish rises note by note till the heartbreaks, is romantic in its naturalism; and to make a verse out of thisone word required the boldness as well as the inspiration which cameinfallibly to Shakespeare at the greatest moments. But the familiarity,boldness and inspiration are surpassed (if that can be) by the nextline, which shows the bodily oppression asking for bodily relief. Theimagination that produced Lear's curse or his defiance of the storm maybe paralleled in its kind, but where else are we to seek the imaginationthat could venture to follow that cry of 'Never' with such a phrase as'undo this button,' and yet could leave us on the topmost peaks ofpoetry? [163]2Gloster and Albany are the two neutral characters of the tragedy. Theparallel between Lear and Gloster, already noticed, is, up to a certainpoint, so marked that it cannot possibly be accidental. Both are oldwhite-haired men (III. vii. 37); both, it would seem, widowers, withchildren comparatively young. Like Lear, Gloster is tormented, and hislife is sought, by the child whom he favours; he is tended and healed bythe child whom he has wronged. His sufferings, like Lear's, are partlytraceable to his own extreme folly and injustice, and, it may be added,to a selfish pursuit of his own pleasure. [164] His sufferings, again,like Lear's, purify and enlighten him: he dies a better and wiser manthan he showed himself at first. They even learn the same lesson, andGloster's repetition (noticed and blamed by Johnson) of the thought in afamous speech of Lear's is surely intentional. [165] And, finally,Gloster dies almost as Lear dies. Edgar reveals himself to him and askshis blessing (as Cordelia asks Lear's): but his flaw'd heart-- Alack, too weak the conflict to support-- 'Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief, Burst smilingly. So far, the resemblance of the two stories, and also of the ways inwhich their painful effect is modified, is curiously close. And incharacter too Gloster is, like his master, affectionate,[166] credulousand hasty. But otherwise he is sharply contrasted with the tragic Lear,who is a towering figure, every inch a king,[167] while Gloster is builton a much smaller scale, and has infinitely less force and fire. He is,indeed, a decidedly weak though good-hearted man; and, failing wholly tosupport Kent in resisting Lear's original folly and injustice,[168] heonly gradually takes the better part. Nor is his character either veryinteresting or very distinct. He often gives one the impression of beingwanted mainly to fill a place in the scheme of the play; and, though itwould be easy to give a long list of his characteristics, they scarcely,it seems to me, compose an individual, a person whom we are sure weshould recognise at once. If this is so, the fact is curious,considering how much we see and hear of him. I will add a single note. Gloster is the superstitious character of thedrama,--the only one. He thinks much of 'these late eclipses in the sunand moon. ' His two sons, from opposite points of view, make nothing ofthem. His easy acceptance of the calumny against Edgar is partly due tothis weakness, and Edmund builds upon it, for an evil purpose, when hedescribes Edgar thus: Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword out, Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon, To prove's auspicious mistress. Edgar in turn builds upon it, for a good purpose, when he persuades hisblind father that he was led to jump down Dover cliff by the temptationof a fiend in the form of a beggar, and was saved by a miracle: As I stood here below, methought his eyes Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses, Horns whelk'd and waved like the enridged sea: It was some fiend; therefore, thou happy father, Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours Of men's impossibilities, have preserved thee. This passage is odd in its collocation of the thousand noses and theclearest gods, of grotesque absurdity and extreme seriousness. Edgarknew that the 'fiend' was really Gloster's 'worser spirit,' and that'the gods' were himself. Doubtless, however--for he is the mostreligious person in the play--he thought that it _was_ the gods who,through him, had preserved his father; but he knew that the truth couldonly enter this superstitious mind in a superstitious form. The combination of parallelism and contrast that we observe in Lear andGloster, and again in the attitude of the two brothers to their father'ssuperstition, is one of many indications that in _King Lear_ Shakespearewas working more than usual on a basis of conscious and reflectiveideas. Perhaps it is not by accident, then, that he makes Edgar and Learpreach to Gloster in precisely the same strain. Lear says to him: If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes. I know thee well enough; thy name is Gloster: Thou must be patient; we came crying hither: Thou know'st, the first time that we smell the air, We wawl and cry. I will preach to thee: mark. Edgar's last words to him are: What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither: Ripeness is all. Albany is merely sketched, and he is so generally neglected that a fewwords about him may be in place. He too ends a better and wiser man thanhe began. When the play opens he is, of course, only just married toGoneril; and the idea is, I think, that he has been bewitched by herfiery beauty not less than by her dowry. He is an inoffensivepeace-loving man, and is overborne at first by his 'great love' for hiswife and by her imperious will. He is not free from responsibility forthe treatment which the King receives in his house; the Knight says toLear, 'there's a great abatement of kindness appears as well in thegeneral dependants as in _the duke himself also_ and your daughter. ' Buthe takes no part in the quarrel, and doubtless speaks truly when heprotests that he is as guiltless as ignorant of the cause of Lear'sviolent passion. When the King departs, he begins to remonstrate withGoneril, but shrinks in a cowardly manner, which is a trifle comical,from contest with her. She leaves him behind when she goes to joinRegan, and he is not further responsible for what follows. When he hearsof it, he is struck with horror: the scales drop from his eyes, Gonerilbecomes hateful to him, he determines to revenge Gloster's eyes. Hisposition is however very difficult, as he is willing to fight againstCordelia in so far as her army is French, and unwilling in so far as sherepresents her father. This difficulty, and his natural inferiority toEdmund in force and ability, pushes him into the background; the battleis not won by him but by Edmund; and but for Edgar he would certainlyhave fallen a victim to the murderous plot against him. When it isdiscovered, however, he is fearless and resolute enough, beside beingfull of kind feeling towards Kent and Edgar, and of sympathetic distressat Gloster's death. And one would be sure that he is meant to retainthis strength till the end, but for his last words. He has announced hisintention of resigning, during Lear's life, the 'absolute power' whichhas come to him; and that may be right. But after Lear's death he saysto Kent and Edgar: Friends of my soul, you twain Rule in this realm, and the gored state sustain. If this means that he wishes to hand over his absolute power to them,Shakespeare's intention is certainly to mark the feebleness of awell-meaning but weak man. But possibly he means by 'this realm' onlythat half of Britain which had belonged to Cornwall and Regan. 3I turn now to those two strongly contrasted groups of good and evilbeings; and to the evil first. The members of this group are by no meanson a level. Far the most contemptible of them is Oswald, and Kent hasfortunately expressed our feelings towards him. Yet twice we are able tofeel sympathy with him. Regan cannot tempt him to let her open Goneril'sletter to Edmund; and his last thought as he dies is given to thefulfilment of his trust. It is to a monster that he is faithful, and heis faithful to her in a monstrous design. Still faithfulness isfaithfulness, and he is not wholly worthless. Dr. Johnson says: 'I knownot well why Shakespeare gives to Oswald, who is a mere factor ofwickedness, so much fidelity'; but in any other tragedy this touch, sotrue to human nature, is only what we should expect. If it surprises usin _King Lear_, the reason is that Shakespeare, in dealing with theother members of the group, seems to have been less concerned than usualwith such mingling of light with darkness, and intent rather on makingthe shadows as utterly black as a regard for truth would permit. Cornwall seems to have been a fit mate for Regan; and what worse can besaid of him? It is a great satisfaction to think that he endured what tohim must have seemed the dreadful disgrace of being killed by a servant. He shows, I believe, no redeeming trait, and he is a coward, as may beseen from the sudden rise in his courage when Goneril arrives at thecastle and supports him and Regan against Lear (II. iv. 202). But as hiscruelties are not aimed at a blood-relation, he is not, in this sense, a'monster,' like the remaining three. Which of these three is the least and which the most detestable therecan surely be no question. For Edmund, not to mention otheralleviations, is at any rate not a woman. And the differences betweenthe sisters, which are distinctly marked and need not be exhibited oncemore in full, are all in favour of 'the elder and more terrible. ' ThatRegan did not commit adultery, did not murder her sister or plot tomurder her husband, did not join her name with Edmund's on the order forthe deaths of Cordelia and Lear, and in other respects failed to takequite so active a part as Goneril in atrocious wickedness, is quite truebut not in the least to her credit. It only means that she had much lessforce, courage and initiative than her sister, and for that reason isless formidable and more loathsome. Edmund judged right when, caring forneither sister but aiming at the crown, he preferred Goneril, for hecould trust her to remove the living impediments to her desires. Thescornful and fearless exclamation, 'An interlude! ' with which she greetsthe exposure of her design, was quite beyond Regan. Her unhesitatingsuicide was perhaps no less so. She would not have condescended to thelie which Regan so needlessly tells to Oswald: It was great ignorance, Gloster's eyes being out, To let him live: where he arrives he moves All hearts against us: Edmund, I think, is gone, _In pity of his misery_, to dispatch His nighted life. Her father's curse is nothing to her. She scorns even to mention thegods. [169] Horrible as she is, she is almost awful. But, to set againstRegan's inferiority in power, there is nothing: she is superior only ina venomous meanness which is almost as hateful as her cruelty. She isthe most hideous human being (if she is one) that Shakespeare ever drew. I have already noticed the resemblance between Edmund and Iago in onepoint; and Edmund recalls his greater forerunner also in courage,strength of will, address, egoism, an abnormal want of feeling, and thepossession of a sense of humour. But here the likeness ends. Indeed adecided difference is observable even in the humour. Edmund isapparently a good deal younger than Iago. He has a lighter and moresuperficial nature, and there is a certain genuine gaiety in him whichmakes one smile not unsympathetically as one listens to his firstsoliloquy, with its cheery conclusion, so unlike Iago's references tothe powers of darkness, Now, gods, stand up for bastards! Even after we have witnessed his dreadful deeds, a touch of thissympathy is felt again when we hear his nonchalant reflections beforethe battle: To both these sisters have I sworn my love: Each jealous of the other, as the stung Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take? Both? one? or neither? Besides, there is nothing in Edmund of Iago's motive-hunting, and verylittle of any of the secret forces which impelled Iago. He iscomparatively a straightforward character, as straightforward as theIago of some critics. He moves wonder and horror merely because the factthat a man so young can have a nature so bad is a dark mystery. Edmund is an adventurer pure and simple. He acts in pursuance of apurpose, and, if he has any affections or dislikes, ignores them. He isdetermined to make his way, first to his brother's lands, then--as theprospect widens--to the crown; and he regards men and women, with theirvirtues and vices, together with the bonds of kinship, friendship, orallegiance, merely as hindrances or helps to his end. They are for himdivested of all quality except their relation to this end; asindifferent as mathematical quantities or mere physical agents. A credulous father and a brother noble, . . . I see the business,he says, as if he were talking of _x_ and _y_. This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me That which my father loses; no less than all: The younger rises when the old doth fall:he meditates, as if he were considering a problem in mechanics. Hepreserves this attitude with perfect consistency until the possibilityof attaining his end is snatched from him by death. Like the deformity of Richard, Edmund's illegitimacy furnishes, ofcourse, no excuse for his villainy, but it somewhat influences ourfeelings. It is no fault of his, and yet it separates him from othermen. He is the product of Nature--of a natural appetite asserting itselfagainst the social order; and he has no recognised place within thisorder. So he devotes himself to Nature, whose law is that of thestronger, and who does not recognise those moral obligations which existonly by convention,--by 'custom' or 'the curiosity of nations. '[170]Practically, his attitude is that of a professional criminal. 'You tellme I do not belong to you,' he seems to say to society: 'very well: Iwill make my way into your treasure-house if I can. And if I have totake life in doing so, that is your affair. ' How far he is serious inthis attitude, and really indignant at the brand of bastardy, how farhis indignation is a half-conscious self-excuse for his meditatedvillainy, it is hard to say; but the end shows that he is not entirelyin earnest. As he is an adventurer, with no more ill-will to anyone than good-will,it is natural that, when he has lost the game, he should accept hisfailure without showing personal animosity. But he does more. He admitsthe truth of Edgar's words about the justice of the gods, and appliesthem to his own case (though the fact that he himself refers tofortune's wheel rather than to the gods may be significant). He showstoo that he is not destitute of feeling; for he is touched by the storyof his father's death, and at last 'pants for life' in the effort to do'some good' by saving Lear and Cordelia. There is something pathetichere which tempts one to dream that, if Edmund had been whole brother toEdgar, and had been at home during those 'nine years' when he was 'out,'he might have been a very different man. But perhaps his words, Some good I mean to do, _Despite of mine own nature_,suggest rather that Shakespeare is emphasising the mysterious fact,commented on by Kent in the case of the three daughters of Lear, of animmense original difference between children of one father. Strangerthan this emergence of better feelings, and curiously pathetic, is thepleasure of the dying man in the thought that he was loved by both thewomen whose corpses are almost the last sight he is to see. Perhaps, aswe conjectured, the cause of his delay in saving Lear and Cordelia evenafter he hears of the deaths of the sisters is that he is sunk in dreamyreflections on his past. When he murmurs, 'Yet Edmund was beloved,' oneis almost in danger of forgetting that he had done much more than rejectthe love of his father and half-brother. The passage is one of severalin Shakespeare's plays where it strikes us that he is recording somefact about human nature with which he had actually met, and which hadseemed to him peculiarly strange. What are we to say of the world which contains these five beings,Goneril, Regan, Edmund, Cornwall, Oswald? I have tried to answer thisquestion in our first lecture; for in its representation of evil _KingLear_ differs from the other tragedies only in degree and manner. It isthe tragedy in which evil is shown in the greatest abundance; and theevil characters are peculiarly repellent from their hard savagery, andbecause so little good is mingled with their evil. The effect istherefore more startling than elsewhere; it is even appalling. But insubstance it is the same as elsewhere; and accordingly, although it maybe useful to recall here our previous discussion, I will do so only bythe briefest statement. On the one hand we see a world which generates terrible evil inprofusion. Further, the beings in whom this evil appears at itsstrongest are able, to a certain extent, to thrive. They are notunhappy, and they have power to spread misery and destruction aroundthem. All this is undeniable fact. On the other hand this evil is _merely_ destructive: it founds nothing,and seems capable of existing only on foundations laid by its opposite. It is also self-destructive: it sets these beings at enmity; they canscarcely unite against a common and pressing danger; if it were avertedthey would be at each other's throats in a moment; the sisters do noteven wait till it is past. Finally, these beings, all five of them, aredead a few weeks after we see them first; three at least die young; theoutburst of their evil is fatal to them. These also are undeniablefacts; and, in face of them, it seems odd to describe _King Lear_ as 'aplay in which the wicked prosper' (Johnson). Thus the world in which evil appears seems to be at heart unfriendly toit. And this impression is confirmed by the fact that the convulsion ofthis world is due to evil, mainly in the worst forms here considered,partly in the milder forms which we call the errors or defects of thebetter characters. Good, in the widest sense, seems thus to be theprinciple of life and health in the world; evil, at least in these worstforms, to be a poison. The world reacts against it violently, and, inthe struggle to expel it, is driven to devastate itself. If we ask why the world should generate that which convulses and wastesit, the tragedy gives no answer, and we are trying to go beyond tragedyin seeking one. But the world, in this tragic picture, is convulsed byevil, and rejects it. 4And if here there is 'very Night herself,' she comes 'with stars in herraiment. ' Cordelia, Kent, Edgar, the Fool--these form a group not lessremarkable than that which we have just left. There is in the world of_King Lear_ the same abundance of extreme good as of extreme evil. Itgenerates in profusion self-less devotion and unconquerable love. Andthe strange thing is that neither Shakespeare nor we are surprised. Weapprove these characters, admire them, love them; but we feel nomystery. We do not ask in bewilderment, Is there any cause in naturethat makes these kind hearts? Such hardened optimists are we, andShakespeare,--and those who find the darkness of revelation in a tragedywhich reveals Cordelia. Yet surely, if we condemn the universe forCordelia's death, we ought also to remember that it gave her birth. Thefact that Socrates was executed does not remove the fact that he lived,and the inference thence to be drawn about the world that produced him. Of these four characters Edgar excites the least enthusiasm, but he isthe one whose development is the most marked. His behaviour in the earlypart of the play, granted that it is not too improbable, is so foolishas to provoke one. But he learns by experience, and becomes the mostcapable person in the story, without losing any of his purity andnobility of mind. There remain in him, however, touches which a littlechill one's feeling for him. The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us: The dark and vicious place where thee he got Cost him his eyes:--one wishes he had not said to his dying brother those words abouttheir dead father. 'The gods are just' would have been enough. [171] Itmay be suggested that Shakespeare merely wished to introduce this moralsomehow, and did not mean the speech to be characteristic of thespeaker. But I doubt this: he might well have delivered it throughAlbany, if he was determined to deliver it. This trait in Edgar _is_characteristic. It seems to be connected with his pronounced andconscious religiousness. He interprets everything religiously, and isspeaking here from an intense conviction which overrides personalfeelings. With this religiousness, on the other side, is connected hischeerful and confident endurance, and his practical helpfulness andresource. He never thinks of despairing; in the worst circumstances heis sure there is something to be done to make things better. And he issure of this, not only from temperament, but from faith in 'the clearestgods. ' He is the man on whom we are to rely at the end for the recoveryand welfare of the state: and we do rely on him. I spoke of his temperament. There is in Edgar, with much else that isfine, something of that buoyancy of spirit which charms us in Imogen. Nothing can subdue in him the feeling that life is sweet and must becherished. At his worst, misconstrued, contemned, exiled, under sentenceof death, 'the lowest and most dejected thing of fortune,' he keeps hishead erect. The inextinguishable spirit of youth and delight is in him;he _embraces_ the unsubstantial air which has blown him to the worst;for him 'the worst returns to laughter. '[172] 'Bear free and patientthoughts,' he says to his father. His own thoughts are more thanpatient, they are 'free,' even joyous, in spite of the tender sympathieswhich strive in vain to overwhelm him. This ability to feel and offergreat sympathy with distress, without losing through the sympathy anyelasticity or strength, is a noble quality, sometimes found in soulslike Edgar's, naturally buoyant and also religious. It may even becharacteristic of him that, when Lear is sinking down in death, he triesto rouse him and bring him back to life. 'Look up, my lord! ' he cries. It is Kent who feels that he hates him, That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer. Kent is one of the best-loved characters in Shakespeare. He is belovedfor his own sake, and also for the sake of Cordelia and of Lear. We aregrateful to him because he stands up for Cordelia, and because, when sheis out of sight, he constantly keeps her in our minds. And how wellthese two love each other we see when they meet. Yet it is not Cordeliawho is dearest to Kent. His love for Lear is the passion of his life: it_is_ his life. At the beginning he braves Lear's wrath even more forLear's sake than Cordelia's. [173] At the end he seems to realiseCordelia's death only as it is reflected in Lear's agony. Nor does hemerely love his master passionately, as Cordelia loves her father. Thatword 'master,' and Kent's appeal to the 'authority' he saw in the oldKing's face, are significant. He belongs to Lear, body and soul, as adog does to his master and god. The King is not to him old, wayward,unreasonable, piteous: he is still terrible, grand, the king of men. Through his eyes we see the Lear of Lear's prime, whom Cordelia neversaw. Kent never forgets this Lear. In the Storm-scenes, even after theKing becomes insane, Kent never addresses him without the old terms ofrespect, 'your grace,' 'my lord,' 'sir. ' How characteristic it is thatin the scene of Lear's recovery Kent speaks to him but once: it is whenthe King asks 'Am I in France? ' and he answers 'In your own kingdom,sir. 'In acting the part of a blunt and eccentric serving-man Kent retainsmuch of his natural character. The eccentricity seems to be put on, butthe plainness which gets him set in the stocks is but an exaggeration ofhis plainness in the opening scene, and Shakespeare certainly meant himfor one of those characters whom we love none the less for theirdefects. He is hot and rash; noble but far from skilful in hisresistance to the King; he might well have chosen wiser words to gainhis point. But, as he himself says, he has more man than wit about him. He shows this again when he rejoins Lear as a servant, for he at oncebrings the quarrel with Goneril to a head; and, later, by falling uponOswald, whom he so detests that he cannot keep his hands off him, heprovides Regan and Cornwall with a pretext for their inhospitality. Onehas not the heart to wish him different, but he illustrates the truththat to run one's head unselfishly against a wall is not the best way tohelp one's friends. One fact about Kent is often overlooked. He is an old man. He tells Learthat he is eight and forty, but it is clear that he is much older; notso old as his master, who was 'four-score and upward' and whom he 'lovedas his father,' but, one may suppose, three-score and upward. From thefirst scene we get this impression, and in the scene with Oswald it isrepeatedly confirmed. His beard is grey. 'Ancient ruffian,' 'oldfellow,' 'you stubborn ancient knave, you reverent braggart'--these aresome of the expressions applied to him. 'Sir,' he says to Cornwall, 'Iam too old to learn. ' If his age is not remembered, we fail to realisethe full beauty of his thoughtlessness of himself, his incessant care ofthe King, his light-hearted indifference to fortune or fate. [174] Welose also some of the naturalness and pathos of his feeling that histask is nearly done. Even at the end of the Fourth Act we find himsaying, My point and period will be throughly wrought Or well or ill, as this day's battle's fought. His heart is ready to break when he falls with his strong arms aboutEdgar's neck; bellows out as he'd burst heaven (how like him! ); threw him on my father, Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him That ever ear received; which in recounting His grief grew puissant, and the strings of life Began to crack. Twice then the trumpet sounded, And there I left him tranced;and a little after, when he enters, we hear the sound of death in hisvoice: I am come To bid my king and master aye goodnight. This desire possesses him wholly. When the bodies of Goneril and Reganare brought in he asks merely, 'Alack, why thus? ' How can he care? He iswaiting for one thing alone. He cannot but yearn for recognition, cannotbut beg for it even when Lear is bending over the body of Cordelia; andeven in that scene of unmatched pathos we feel a sharp pang at hisfailure to receive it. It is of himself he is speaking, perhaps, when hemurmurs, as his master dies, 'Break, heart, I prithee, break! ' He putsaside Albany's invitation to take part in the government; his task isover: I have a journey, sir, shortly to go: My master calls me; I must not say no. Kent in his devotion, his self-effacement, his cheerful stoicism, hisdesire to follow his dead lord, has been well likened to Horatio. ButHoratio is not old; nor is he hot-headed; and though he is stoical he isalso religious. Kent, as compared with him and with Edgar, is not so. Hehas not Edgar's ever-present faith in the 'clearest gods. ' He refers tothem, in fact, less often than to fortune or the stars. He lives mainlyby the love in his own heart. [175] * * * * *The theatrical fool or clown (we need not distinguish them here) was asore trial to the cultured poet and spectator in Shakespeare's day. Hecame down from the Morality plays, and was beloved of the groundlings. His antics, his songs, his dances, his jests, too often unclean,delighted them, and did something to make the drama, what the vulgar,poor or rich, like it to be, a variety entertainment. Even if heconfined himself to what was set down for him, he often disturbed thedramatic unity of the piece; and the temptation to 'gag' was too strongfor him to resist. Shakespeare makes Hamlet object to it in emphaticterms. The more learned critics and poets went further and would haveabolished the fool altogether. His part declines as the drama advances,diminishing markedly at the end of the sixteenth century. Jonson andMassinger exclude him. Shakespeare used him--we know to what effect--ashe used all the other popular elements of the drama; but he abstainedfrom introducing him into the Roman plays,[176] and there is no fool inthe last of the pure tragedies, _Macbeth_. But the Fool is one of Shakespeare's triumphs in _King Lear_. Imaginethe tragedy without him, and you hardly know it. To remove him wouldspoil its harmony, as the harmony of a picture would be spoiled if oneof the colours were extracted. One can almost imagine that Shakespeare,going home from an evening at the Mermaid, where he had listened toJonson fulminating against fools in general and perhaps criticising theClown in _Twelfth Night_ in particular, had said to himself: 'Come, myfriends, I will show you once for all that the mischief is in you, andnot in the fool or the audience. I will have a fool in the most tragicof my tragedies. He shall not play a little part. He shall keep fromfirst to last the company in which you most object to see him, thecompany of a king. Instead of amusing the king's idle hours, he shallstand by him in the very tempest and whirlwind of passion. Before I havedone you shall confess, between laughter and tears, that he is of thevery essence of life, that you have known him all your days though younever recognised him till now, and that you would as soon go withoutHamlet as miss him. 'The Fool in _King Lear_ has been so favourite a subject with goodcritics that I will confine myself to one or two points on which adifference of opinion is possible. To suppose that the Fool is, likemany a domestic fool at that time, a perfectly sane man pretending to behalf-witted, is surely a most prosaic blunder. There is no difficulty inimagining that, being slightly touched in the brain, and holding theoffice of fool, he performs the duties of his office intentionally aswell as involuntarily: it is evident that he does so. But unless wesuppose that he _is_ touched in the brain we lose half the effect ofhis appearance in the Storm-scenes. The effect of those scenes (to statethe matter as plainly as possible) depends largely on the presence ofthree characters, and on the affinities and contrasts between them; onour perception that the differences of station in King, Fool, andbeggar-noble, are levelled by one blast of calamity; but also on ourperception of the differences between these three in one respect,--viz. in regard to the peculiar affliction of insanity. The insanity of theKing differs widely in its nature from that of the Fool, and that of theFool from that of the beggar. But the insanity of the King differs fromthat of the beggar not only in its nature, but also in the fact that oneis real and the other simply a pretence. Are we to suppose then that theinsanity of the third character, the Fool, is, in this respect, a mererepetition of that of the second, the beggar,--that it too is _mere_pretence? To suppose this is not only to impoverish miserably theimpression made by the trio as a whole, it is also to diminish theheroic and pathetic effect of the character of the Fool. For his heroismconsists largely in this, that his efforts to outjest his master'sinjuries are the efforts of a being to whom a responsible and consistentcourse of action, nay even a responsible use of language, is at the bestof times difficult, and from whom it is never at the best of timesexpected. It is a heroism something like that of Lear himself in hisendeavour to learn patience at the age of eighty. But arguments againstthe idea that the Fool is wholly sane are either needless or futile; forin the end they are appeals to the perception that this idea almostdestroys the poetry of the character. This is not the case with another question, the question whether theFool is a man or a boy. Here the evidence and the grounds for discussionare more tangible. He is frequently addressed as 'boy. ' This is notdecisive; but Lear's first words to him, 'How now, my pretty knave, howdost thou? ' are difficult to reconcile with the idea of his being a man,and the use of this phrase on his first entrance may show Shakespeare'sdesire to prevent any mistake on the point. As a boy, too, he would bemore strongly contrasted in the Storm-scenes with Edgar as well as withLear; his faithfulness and courage would be even more heroic andtouching; his devotion to Cordelia, and the consequent bitterness ofsome of his speeches to Lear, would be even more natural. Nor does heseem to show a knowledge of the world impossible to a quick-wittedthough not whole-witted lad who had lived at Court. The only seriousobstacle to this view, I think, is the fact that he is not known to havebeen represented as a boy or youth till Macready produced _KingLear_. [177]But even if this obstacle were serious and the Fool were imagined as agrown man, we may still insist that he must also be imagined as a timid,delicate and frail being, who on that account and from the expression ofhis face has a boyish look. [178] He pines away when Cordelia goes toFrance. Though he takes great liberties with his master he is frightenedby Goneril, and becomes quite silent when the quarrel rises high. In theterrible scene between Lear and his two daughters and Cornwall(II. iv. 129-289), he says not a word; we have almost forgottenhis presence when, at the topmost pitch of passion, Lear suddenly turnsto him from the hateful faces that encompass him: You think I'll weep; No, I'll not weep: I have full cause of weeping; but this heart Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws Or ere I'll weep. O fool, I shall go mad. From the beginning of the Storm-scenes, though he thinks of his masteralone, we perceive from his words that the cold and rain are almost morethan he can bear. His childishness comes home to us when he runs out ofthe hovel, terrified by the madman and crying out to the King 'Help me,help me,' and the good Kent takes him by the hand and draws him to hisside. A little later he exclaims, 'This cold night will turn us all tofools and madmen'; and almost from that point he leaves the King toEdgar, speaking only once again in the remaining hundred lines of thescene. In the shelter of the 'farm-house' (III. vi. ) he revives, andresumes his office of love; but I think that critic is right whoconsiders his last words significant. 'We'll go to supper i' themorning,' says Lear; and the Fool answers 'And I'll go to bed at noon,'as though he felt he had taken his death. When, a little later, the Kingis being carried away on a litter, the Fool sits idle. He is so benumbedand worn out that he scarcely notices what is going on. Kent has torouse him with the words, Come, help to bear thy master, Thou must not stay behind. We know no more. For the famous exclamation 'And my poor fool is hanged'unquestionably refers to Cordelia; and even if it is intended to show aconfused association in Lear's mind between his child and the Fool whoso loved her (as a very old man may confuse two of his children), stillit tells us nothing of the Fool's fate. It seems strange indeed thatShakespeare should have left us thus in ignorance. But we have seen thatthere are many marks of haste and carelessness in _King Lear_; and itmay also be observed that, if the poet imagined the Fool dying on theway to Dover of the effects of that night upon the heath, he couldperhaps convey this idea to the audience by instructing the actor whotook the part to show, as he left the stage for the last time, therecognised tokens of approaching death. [179]Something has now been said of the four characters, Lear, Edgar, Kentand the Fool, who are together in the storm upon the heath. I have madeno attempt to analyse the whole effect of these scenes, but one remarkmay be added. These scenes, as we observed, suggest the idea of aconvulsion in which Nature herself joins with the forces of evil in manto overpower the weak; and they are thus one of the main sources of themore terrible impressions produced by _King Lear_. But they have at thesame time an effect of a totally different kind, because in them areexhibited also the strength and the beauty of Lear's nature, and, inKent and the Fool and Edgar, the ideal of faithful devoted love. Hencefrom the beginning to the end of these scenes we have, mingled with painand awe and a sense of man's infirmity, an equally strong feeling of hisgreatness; and this becomes at times even an exulting sense of thepowerlessness of outward calamity or the malice of others against hissoul. And this is one reason why imagination and emotion are never herepressed painfully inward, as in the scenes between Lear and hisdaughters, but are liberated and dilated. 5The character of Cordelia is not a masterpiece of invention or subtletylike that of Cleopatra; yet in its own way it is a creation aswonderful. Cordelia appears in only four of the twenty-six scenes of_King Lear_; she speaks--it is hard to believe it--scarcely more than ahundred lines; and yet no character in Shakespeare is more absolutelyindividual or more ineffaceably stamped on the memory of his readers. There is a harmony, strange but perhaps the result of intention, betweenthe character itself and this reserved or parsimonious method ofdepicting it. An expressiveness almost inexhaustible gained throughpaucity of expression; the suggestion of infinite wealth and beautyconveyed by the very refusal to reveal this beauty in expansivespeech--this is at once the nature of Cordelia herself and the chiefcharacteristic of Shakespeare's art in representing it. Perhaps it isnot fanciful to find a parallel in his drawing of a person verydifferent, Hamlet. It was natural to Hamlet to examine himself minutely,to discuss himself at large, and yet to remain a mystery to himself; andShakespeare's method of drawing the character answers to it; it isextremely detailed and searching, and yet its effect is to enhance thesense of mystery. The results in the two cases differ correspondingly. No one hesitates to enlarge upon Hamlet, who speaks of himself so much;but to use many words about Cordelia seems to be a kind of impiety. I am obliged to speak of her chiefly because the devotion she inspiresalmost inevitably obscures her part in the tragedy. This devotion iscomposed, so to speak, of two contrary elements, reverence and pity. Thefirst, because Cordelia's is a higher nature than that of most even ofShakespeare's heroines. With the tenderness of Viola or Desdemona sheunites something of the resolution, power, and dignity of Hermione, andreminds us sometimes of Helena, sometimes of Isabella, though she hasnone of the traits which prevent Isabella from winning our hearts. Herassertion of truth and right, her allegiance to them, even the touch ofseverity that accompanies it, instead of compelling mere respect oradmiration, become adorable in a nature so loving as Cordelia's. She isa thing enskyed and sainted, and yet we feel no incongruity in the loveof the King of France for her, as we do in the love of the Duke forIsabella. But with this reverence or worship is combined in the reader's mind apassion of championship, of pity, even of protecting pity. She is sodeeply wronged, and she appears, for all her strength, so defenceless. We think of her as unable to speak for herself. We think of her as quiteyoung, and as slight and small. [180] 'Her voice was ever soft, gentle,and low'; ever so, whether the tone was that of resolution, or rebuke,or love. [181] Of all Shakespeare's heroines she knew least of joy. Shegrew up with Goneril and Regan for sisters. Even her love for her fathermust have been mingled with pain and anxiety. She must early havelearned to school and repress emotion. She never knew the bliss of younglove: there is no trace of such love for the King of France. She hadknowingly to wound most deeply the being dearest to her. He cast heroff; and, after suffering an agony for him, and before she could see himsafe in death, she was brutally murdered. We have to thank the poet forpassing lightly over the circumstances of her death. We do not think ofthem. Her image comes before us calm and bright and still. The memory of Cordelia thus becomes detached in a manner from the actionof the drama. The reader refuses to admit into it any idea ofimperfection, and is outraged when any share in her father's sufferingsis attributed to the part she plays in the opening scene. Because shewas deeply wronged he is ready to insist that she was wholly right. Herefuses, that is, to take the tragic point of view, and, when it istaken, he imagines that Cordelia is being attacked, or is being declaredto have 'deserved' all that befell her. But Shakespeare's was the tragicpoint of view. He exhibits in the opening scene a situation tragic forCordelia as well as for Lear. At a moment where terrible issues join,Fate makes on her the one demand which she is unable to meet. As I havealready remarked in speaking of Desdemona, it was a demand which otherheroines of Shakespeare could have met. Without loss of self-respect,and refusing even to appear to compete for a reward, they could havemade the unreasonable old King feel that he was fondly loved. Cordeliacannot, because she is Cordelia. And so she is not merely rejected andbanished, but her father is left to the mercies of her sisters. And thecause of her failure--a failure a thousand-fold redeemed--is a compoundin which imperfection appears so intimately mingled with the noblestqualities that--if we are true to Shakespeare--we do not think either ofjustifying her or of blaming her: we feel simply the tragic emotions offear and pity. In this failure a large part is played by that obvious characteristic towhich I have already referred. Cordelia is not, indeed, alwaystongue-tied, as several passages in the drama, and even in this scene,clearly show. But tender emotion, and especially a tender love for theperson to whom she has to speak, makes her dumb. Her love, as she says,is more ponderous than her tongue:[182] Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave My heart into my mouth. This expressive word 'heave' is repeated in the passage which describesher reception of Kent's letter: Faith, once or twice she heaved the name of 'Father' Pantingly forth, as if it press'd her heart:two or three broken ejaculations escape her lips, and she 'starts' away'to deal with grief alone. ' The same trait reappears with an ineffablebeauty in the stifled repetitions with which she attempts to answer herfather in the moment of his restoration: _Lear. _ Do not laugh at me; For, as I am a man, I think this lady To be my child Cordelia. _Cor. _ And so I am, I am. _Lear. _ Be your tears wet? yes, faith. I pray, weep not; If you have poison for me, I will drink it. I know you do not love me; for your sisters Have, as I do remember, done me wrong: You have some cause, they have not. _Cor. _ No cause, no cause. We see this trait for the last time, marked by Shakespeare with adecision clearly intentional, in her inability to answer one syllable tothe last words we hear her father speak to her: No, no, no, no! 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. . . . She stands and weeps, and goes out with him silent. And we see her aliveno more. But (I am forced to dwell on the point, because I am sure to slur itover is to be false to Shakespeare) this dumbness of love was not thesole source of misunderstanding. If this had been all, even Lear couldhave seen the love in Cordelia's eyes when, to his question 'What canyou say to draw a third more opulent than your sisters? ' she answered'Nothing. ' But it did not shine there. She is not merely silent, nordoes she merely answer 'Nothing. ' She tells him that she loves him'according to her bond, nor more nor less'; and his answer, How now, Cordelia! mend your speech a little, Lest it may mar your fortunes,so intensifies her horror at the hypocrisy of her sisters that shereplies, Good my Lord, You have begot me, bred me, loved me: I Return those duties back as are right fit, Obey you, love you, and most honour you. Why have my sisters husbands, if they say They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed, That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry Half my love with him, half my care and duty: Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters, To love my father all. What words for the ear of an old father, unreasonable, despotic, butfondly loving, indecent in his own expressions of preference, and blindto the indecency of his appeal for protestations of fondness! Blankastonishment, anger, wounded love, contend within him; but for themoment he restrains himself and asks, But goes thy heart with this? Imagine Imogen's reply! But Cordelia answers, Ay, good my lord. _Lear. _ So young, and so untender? _Cor. _ So young, my lord, and true. Yes, 'heavenly true. ' But truth is not the only good in the world, noris the obligation to tell truth the only obligation. The matter here wasto keep it inviolate, but also to preserve a father. And even if truth_were_ the one and only obligation, to tell much less than truth is notto tell it. And Cordelia's speech not only tells much less than truthabout her love, it actually perverts the truth when it implies that togive love to a husband is to take it from a father. There surely neverwas a more unhappy speech. When Isabella goes to plead with Angelo for her brother's life, herhorror of her brother's sin is so intense, and her perception of thejustice of Angelo's reasons for refusing her is so clear and keen, thatshe is ready to abandon her appeal before it is well begun; she wouldactually do so but that the warm-hearted profligate Lucio reproaches herfor her coldness and urges her on. Cordelia's hatred of hypocrisy and ofthe faintest appearance of mercenary professions reminds us ofIsabella's hatred of impurity; but Cordelia's position is infinitelymore difficult, and on the other hand there is mingled with her hatred atouch of personal antagonism and of pride.

Lear's words, Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her! [183]are monstrously unjust, but they contain one grain of truth; and indeedit was scarcely possible that a nature so strong as Cordelia's, and withso keen a sense of dignity, should feel here nothing whatever of prideand resentment. This side of her character is emphatically shown in herlanguage to her sisters in the first scene--language perfectly just, butlittle adapted to soften their hearts towards their father--and again inthe very last words we hear her speak. She and her father are broughtin, prisoners, to the enemy's camp; but she sees only Edmund, not those'greater' ones on whose pleasure hangs her father's fate and her own. For her own she is little concerned; she knows how to meet adversity: For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down; Myself could else out-frown false fortune's frown. Yes, that is how she would meet fortune, frowning it down, even asGoneril would have met it; nor, if her father had been already dead,would there have been any great improbability in the false story thatwas to be told of her death, that, like Goneril, she 'fordid herself. 'Then, after those austere words about fortune, she suddenly asks, Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters? Strange last words for us to hear from a being so worshipped andbeloved; but how characteristic! Their tone is unmistakable. I doubt ifshe could have brought herself to plead with her sisters for herfather's life; and if she had attempted the task, she would haveperformed it but ill. Nor is our feeling towards her altered one whit bythat. But what is true of Kent and the Fool[184] is, in its measure,true of her. Any one of them would gladly have died a hundred deaths tohelp King Lear; and they do help his soul; but they harm his cause. Theyare all involved in tragedy. * * * * *Why does Cordelia die? I suppose no reader ever failed to ask thatquestion, and to ask it with something more than pain,--to ask it, ifonly for a moment, in bewilderment or dismay, and even perhaps in tonesof protest. These feelings are probably evoked more strongly here thanat the death of any other notable character in Shakespeare; and it maysound a wilful paradox to assert that the slightest element ofreconciliation is mingled with them or succeeds them. Yet it seems to meindubitable that such an element is present, though difficult to makeout with certainty what it is or whence it proceeds. And I will try tomake this out, and to state it methodically. (_a_) It is not due in any perceptible degree to the fact, which we havejust been examining, that Cordelia through her tragic imperfectioncontributes something to the conflict and catastrophe; and I drewattention to that imperfection without any view to our present problem. The critics who emphasise it at this point in the drama are surelyuntrue to Shakespeare's mind; and still more completely astray are thosewho lay stress on the idea that Cordelia, in bringing a foreign army tohelp her father, was guilty of treason to her country. When she dies weregard her, practically speaking, simply as we regard Ophelia orDesdemona, as an innocent victim swept away in the convulsion caused bythe error or guilt of others. (_b_) Now this destruction of the good through the evil of others is oneof the tragic facts of life, and no one can object to the use of it,within certain limits, in tragic art. And, further, those who because ofit declaim against the nature of things, declaim without thinking. It isobviously the other side of the fact that the effects of good spread farand wide beyond the doer of good; and we should ask ourselves whether wereally could wish (supposing it conceivable) to see this double-sidedfact abolished. Nevertheless the touch of reconciliation that we feel incontemplating the death of Cordelia is not due, or is due only in someslight degree, to a perception that the event is true to life,admissible in tragedy, and a case of a law which we cannot seriouslydesire to see abrogated. (_c_) What then is this feeling, and whence does it come? I believe weshall find that it is a feeling not confined to _King Lear_, but presentat the close of other tragedies; and that the reason why it has anexceptional tone or force at the close of _King Lear_, lies in that verypeculiarity of the close which also--at least for the moment--excitesbewilderment, dismay, or protest. The feeling I mean is the impressionthat the heroic being, though in one sense and outwardly he has failed,is yet in another sense superior to the world in which he appears; is,in some way which we do not seek to define, untouched by the doom thatovertakes him; and is rather set free from life than deprived of it. Some such feeling as this--some feeling which, from this description ofit, may be recognised as their own even by those who would dissent fromthe description--we surely have in various degrees at the deaths ofHamlet and Othello and Lear, and of Antony and Cleopatra andCoriolanus. [185] It accompanies the more prominent tragic impressions,and, regarded alone, could hardly be called tragic. For it seems toimply (though we are probably quite unconscious of the implication) anidea which, if developed, would transform the tragic view of things. Itimplies that the tragic world, if taken as it is presented, with all itserror, guilt, failure, woe and waste, is no final reality, but only apart of reality taken for the whole, and, when so taken, illusive; andthat if we could see the whole, and the tragic facts in their true placein it, we should find them, not abolished, of course, but so transmutedthat they had ceased to be strictly tragic,--find, perhaps, thesuffering and death counting for little or nothing, the greatness of thesoul for much or all, and the heroic spirit, in spite of failure, nearerto the heart of things than the smaller, more circumspect, and perhapseven 'better' beings who survived the catastrophe. The feeling which Ihave tried to describe, as accompanying the more obvious tragic emotionsat the deaths of heroes, corresponds with some such idea as this. [186]Now this feeling is evoked with a quite exceptional strength by thedeath of Cordelia. [187] It is not due to the perception that she, likeLear, has attained through suffering; we know that she had suffered andattained in his days of prosperity. It is simply the feeling that whathappens to such a being does not matter; all that matters is what sheis. How this can be when, for anything the tragedy tells us, she hasceased to exist, we do not ask; but the tragedy itself makes us feelthat somehow it is so. And the force with which this impression isconveyed depends largely on the very fact which excites our bewildermentand protest, that her death, following on the deaths of all the evilcharacters, and brought about by an unexplained delay in Edmund's effortto save her, comes on us, not as an inevitable conclusion to thesequence of events, but as the sudden stroke of mere fate or chance. Theforce of the impression, that is to say, depends on the very violence ofthe contrast between the outward and the inward, Cordelia's death andCordelia's soul. The more unmotived, unmerited, senseless, monstrous,her fate, the more do we feel that it does not concern her. Theextremity of the disproportion between prosperity and goodness firstshocks us, and then flashes on us the conviction that our whole attitudein asking or expecting that goodness should be prosperous is wrong;that, if only we could see things as they are, we should see that theoutward is nothing and the inward is all. And some such thought as this (which, to bring it clearly out, I havestated, and still state, in a form both exaggerated and much tooexplicit) is really present through the whole play. Whether Shakespeareknew it or not, it is present. I might almost say that the 'moral' of_King Lear_ is presented in the irony of this collocation: _Albany. _ The gods defend her! _Enter Lear with Cordelia dead in his arms. _The 'gods,' it seems, do _not_ show their approval by 'defending' theirown from adversity or death, or by giving them power and prosperity. These, on the contrary, are worthless, or worse; it is not on them, buton the renunciation of them, that the gods throw incense. They breedlust, pride, hardness of heart, the insolence of office, cruelty, scorn,hypocrisy, contention, war, murder, self-destruction. The whole storybeats this indictment of prosperity into the brain. Lear's greatspeeches in his madness proclaim it like the curses of Timon on life andman. But here, as in _Timon_, the poor and humble are, almost withoutexception, sound and sweet at heart, faithful and pitiful. [188] And hereadversity, to the blessed in spirit, is blessed. It wins fragrance fromthe crushed flower. It melts in aged hearts sympathies which prosperityhad frozen. It purges the soul's sight by blinding that of theeyes. [189] Throughout that stupendous Third Act the good are seengrowing better through suffering, and the bad worse through success. Thewarm castle is a room in hell, the storm-swept heath a sanctuary. Thejudgment of this world is a lie; its goods, which we covet, corrupt us;its ills, which break our bodies, set our souls free; Our means secure us,[190] and our mere defects Prove our commodities. Let us renounce the world, hate it, and lose it gladly. The only realthing in it is the soul, with its courage, patience, devotion. Andnothing outward can touch that. This, if we like to use the word, is Shakespeare's 'pessimism' in _KingLear_. As we have seen, it is not by any means the whole spirit of thetragedy, which presents the world as a place where heavenly good growsside by side with evil, where extreme evil cannot long endure, and whereall that survives the storm is good, if not great. But still this strainof thought, to which the world appears as the kingdom of evil andtherefore worthless, is in the tragedy, and may well be the record ofmany hours of exasperated feeling and troubled brooding. Pursued furtherand allowed to dominate, it would destroy the tragedy; for it isnecessary to tragedy that we should feel that suffering and death domatter greatly, and that happiness and life are not to be renounced asworthless. Pursued further, again, it leads to the idea that the world,in that obvious appearance of it which tragedy cannot dissolve withoutdissolving itself, is illusive. And its tendency towards this idea istraceable in _King Lear_, in the shape of the notion that this 'greatworld' is transitory, or 'will wear out to nought' like the little worldcalled 'man' (IV. vi. 137), or that humanity will destroy itself. [191]In later days, in the drama that was probably Shakespeare's lastcomplete work, the _Tempest_, this notion of the transitoriness ofthings appears, side by side with the simpler feeling that man's life isan illusion or dream, in some of the most famous lines he ever wrote: Our revels now are ended. 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-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. These lines, detached from their context, are familiar to everyone; but,in the _Tempest_, they are dramatic as well as poetical. The suddenemergence of the thought expressed in them has a specific and mostsignificant cause; and as I have not seen it remarked I will point itout. Prospero, by means of his spirits, has been exhibiting to Ferdinand andMiranda a masque in which goddesses appear, and which is so majestic andharmonious that to the young man, standing beside such a father and sucha wife, the place seems Paradise,--as perhaps the world once seemed toShakespeare. Then, at the bidding of Iris, there begins a dance ofNymphs with Reapers, sunburnt, weary of their August labour, but now intheir holiday garb. But, as this is nearing its end, Prospero 'startssuddenly, and speaks'; and the visions vanish. And what he 'speaks' isshown in these lines, which introduce the famous passage just quoted: _Pros. _ [_Aside_] I had forgot that foul conspiracy Of the beast Caliban and his confederates Against my life: the minute of their plot Is almost come. [_To the Spirits. _] Well done! avoid; no more. _Fer. _ This is strange; your father's in some passion That works him strongly. _Mir. _ Never till this day Saw I him touch'd with anger so distemper'd. _Pros. _ You do look, my son, in a moved sort, As if you were dismay'd: be cheerful, sir. Our revels. . . . And then, after the famous lines, follow these: 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. We seem to see here the whole mind of Shakespeare in his last years. That which provokes in Prospero first a 'passion' of anger, and, amoment later, that melancholy and mystical thought that the great worldmust perish utterly and that man is but a dream, is the suddenrecollection of gross and apparently incurable evil in the 'monster'whom he had tried in vain to raise and soften, and in the monster'shuman confederates. It is this, which is but the repetition of hisearlier experience of treachery and ingratitude, that troubles his oldbrain, makes his mind 'beat,'[192] and forces on him the sense ofunreality and evanescence in the world and the life that are haunted bysuch evil. Nor, though Prospero can spare and forgive, is there any signto the end that he believes the evil curable either in the monster, the'born devil,' or in the more monstrous villains, the 'worse thandevils,' whom he so sternly dismisses. But he has learned patience, hascome to regard his anger and loathing as a weakness or infirmity, andwould not have it disturb the young and innocent. And so, in the days of_King Lear_, it was chiefly the power of 'monstrous' and apparentlycureless evil in the 'great world' that filled Shakespeare's soul withhorror, and perhaps forced him sometimes to yield to the infirmity ofmisanthropy and despair, to cry 'No, no, no life,' and to take refuge inthe thought that this fitful fever is a dream that must soon fade into adreamless sleep; until, to free himself from the perilous stuff thatweighed upon his heart, he summoned to his aid his 'so potent art,' andwrought this stuff into the stormy music of his greatest poem, whichseems to cry, You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need,and, like the _Tempest_, seems to preach to us from end to end, 'Thoumust be patient,' 'Bear free and patient thoughts. '[193]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 158: Of course I do not mean that he is beginning to beinsane, and still less that he _is_ insane (as some medical criticssuggest). ][Footnote 159: I must however point out that the modern stage-directionsare most unfortunate in concealing the fact that here Cordelia sees herfather again _for the first time_. See Note W. ][Footnote 160: What immediately follows is as striking an illustrationof quite another quality, and of the effects which make us think of Learas pursued by a relentless fate. If he could go in and sleep after hisprayer, as he intends, his mind, one feels, might be saved: so far therehas been only the menace of madness. But from within the hovelEdgar--the last man who would willingly have injured Lear--cries,'Fathom and half, fathom and half! Poor Tom! '; the Fool runs outterrified; Edgar, summoned by Kent, follows him; and, at sight of Edgar,in a moment something gives way in Lear's brain, and he exclaims: Hast thou given all To thy two daughters? And art thou come to this? Henceforth he is mad. And they remain out in the storm. I have not seen it noticed that this stroke of fate is repeated--surelyintentionally--in the sixth scene. Gloster has succeeded in persuadingLear to come into the 'house'; he then leaves, and Kent after muchdifficulty induces Lear to lie down and rest upon the cushions. Sleepbegins to come to him again, and he murmurs, 'Make no noise, make no noise; draw the curtains; so, so, so. We'll go to supper i' the morning. So, so, so. 'At that moment Gloster enters with the news that he has discovered aplot to kill the King; the rest that 'might yet have balm'd his brokensenses' is again interrupted; and he is hurried away on a litter towardsDover. (His recovery, it will be remembered, is due to a long sleepartificially induced. )][Footnote 161: III. iv. 49. This is printed as prose in the Globeedition, but is surely verse. Lear has not yet spoken prose in thisscene, and his next three speeches are in verse. The next is in prose,and, ending, in his tearing off his clothes, shows the advance ofinsanity. ][Footnote 162: [Lear's death is thus, I am reminded, like _père_Goriot's. ] This interpretation may be condemned as fantastic, but thetext, it appears to me, will bear no other. This is the whole speech (inthe Globe text): And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life! Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more, Never, never, never, never, never! Pray you, undo this button: thank you, sir. Do you see this? Look on her, look, her lips, Look there, look there! The transition at 'Do you see this? ' from despair to something more thanhope is exactly the same as in the preceding passage at the word 'Ha! ': A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all! I might have saved her; now she's gone for ever! Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Ha! What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever soft, Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman. As to my other remarks, I will ask the reader to notice that the passagefrom Lear's entrance with the body of Cordelia to the stage-direction_He dies_ (which probably comes a few lines too soon) is 54 lines inlength, and that 30 of them represent the interval during which he hasabsolutely forgotten Cordelia. (It begins when he looks up at theCaptain's words, line 275. ) To make Lear during this interval turncontinually in anguish to the corpse, is to act the passage in a mannerirreconcilable with the text, and insufferable in its effect. I speakfrom experience. I have seen the passage acted thus, and my sympathieswere so exhausted long before Lear's death that his last speech, themost pathetic speech ever written, left me disappointed and weary. ][Footnote 163: The Quartos give the 'Never' only thrice (surelywrongly), and all the actors I have heard have preferred this easiertask. I ought perhaps to add that the Quartos give the words 'Break,heart; I prithee, break! ' to Lear, not Kent. They and the Folio are atodds throughout the last sixty lines of King Lear, and all good moderntexts are eclectic. ][Footnote 164: The connection of these sufferings with the sin ofearlier days (not, it should be noticed, of youth) is almost thrust uponour notice by the levity of Gloster's own reference to the subject inthe first scene, and by Edgar's often quoted words 'The gods are just,'etc. The following collocation, also, may be intentional (III. iv. 116): _Fool_. Now a little fire in a wild field were like an old lecher's heart; a small spark, all the rest on's body cold. Look, here comes a walking fire. [_Enter_ GLOSTER with a torch. ]Pope destroyed the collocation by transferring the stage-direction to apoint some dozen lines later. ][Footnote 165: The passages are here printed together (III. iv. 28 ff. and IV. i. 67 ff. ): _Lear. _ Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these? O, I have ta'en Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp; Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou mayst shake the superflux to them, And show the heavens just. _Glo. _ Here, take this purse, thou whom the heavens' plagues Have humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched Makes thee the happier: heavens, deal so still! Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man, That slaves your ordinance, that will not see Because he doth not feel, feel your power quickly; So distribution should undo excess, And each man have enough. ][Footnote 166: Schmidt's idea--based partly on the omission from theFolios at I. ii. 103 (see Furness' Variorum) of the words 'To his fatherthat so tenderly and entirely loves him'--that Gloster loved neither ofhis sons, is surely an entire mistake. See, not to speak of generalimpressions, III. iv. 171 ff. ][Footnote 167: Imagination demands for Lear, even more than for Othello,majesty of stature and mien. Tourgénief felt this and made his 'Lear ofthe Steppes' a _gigantic_ peasant. If Shakespeare's texts give noexpress authority for ideas like these, the reason probably is that hewrote primarily for the theatre, where the principal actor might not bea large man. ][Footnote 168: He is not present, of course, till France and Burgundyenter; but while he is present he says not a word beyond 'Here's Franceand Burgundy, my noble lord. ' For some remarks on the possibility thatShakespeare imagined him as having encouraged Lear in his idea ofdividing the kingdom see Note T. It must be remembered that Cornwall wasGloster's 'arch and patron. '][Footnote 169: In this she stands alone among the more notablecharacters of the play. Doubtless Regan's exclamation 'O the blest gods'means nothing, but the fact that it is given to her means something. Forsome further remarks on Goneril see Note T. I may add that touches ofGoneril reappear in the heroine of the next tragedy, _Macbeth_; and thatwe are sometimes reminded of her again by the character of the Queen in_Cymbeline_, who bewitched the feeble King by her beauty, and marriedhim for greatness while she abhorred his person (_Cymbeline_, V. v. 62f. , 31 f. ); who tried to poison her step-daughter and intended to poisonher husband; who died despairing because she could not execute all theevil she purposed; and who inspirited her husband to defy the Romans bywords that still stir the blood (_Cymbeline_, III. i. 14 f. Cf. _KingLear_, IV. ii. 50 f. ). ][Footnote 170: I. ii. 1 f. Shakespeare seems to have in mind the ideaexpressed in the speech of Ulysses about the dependence of the world ondegree, order, system, custom, and about the chaos which would resultfrom the free action of appetite, the 'universal wolf' (_Troilus andCr. _ I. iii. 83 f. ). Cf. the contrast between 'particular will' and 'themoral laws of nature and of nations,' II. ii. 53, 185 ('nature' here ofcourse is the opposite of the 'nature' of Edmund's speech). ][Footnote 171: The line last quoted is continued by Edmund in the Foliosthus: 'Th' hast spoken right; 'tis true,' but in the Quartos thus: 'Thouhast spoken truth,' which leaves the line imperfect. This, and theimperfect line 'Make instruments to plague us,' suggest that Shakespearewrote at first simply, Make instruments to plague us. _Edm. _ Th' hast spoken truth. The Quartos show other variations which seem to point to the fact thatthe MS. was here difficult to make out. ][Footnote 172: IV. i. 1-9. I am indebted here to Koppel,_Verbesserungsvorschläge zu den Erläuterungen und der Textlesung desLear_ (1899). ][Footnote 173: See I. i. 142 ff. Kent speaks, not of the _injustice_ ofLear's action, but of its 'folly,' its 'hideous rashness. ' When the Kingexclaims 'Kent, on thy life, no more,' he answers: My life I never held but as a pawn To wage against thy enemies; nor fear to lose it, _Thy safety being the motive_. (The first Folio omits 'a,' and in the next line reads 'nere' for 'nor. 'Perhaps the first line should read 'My life I ne'er held but as pawn towage. ')][Footnote 174: See II. ii. 162 to end. The light-heartedness disappears,of course, as Lear's misfortunes thicken. ][Footnote 175: This difference, however, must not be pressed too far;nor must we take Kent's retort, Now by Apollo, king, Thou swear'st thy gods in vain,for a sign of disbelief. He twice speaks of the gods in another manner(I. i. 185, III. vi. 5), and he was accustomed to think of Lear in his'prayers' (I. i. 144). ][Footnote 176: The 'clown' in _Antony and Cleopatra_ is merely an oldpeasant. There is a fool in _Timon of Athens_, however, and he appearsin a scene (II. ii. ) generally attributed to Shakespeare. His talksometimes reminds one of Lear's fool; and Kent's remark, 'This is notaltogether fool, my lord,' is repeated in _Timon_, II. ii. 122, 'Thouart not altogether a fool. '][Footnote 177: [This is no obstacle. There could hardly be a stagetradition hostile to his youth, since he does not appear in Tate'sversion, which alone was acted during the century and a half beforeMacready's production. I had forgotten this; and my memory must alsohave been at fault regarding an engraving to which I referred in thefirst edition. Both mistakes were pointed out by Mr. Archer. ]][Footnote 178: In parts of what follows I am indebted to remarks byCowden Clarke, quoted by Furness on I. iv. 91. ][Footnote 179: See also Note T. ][Footnote 180: 'Our last and least' (according to the Folio reading). Lear speaks again of 'this little seeming substance. ' He can carry herdead body in his arms. ][Footnote 181: Perhaps then the 'low sound' is not merely metaphoricalin Kent's speech in I. i. 153 f. : answer my life my judgment, Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least; Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound Reverbs no hollowness. ][Footnote 182: I. i. 80. 'More ponderous' is the reading of the Folios,'more richer' that of the Quartos. The latter is usually preferred, andMr. Aldis Wright says 'more ponderous' has the appearance of being aplayer's correction to avoid a piece of imaginary bad grammar. Does itnot sound more like the author's improvement of a phrase that he thoughta little flat? And, apart from that, is it not significant that itexpresses the same idea of weight that appears in the phrase 'I cannotheave my heart into my mouth'? ][Footnote 183: Cf. Cornwall's satirical remarks on Kent's 'plainness' inII. ii. 101 ff. ,--a plainness which did no service to Kent's master. (Asa matter of fact, Cordelia had said nothing about 'plainness. ')][Footnote 184: Who, like Kent, hastens on the quarrel with Goneril. ][Footnote 185: I do not wish to complicate the discussion by examiningthe differences, in degree or otherwise, in the various cases, or byintroducing numerous qualifications; and therefore I do not add thenames of Macbeth and Lady Macbeth. ][Footnote 186: It follows from the above that, if this idea were madeexplicit and accompanied our reading of a tragedy throughout, it wouldconfuse or even destroy the tragic impression. So would the constantpresence of Christian beliefs. The reader most attached to these beliefsholds them in temporary suspension while he is immersed in aShakespearean tragedy. Such tragedy assumes that the world, as it ispresented, is the truth, though it also provokes feelings which implythat this world is not the whole truth, and therefore not the truth. ][Footnote 187: Though Cordelia, of course, does not occupy the positionof the hero. ][Footnote 188: _E. g. _ in _King Lear_ the servants, and the old man whosuccours Gloster and brings to the naked beggar 'the best 'parel that hehas, come on't what will,' _i. e. _ whatever vengeance Regan can inflict. Cf. the Steward and the Servants in _Timon_. Cf. there also (V. i. 23),'Promising is the very air o' the time . . . performance is ever theduller for his act; and, _but in the plainer and simpler kind ofpeople_, the deed of saying [performance of promises] is quite out ofuse. ' Shakespeare's feeling on this subject, though apparently speciallykeen at this time of his life, is much the same throughout (cf. Adam in_As You Like It_). He has no respect for the plainer and simpler kind ofpeople as politicians, but a great respect and regard for their hearts. ][Footnote 189: 'I stumbled when I saw,' says Gloster. ][Footnote 190: Our advantages give us a blind confidence in oursecurity. Cf. _Timon_, IV. iii. 76, _Alc. _ I have heard in some sort of thy miseries. _Tim. _ Thou saw'st them when I had prosperity. ][Footnote 191: Biblical ideas seem to have been floating inShakespeare's mind. Cf. the words of Kent, when Lear enters withCordelia's body, 'Is this the promised end? ' and Edgar's answer, 'Orimage of that horror? ' The 'promised end' is certainly the end of theworld (cf. with 'image' 'the great doom's image,' _Macbeth_, II. iii. 83); and the next words, Albany's 'Fall and cease,' _may_ be addressedto the heavens or stars, not to Lear. It seems probable that in writingGloster's speech about the predicted horrors to follow 'these lateeclipses' Shakespeare had a vague recollection of the passage in_Matthew_ xxiv. , or of that in _Mark_ xiii. , about the tribulationswhich were to be the sign of 'the end of the world. ' (I do not mean, ofcourse, that the 'prediction' of I. ii. 119 is the prediction to befound in one of these passages. )][Footnote 192: Cf. _Hamlet_, III. i. 181: This something-settled matter in his heart, Whereon his brains still beating puts him thus From fashion of himself. ][Footnote 193: I believe the criticism of _King Lear_ which hasinfluenced me most is that in Prof. Dowden's _Shakspere, his Mind andArt_ (though, when I wrote my lectures, I had not read that criticismfor many years); and I am glad that this acknowledgment gives me theopportunity of repeating in print an opinion which I have oftenexpressed to students, that anyone entering on the study of Shakespeare,and unable or unwilling to read much criticism, would do best to takeProf. Dowden for his guide. ]LECTURE IXMACBETH_Macbeth_, it is probable, was the last-written of the four greattragedies, and immediately preceded _Antony and Cleopatra_. [194] In thatplay Shakespeare's final style appears for the first time completelyformed, and the transition to this style is much more decidedly visiblein _Macbeth_ than in _King Lear_. Yet in certain respects _Macbeth_recalls _Hamlet_ rather than _Othello_ or _King Lear_. In the heroes ofboth plays the passage from thought to a critical resolution and actionis difficult, and excites the keenest interest. In neither play, as in_Othello_ and _King Lear_, is painful pathos one of the main effects. Evil, again, though it shows in _Macbeth_ a prodigious energy, is notthe icy or stony inhumanity of Iago or Goneril; and, as in _Hamlet_, itis pursued by remorse. Finally, Shakespeare no longer restricts theaction to purely human agencies, as in the two preceding tragedies;portents once more fill the heavens, ghosts rise from their graves, anunearthly light flickers about the head of the doomed man. The specialpopularity of _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_ is due in part to some of thesecommon characteristics, notably to the fascination of the supernatural,the absence of the spectacle of extreme undeserved suffering, theabsence of characters which horrify and repel and yet are destitute ofgrandeur. The reader who looks unwillingly at Iago gazes at Lady Macbethin awe, because though she is dreadful she is also sublime. The wholetragedy is sublime. In this, however, and in other respects, _Macbeth_ makes an impressionquite different from that of _Hamlet_. The dimensions of the principalcharacters, the rate of movement in the action, the supernatural effect,the style, the versification, are all changed; and they are all changedin much the same manner. In many parts of _Macbeth_ there is in thelanguage a peculiar compression, pregnancy, energy, even violence; theharmonious grace and even flow, often conspicuous in _Hamlet_, havealmost disappeared. The cruel characters, built on a scale at least aslarge as that of _Othello_, seem to attain at times an almost superhumanstature. The diction has in places a huge and rugged grandeur, whichdegenerates here and there into tumidity. The solemn majesty of theroyal Ghost in _Hamlet_, appearing in armour and standing silent in themoonlight, is exchanged for shapes of horror, dimly seen in the murkyair or revealed by the glare of the caldron fire in a dark cavern, orfor the ghastly face of Banquo badged with blood and staring with blankeyes. The other three tragedies all open with conversations which leadinto the action: here the action bursts into wild life amidst the soundsof a thunder-storm and the echoes of a distant battle. It hurriesthrough seven very brief scenes of mounting suspense to a terriblecrisis, which is reached, in the murder of Duncan, at the beginning ofthe Second Act. Pausing a moment and changing its shape, it hastes againwith scarcely diminished speed to fresh horrors. And even when the speedof the outward action is slackened, the same effect is continued inanother form: we are shown a soul tortured by an agony which admits nota moment's repose, and rushing in frenzy towards its doom. _Macbeth_ isvery much shorter than the other three tragedies, but our experience intraversing it is so crowded and intense that it leaves an impression notof brevity but of speed. It is the most vehement, the most concentrated,perhaps we may say the most tremendous, of the tragedies. 1A Shakespearean tragedy, as a rule, has a special tone or atmosphere ofits own, quite perceptible, however difficult to describe. The effect ofthis atmosphere is marked with unusual strength in _Macbeth_. It is dueto a variety of influences which combine with those just noticed, sothat, acting and reacting, they form a whole; and the desolation of theblasted heath, the design of the Witches, the guilt in the hero's soul,the darkness of the night, seem to emanate from one and the same source. This effect is strengthened by a multitude of small touches, which atthe moment may be little noticed but still leave their mark on theimagination. We may approach the consideration of the characters and theaction by distinguishing some of the ingredients of this general effect. Darkness, we may even say blackness, broods over this tragedy. It isremarkable that almost all the scenes which at once recur to memory takeplace either at night or in some dark spot. The vision of the dagger,the murder of Duncan, the murder of Banquo, the sleep-walking of LadyMacbeth, all come in night-scenes. The Witches dance in the thick air ofa storm, or, 'black and midnight hags,' receive Macbeth in a cavern. Theblackness of night is to the hero a thing of fear, even of horror; andthat which he feels becomes the spirit of the play. The faintglimmerings of the western sky at twilight are here menacing: it is thehour when the traveller hastens to reach safety in his inn, and whenBanquo rides homeward to meet his assassins; the hour when 'lightthickens,' when 'night's black agents to their prey do rouse,' when thewolf begins to howl, and the owl to scream, and withered murder stealsforth to his work. Macbeth bids the stars hide their fires that his'black' desires may be concealed; Lady Macbeth calls on thick night tocome, palled in the dunnest smoke of hell. The moon is down and no starsshine when Banquo, dreading the dreams of the coming night, goesunwillingly to bed, and leaves Macbeth to wait for the summons of thelittle bell. When the next day should dawn, its light is 'strangled,'and 'darkness does the face of earth entomb. ' In the whole drama the sunseems to shine only twice: first, in the beautiful but ironical passagewhere Duncan sees the swallows flitting round the castle of death; and,afterwards, when at the close the avenging army gathers to rid the earthof its shame. Of the many slighter touches which deepen this effect Inotice only one. The failure of nature in Lady Macbeth is marked by herfear of darkness; 'she has light by her continually. ' And in the onephrase of fear that escapes her lips even in sleep, it is of thedarkness of the place of torment that she speaks. [195]The atmosphere of _Macbeth_, however, is not that of unrelievedblackness. On the contrary, as compared with _King Lear_ and its colddim gloom, _Macbeth_ leaves a decided impression of colour; it is reallythe impression of a black night broken by flashes of light and colour,sometimes vivid and even glaring. They are the lights and colours of thethunder-storm in the first scene; of the dagger hanging before Macbeth'seyes and glittering alone in the midnight air; of the torch borne by theservant when he and his lord come upon Banquo crossing the castle-courtto his room; of the torch, again, which Fleance carried to light hisfather to death, and which was dashed out by one of the murderers; ofthe torches that flared in the hall on the face of the Ghost and theblanched cheeks of Macbeth; of the flames beneath the boiling caldronfrom which the apparitions in the cavern rose; of the taper which showedto the Doctor and Gentlewoman the wasted face and blank eyes of LadyMacbeth. And, above all, the colour is the colour of blood. It cannot bean accident that the image of blood is forced upon us continually, notmerely by the events themselves, but by full descriptions, and even byreiteration of the word in unlikely parts of the dialogue. The Witches,after their first wild appearance, have hardly quitted the stage whenthere staggers onto it a 'bloody man,' gashed with wounds. His tale isof a hero whose 'brandished steel smoked with bloody execution,' 'carvedout a passage' to his enemy, and 'unseam'd him from the nave to thechaps. ' And then he tells of a second battle so bloody that thecombatants seemed as if they 'meant to bathe in reeking wounds. ' Whatmetaphors! What a dreadful image is that with which Lady Macbeth greetsus almost as she enters, when she prays the spirits of cruelty so tothicken her blood that pity cannot flow along her veins! What picturesare those of the murderer appearing at the door of the banquet-room withBanquo's 'blood upon his face'; of Banquo himself 'with twenty trenchedgashes on his head,' or 'blood-bolter'd' and smiling in derision at hismurderer; of Macbeth, gazing at his hand, and watching it dye the wholegreen ocean red; of Lady Macbeth, gazing at hers, and stretching it awayfrom her face to escape the smell of blood that all the perfumes ofArabia will not subdue! The most horrible lines in the whole tragedy arethose of her shuddering cry, 'Yet who would have thought the old man tohave had so much blood in him? ' And it is not only at such moments thatthese images occur. Even in the quiet conversation of Malcolm andMacduff, Macbeth is imagined as holding a bloody sceptre, and Scotlandas a country bleeding and receiving every day a new gash added to herwounds. It is as if the poet saw the whole story through an ensanguinedmist, and as if it stained the very blackness of the night. WhenMacbeth, before Banquo's murder, invokes night to scarf up the tendereye of pitiful day, and to tear in pieces the great bond that keeps himpale, even the invisible hand that is to tear the bond is imagined ascovered with blood. Let us observe another point. The vividness, magnitude, and violence ofthe imagery in some of these passages are characteristic of _Macbeth_almost throughout; and their influence contributes to form itsatmosphere. Images like those of the babe torn smiling from the breastand dashed to death; of pouring the sweet milk of concord into hell; ofthe earth shaking in fever; of the frame of things disjointed; ofsorrows striking heaven on the face, so that it resounds and yells outlike syllables of dolour; of the mind lying in restless ecstasy on arack; of the mind full of scorpions; of the tale told by an idiot, fullof sound and fury;--all keep the imagination moving on a 'wild andviolent sea,' while it is scarcely for a moment permitted to dwell onthoughts of peace and beauty. In its language, as in its action, thedrama is full of tumult and storm. Whenever the Witches are present wesee and hear a thunder-storm: when they are absent we hear ofship-wrecking storms and direful thunders; of tempests that blow downtrees and churches, castles, palaces and pyramids; of the frightfulhurricane of the night when Duncan was murdered; of the blast on whichpity rides like a new-born babe, or on which Heaven's cherubim arehorsed. There is thus something magnificently appropriate in the cry'Blow, wind! Come, wrack! ' with which Macbeth, turning from the sight ofthe moving wood of Birnam, bursts from his castle. He was borne to histhrone on a whirlwind, and the fate he goes to meet comes on the wingsof storm. Now all these agencies--darkness, the lights and colours that illuminateit, the storm that rushes through it, the violent and giganticimages--conspire with the appearances of the Witches and the Ghost toawaken horror, and in some degree also a supernatural dread. And to thiseffect other influences contribute. The pictures called up by the merewords of the Witches stir the same feelings,--those, for example, of thespell-bound sailor driven tempest-tost for nine times nine weary weeks,and never visited by sleep night or day; of the drop of poisonous foamthat forms on the moon, and, falling to earth, is collected forpernicious ends; of the sweltering venom of the toad, the finger of thebabe killed at its birth by its own mother, the tricklings from themurderer's gibbet. In Nature, again, something is felt to be at work,sympathetic with human guilt and supernatural malice. She labours withportents. Lamentings heard in the air, strange screams of death, And prophesying with accents terrible,burst from her. The owl clamours all through the night; Duncan's horsesdevour each other in frenzy; the dawn comes, but no light with it. Common sights and sounds, the crying of crickets, the croak of theraven, the light thickening after sunset, the home-coming of the rooks,are all ominous. Then, as if to deepen these impressions, Shakespearehas concentrated attention on the obscurer regions of man's being, onphenomena which make it seem that he is in the power of secret forceslurking below, and independent of his consciousness and will: such asthe relapse of Macbeth from conversation into a reverie, during which hegazes fascinated at the image of murder drawing closer and closer; thewriting on his face of strange things he never meant to show; thepressure of imagination heightening into illusion, like the vision of adagger in the air, at first bright, then suddenly splashed with blood,or the sound of a voice that cried 'Sleep no more' and would not besilenced. [196] To these are added other, and constant, allusions tosleep, man's strange half-conscious life; to the misery of itswithholding; to the terrible dreams of remorse; to the cursed thoughtsfrom which Banquo is free by day, but which tempt him in his sleep: andagain to abnormal disturbances of sleep; in the two men, of whom oneduring the murder of Duncan laughed in his sleep, and the other raised acry of murder; and in Lady Macbeth, who rises to re-enact insomnambulism those scenes the memory of which is pushing her on tomadness or suicide. All this has one effect, to excite supernaturalalarm and, even more, a dread of the presence of evil not only in itsrecognised seat but all through and around our mysterious nature. Perhaps there is no other work equal to _Macbeth_ in the production ofthis effect. [197]It is enhanced--to take a last point--by the use of a literaryexpedient. Not even in _Richard III. _, which in this, as in otherrespects, has resemblances to _Macbeth_, is there so much of Irony. I donot refer to irony in the ordinary sense; to speeches, for example,where the speaker is intentionally ironical, like that of Lennox in III. vi. I refer to irony on the part of the author himself, to ironicaljuxtapositions of persons and events, and especially to the 'Sophocleanirony' by which a speaker is made to use words bearing to the audience,in addition to his own meaning, a further and ominous sense, hidden fromhimself and, usually, from the other persons on the stage. The veryfirst words uttered by Macbeth, So foul and fair a day I have not seen,are an example to which attention has often been drawn; for they startlethe reader by recalling the words of the Witches in the first scene, Fair is foul, and foul is fair. When Macbeth, emerging from his murderous reverie, turns to the noblessaying, 'Let us toward the King,' his words are innocent, but to thereader have a double meaning. Duncan's comment on the treachery ofCawdor, There's no art To find the mind's construction in the face: He was a gentleman on whom I built An absolute trust,is interrupted[198] by the entrance of the traitor Macbeth, who isgreeted with effusive gratitude and a like 'absolute trust. ' I havealready referred to the ironical effect of the beautiful lines in whichDuncan and Banquo describe the castle they are about to enter. To thereader Lady Macbeth's light words, A little water clears us of this deed: How easy is it then,summon up the picture of the sleep-walking scene. The idea of thePorter's speech, in which he imagines himself the keeper of hell-gate,shows the same irony. So does the contrast between the obvious and thehidden meanings of the apparitions of the armed head, the bloody child,and the child with the tree in his hand. It would be easy to add furtherexamples. Perhaps the most striking is the answer which Banquo, as herides away, never to return alive, gives to Macbeth's reminder, 'Failnot our feast. ' 'My lord, I will not,' he replies, and he keeps hispromise. It cannot be by accident that Shakespeare so frequently in thisplay uses a device which contributes to excite the vague fear of hiddenforces operating on minds unconscious of their influence. [199]2But of course he had for this purpose an agency more potent than any yetconsidered. It would be almost an impertinence to attempt to describeanew the influence of the Witch-scenes on the imagination of thereader. [200] Nor do I believe that among different readers thisinfluence differs greatly except in degree. But when critics begin toanalyse the imaginative effect, and still more when, going behind it,they try to determine the truth which lay for Shakespeare or lies for usin these creations, they too often offer us results which, eitherthrough perversion or through inadequacy, fail to correspond with thateffect. This happens in opposite ways. On the one hand the Witches,whose contribution to the 'atmosphere' of Macbeth can hardly beexaggerated, are credited with far too great an influence upon theaction; sometimes they are described as goddesses, or even as fates,whom Macbeth is powerless to resist. And this is perversion. On theother hand, we are told that, great as is their influence on the action,it is so because they are merely symbolic representations of theunconscious or half-conscious guilt in Macbeth himself. And this isinadequate. The few remarks I have to make may take the form of acriticism on these views. (1) As to the former, Shakespeare took, as material for his purposes,the ideas about witch-craft that he found existing in people around himand in books like Reginald Scot's _Discovery_ (1584). And he used theseideas without changing their substance at all. He selected and improved,avoiding the merely ridiculous, dismissing (unlike Middleton) thesexually loathsome or stimulating, rehandling and heightening whatevercould touch the imagination with fear, horror, and mysteriousattraction. The Witches, that is to say, are not goddesses, or fates,or, in any way whatever, supernatural beings. They are old women, poorand ragged, skinny and hideous, full of vulgar spite, occupied inkilling their neighbours' swine or revenging themselves on sailors'wives who have refused them chestnuts. If Banquo considers their beardsa proof that they are not women, that only shows his ignorance: Sir HughEvans would have known better. [201] There is not a syllable in _Macbeth_to imply that they are anything but women. But, again in accordance withthe popular ideas, they have received from evil spirits certainsupernatural powers. They can 'raise haile, tempests, and hurtfullweather; as lightening, thunder etc. ' They can 'passe from place toplace in the aire invisible. ' They can 'keepe divels and spirits in thelikenesse of todes and cats,' Paddock or Graymalkin. They can'transferre corne in the blade from one place to another. ' They can'manifest unto others things hidden and lost, and foreshew things tocome, and see them as though they were present. ' The reader will applythese phrases and sentences at once to passages in _Macbeth_. They areall taken from Scot's first chapter, where he is retailing the currentsuperstitions of his time; and, in regard to the Witches, Shakespearementions scarcely anything, if anything, that was not to be found, ofcourse in a more prosaic shape, either in Scot or in some other easilyaccessible authority. [202] He read, to be sure, in Holinshed, his mainsource for the story of Macbeth, that, according to the common opinion,the 'women' who met Macbeth 'were eyther the weird sisters, that is (asye would say) ye Goddesses of destinee, or els some Nimphes or Feiries. 'But what does that matter? What he read in his authority was absolutelynothing to his audience, and remains nothing to us, unless he _used_what he read. And he did not use this idea. He used nothing but thephrase 'weird sisters,'[203] which certainly no more suggested to aLondon audience the Parcae of one mythology or the Norns of another thanit does to-day. His Witches owe all their power to the spirits; they are'_instruments_ of darkness'; the spirits are their 'masters' (IV. i. 63). Fancy the fates having masters! Even if the passages where Hecateappears are Shakespeare's,[204] that will not help the Witches; for theyare subject to Hecate, who is herself a goddess or superior devil, not afate. [205]Next, while the influence of the Witches' prophecies on Macbeth is verygreat, it is quite clearly shown to be an influence and nothing more. There is no sign whatever in the play that Shakespeare meant the actionsof Macbeth to be forced on him by an external power, whether that of theWitches, or of their 'masters,' or of Hecate. It is needless thereforeto insist that such a conception would be in contradiction with hiswhole tragic practice. The prophecies of the Witches are presentedsimply as dangerous circumstances with which Macbeth has to deal: theyare dramatically on the same level as the story of the Ghost in_Hamlet_, or the falsehoods told by Iago to Othello. Macbeth is, in theordinary sense, perfectly free in regard to them: and if we speak ofdegrees of freedom, he is even more free than Hamlet, who was crippledby melancholy when the Ghost appeared to him. That the influence of thefirst prophecies upon him came as much from himself as from them, ismade abundantly clear by the obviously intentional contrast between himand Banquo. Banquo, ambitious but perfectly honest, is scarcely evenstartled by them, and he remains throughout the scene indifferent tothem. But when Macbeth heard them he was not an innocent man. Preciselyhow far his mind was guilty may be a question; but no innocent man wouldhave started, as he did, with a start of _fear_ at the mere prophecy ofa crown, or have conceived thereupon _immediately_ the thought ofmurder. Either this thought was not new to him,[206] or he had cherishedat least some vaguer dishonourable dream, the instantaneous recurrenceof which, at the moment of his hearing the prophecy, revealed to him aninward and terrifying guilt.

In either case not only was he free toaccept or resist the temptation, but the temptation was already withinhim. We are admitting too much, therefore, when we compare him withOthello, for Othello's mind was perfectly free from suspicion when histemptation came to him. And we are admitting, again, too much when weuse the word 'temptation' in reference to the first prophecies of theWitches. Speaking strictly we must affirm that he was tempted only byhimself. _He_ speaks indeed of their 'supernatural soliciting'; but infact they did not solicit. They merely announced events: they hailed himas Thane of Glamis, Thane of Cawdor, and King hereafter. No connectionof these announcements with any action of his was even hinted by them. For all that appears, the natural death of an old man might havefulfilled the prophecy any day. [207] In any case, the idea of fulfillingit by murder was entirely his own. [208]When Macbeth sees the Witches again, after the murders of Duncan andBanquo, we observe, however, a striking change. They no longer need togo and meet him; he seeks them out. He has committed himself to hiscourse of evil. Now accordingly they do 'solicit. ' They prophesy, butthey also give advice: they bid him be bloody, bold, and secure. We haveno hope that he will reject their advice; but so far are they fromhaving, even now, any power to compel him to accept it, that they makecareful preparations to deceive him into doing so. And, almost as thoughto intimate how entirely the responsibility for his deeds still lieswith Macbeth, Shakespeare makes his first act after this interview onefor which his tempters gave him not a hint--the slaughter of Macduff'swife and children. To all this we must add that Macbeth himself nowhere betrays a suspicionthat his action is, or has been, thrust on him by an external power. Hecurses the Witches for deceiving him, but he never attempts to shift tothem the burden of his guilt. Neither has Shakespeare placed in themouth of any other character in this play such fatalistic expressions asmay be found in _King Lear_ and occasionally elsewhere. He appearsactually to have taken pains to make the natural psychological genesisof Macbeth's crimes perfectly clear, and it was a most unfortunatenotion of Schlegel's that the Witches were required because naturalagencies would have seemed too weak to drive such a man as Macbeth tohis first murder. 'Still,' it may be said, 'the Witches did foreknow Macbeth's future; andwhat is foreknown is fixed; and how can a man be responsible when hisfuture is fixed? ' With this question, as a speculative one, we have noconcern here; but, in so far as it relates to the play, I answer, first,that not one of the things foreknown is an action. This is just as trueof the later prophecies as of the first. That Macbeth will be harmed bynone of woman born, and will never be vanquished till Birnam Wood shallcome against him, involves (so far as we are informed) no action of his. It may be doubted, indeed, whether Shakespeare would have introducedprophecies of Macbeth's deeds, even if it had been convenient to do so;he would probably have felt that to do so would interfere with theinterest of the inward struggle and suffering. And, in the second place,_Macbeth_ was not written for students of metaphysics or theology, butfor people at large; and, however it may be with prophecies of actions,prophecies of mere events do not suggest to people at large any sort ofdifficulty about responsibility. Many people, perhaps most, habituallythink of their 'future' as something fixed, and of themselves as 'free. 'The Witches nowadays take a room in Bond Street and charge a guinea; andwhen the victim enters they hail him the possessor of £1000 a year, orprophesy to him of journeys, wives, and children. But though he isstruck dumb by their prescience, it does not even cross his mind that heis going to lose his glorious 'freedom'--not though journeys andmarriages imply much more agency on his part than anything foretold toMacbeth. This whole difficulty is undramatic; and I may add thatShakespeare nowhere shows, like Chaucer, any interest in speculativeproblems concerning foreknowledge, predestination and freedom. (2) We may deal more briefly with the opposite interpretation. Accordingto it the Witches and their prophecies are to be taken merely assymbolical representations of thoughts and desires which have slumberedin Macbeth's breast and now rise into consciousness and confront him. With this idea, which springs from the wish to get rid of a mereexternal supernaturalism, and to find a psychological and spiritualmeaning in that which the groundlings probably received as hard facts,one may feel sympathy. But it is evident that it is rather a'philosophy' of the Witches than an immediate dramatic apprehension ofthem; and even so it will be found both incomplete and, in otherrespects, inadequate. It is incomplete because it cannot possibly be applied to all the facts. Let us grant that it will apply to the most important prophecy, that ofthe crown; and that the later warning which Macbeth receives, to bewareof Macduff, also answers to something in his own breast and 'harps hisfear aright' But there we have to stop. Macbeth had evidently nosuspicion of that treachery in Cawdor through which he himself becameThane; and who will suggest that he had any idea, however subconscious,about Birnam Wood or the man not born of woman? It may be held--andrightly, I think--that the prophecies which answer to nothing inward,the prophecies which are merely supernatural, produce, now at any rate,much less imaginative effect than the others,--even that they are in_Macbeth_ an element which was of an age and not for all time; but stillthey are there, and they are essential to the plot. [209] And as thetheory under consideration will not apply to them at all, it is notlikely that it gives an adequate account even of those prophecies towhich it can in some measure be applied. It is inadequate here chiefly because it is much too narrow. The Witchesand their prophecies, if they are to be rationalised or takensymbolically, must represent not only the evil slumbering in the hero'ssoul, but all those obscurer influences of the evil around him in theworld which aid his own ambition and the incitements of his wife. Suchinfluences, even if we put aside all belief in evil 'spirits,' are ascertain, momentous, and terrifying facts as the presence of inchoateevil in the soul itself; and if we exclude all reference to these factsfrom our idea of the Witches, it will be greatly impoverished and willcertainly fail to correspond with the imaginative effect. The union ofthe outward and inward here may be compared with something of the samekind in Greek poetry. [210] In the first Book of the _Iliad_ we are toldthat, when Agamemnon threatened to take Briseis from Achilles, 'griefcame upon Peleus' son, and his heart within his shaggy breast wasdivided in counsel, whether to draw his keen blade from his thigh andset the company aside and so slay Atreides, or to assuage his anger andcurb his soul. While yet he doubted thereof in heart and soul, and wasdrawing his great sword from his sheath, Athene came to him from heaven,sent forth of the white-armed goddess Hera, whose heart loved both alikeand had care for them. She stood behind Peleus' son and caught him byhis golden hair, to him only visible, and of the rest no man beheldher. ' And at her bidding he mastered his wrath, 'and stayed his heavyhand on the silver hilt, and thrust the great sword back into thesheath, and was not disobedient to the saying of Athene. '[211] Thesuccour of the goddess here only strengthens an inward movement in themind of Achilles, but we should lose something besides a poetic effectif for that reason we struck her out of the account. We should lose theidea that the inward powers of the soul answer in their essence tovaster powers without, which support them and assure the effect of theirexertion. So it is in _Macbeth_. [212] The words of the Witches are fatalto the hero only because there is in him something which leaps intolight at the sound of them; but they are at the same time the witness offorces which never cease to work in the world around him, and, on theinstant of his surrender to them, entangle him inextricably in the webof Fate. If the inward connection is once realised (and Shakespeare hasleft us no excuse for missing it), we need not fear, and indeed shallscarcely be able, to exaggerate the effect of the Witch-scenes inheightening and deepening the sense of fear, horror, and mystery whichpervades the atmosphere of the tragedy. 3From this murky background stand out the two great terrible figures, whodwarf all the remaining characters of the drama. Both are sublime, andboth inspire, far more than the other tragic heroes, the feeling of awe. They are never detached in imagination from the atmosphere whichsurrounds them and adds to their grandeur and terror. It is, as it were,continued into their souls. For within them is all that we feltwithout--the darkness of night, lit with the flame of tempest and thehues of blood, and haunted by wild and direful shapes, 'murderingministers,' spirits of remorse, and maddening visions of peace lost andjudgment to come. The way to be untrue to Shakespeare here, as always,is to relax the tension of imagination, to conventionalise, to conceiveMacbeth, for example, as a half-hearted cowardly criminal, and LadyMacbeth as a whole-hearted fiend. These two characters are fired by one and the same passion of ambition;and to a considerable extent they are alike. The disposition of each ishigh, proud, and commanding. They are born to rule, if not to reign. They are peremptory or contemptuous to their inferiors. They are notchildren of light, like Brutus and Hamlet; they are of the world. Weobserve in them no love of country, and no interest in the welfare ofanyone outside their family. Their habitual thoughts and aims are, and,we imagine, long have been, all of station and power. And though in boththere is something, and in one much, of what is higher--honour,conscience, humanity--they do not live consciously in the light of thesethings or speak their language. Not that they are egoists, like Iago;or, if they are egoists, theirs is an _egoïsme à deux_. They have noseparate ambitions. [213] They support and love one another. They suffertogether. And if, as time goes on, they drift a little apart, they arenot vulgar souls, to be alienated and recriminate when they experiencethe fruitlessness of their ambition. They remain to the end tragic, evengrand. So far there is much likeness between them. Otherwise they arecontrasted, and the action is built upon this contrast. Their attitudestowards the projected murder of Duncan are quite different; and itproduces in them equally different effects. In consequence, they appearin the earlier part of the play as of equal importance, if indeed LadyMacbeth does not overshadow her husband; but afterwards she retires moreand more into the background, and he becomes unmistakably the leadingfigure. His is indeed far the more complex character: and I will speakof it first. Macbeth, the cousin of a King mild, just, and beloved, but now too oldto lead his army, is introduced to us as a general of extraordinaryprowess, who has covered himself with glory in putting down a rebellionand repelling the invasion of a foreign army. In these conflicts heshowed great personal courage, a quality which he continues to displaythroughout the drama in regard to all plain dangers. It is difficult tobe sure of his customary demeanour, for in the play we see him either inwhat appears to be an exceptional relation to his wife, or else in thethroes of remorse and desperation; but from his behaviour during hisjourney home after the war, from his _later_ conversations with LadyMacbeth, and from his language to the murderers of Banquo and to others,we imagine him as a great warrior, somewhat masterful, rough, andabrupt, a man to inspire some fear and much admiration. He was thought'honest,' or honourable; he was trusted, apparently, by everyone;Macduff, a man of the highest integrity, 'loved him well. ' And therewas, in fact, much good in him. We have no warrant, I think, fordescribing him, with many writers, as of a 'noble' nature, like Hamletor Othello;[214] but he had a keen sense both of honour and of the worthof a good name. The phrase, again, 'too much of the milk of humankindness,' is applied to him in impatience by his wife, who did notfully understand him; but certainly he was far from devoid of humanityand pity. At the same time he was exceedingly ambitious. He must have been so bytemper. The tendency must have been greatly strengthened by hismarriage. When we see him, it has been further stimulated by hisremarkable success and by the consciousness of exceptional powers andmerit. It becomes a passion. The course of action suggested by it isextremely perilous: it sets his good name, his position, and even hislife on the hazard. It is also abhorrent to his better feelings. Theirdefeat in the struggle with ambition leaves him utterly wretched, andwould have kept him so, however complete had been his outward successand security. On the other hand, his passion for power and his instinctof self-assertion are so vehement that no inward misery could persuadehim to relinquish the fruits of crime, or to advance from remorse torepentance. In the character as so far sketched there is nothing very peculiar,though the strength of the forces contending in it is unusual. But thereis in Macbeth one marked peculiarity, the true apprehension of which isthe key to Shakespeare's conception. [215] This bold ambitious man ofaction has, within certain limits, the imagination of a poet,--animagination on the one hand extremely sensitive to impressions of acertain kind, and, on the other, productive of violent disturbance bothof mind and body. Through it he is kept in contact with supernaturalimpressions and is liable to supernatural fears. And through it,especially, come to him the intimations of conscience and honour. Macbeth's better nature--to put the matter for clearness' sake toobroadly--instead of speaking to him in the overt language of moralideas, commands, and prohibitions, incorporates itself in images whichalarm and horrify. His imagination is thus the best of him, somethingusually deeper and higher than his conscious thoughts; and if he hadobeyed it he would have been safe. But his wife quite misunderstands it,and he himself understands it only in part. The terrifying images whichdeter him from crime and follow its commission, and which are really theprotest of his deepest self, seem to his wife the creations of merenervous fear, and are sometimes referred by himself to the dread ofvengeance or the restlessness of insecurity. [216] His conscious orreflective mind, that is, moves chiefly among considerations of outwardsuccess and failure, while his inner being is convulsed by conscience. And his inability to understand himself is repeated and exaggerated inthe interpretations of actors and critics, who represent him as acoward, cold-blooded, calculating, and pitiless, who shrinks from crimesimply because it is dangerous, and suffers afterwards simply because heis not safe. In reality his courage is frightful. He strides from crimeto crime, though his soul never ceases to bar his advance with shapes ofterror, or to clamour in his ears that he is murdering his peace andcasting away his 'eternal jewel. 'It is of the first importance to realise the strength, and also (whathas not been so clearly recognised) the limits, of Macbeth'simagination. It is not the universal meditative imagination of Hamlet. He came to see in man, as Hamlet sometimes did, the 'quintessence ofdust'; but he must always have been incapable of Hamlet's reflections onman's noble reason and infinite faculty, or of seeing with Hamlet's eyes'this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted withgolden fire. ' Nor could he feel, like Othello, the romance of war or theinfinity of love. He shows no sign of any unusual sensitiveness to theglory or beauty in the world or the soul; and it is partly for thisreason that we have no inclination to love him, and that we regard himwith more of awe than of pity. His imagination is excitable and intense,but narrow. That which stimulates it is, almost solely, that whichthrills with sudden, startling, and often supernatural fear. [217] Thereis a famous passage late in the play (V. v. 10) which is here verysignificant, because it refers to a time before his conscience wasburdened, and so shows his native disposition: The time has been, my senses would have cool'd To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rise and stir As life were in't. This 'time' must have been in his youth, or at least before we see him. And, in the drama, everything which terrifies him is of this character,only it has now a deeper and a moral significance. Palpable dangersleave him unmoved or fill him with fire. He does himself mere justicewhen he asserts he 'dare do all that may become a man,' or when heexclaims to Banquo's ghost, What man dare, I dare: Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger; Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves Shall never tremble. What appals him is always the image of his own guilty heart or bloodydeed, or some image which derives from them its terror or gloom. These,when they arise, hold him spell-bound and possess him wholly, like ahypnotic trance which is at the same time the ecstasy of a poet. As thefirst 'horrid image' of Duncan's murder--of himself murderingDuncan--rises from unconsciousness and confronts him, his hair stands onend and the outward scene vanishes from his eyes. Why? For fear of'consequences'? The idea is ridiculous. Or because the deed is bloody? The man who with his 'smoking' steel 'carved out his passage' to therebel leader, and 'unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps,' wouldhardly be frightened by blood. How could fear of consequences make thedagger he is to use hang suddenly glittering before him in the air, andthen as suddenly dash it with gouts of blood? Even when he _talks_ ofconsequences, and declares that if he were safe against them he would'jump the life to come,' his imagination bears witness against him, andshows us that what really holds him back is the hideous vileness of thedeed: He's here in double trust; First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, Strong both against the deed; then, as his host, Who should against his murderer shut the door, Not bear the knife myself. Besides, 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; And pity, like a naked new-born babe, Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed Upon the sightless couriers of the air, Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind. It may be said that he is here thinking of the horror that others willfeel at the deed--thinking therefore of consequences. Yes, but could herealise thus how horrible the deed would look to others if it were notequally horrible to himself? It is the same when the murder is done. He is well-nigh mad with horror,but it is not the horror of detection. It is not he who thinks ofwashing his hands or getting his nightgown on. He has brought away thedaggers he should have left on the pillows of the grooms, but what doeshe care for that? What _he_ thinks of is that, when he heard one of themen awaked from sleep say 'God bless us,' he could not say 'Amen'; forhis imagination presents to him the parching of his throat as animmediate judgment from heaven. His wife heard the owl scream and thecrickets cry; but what _he_ heard was the voice that first cried'Macbeth doth murder sleep,' and then, a minute later, with a change oftense, denounced on him, as if his three names gave him threepersonalities to suffer in, the doom of sleeplessness: Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more. There comes a sound of knocking. It should be perfectly familiar to him;but he knows not whence, or from what world, it comes. He looks down athis hands, and starts violently: 'What hands are here? ' For they seemalive, they move, they mean to pluck out his eyes. He looks at one ofthem again; it does not move; but the blood upon it is enough to dye thewhole ocean red. What has all this to do with fear of 'consequences'? Itis his soul speaking in the only shape in which it can speak freely,that of imagination. So long as Macbeth's imagination is active, we watch him fascinated; wefeel suspense, horror, awe; in which are latent, also, admiration andsympathy. But so soon as it is quiescent these feelings vanish. He is nolonger 'infirm of purpose': he becomes domineering, even brutal, or hebecomes a cool pitiless hypocrite. He is generally said to be a very badactor, but this is not wholly true. Whenever his imagination stirs, heacts badly. It so possesses him, and is so much stronger than hisreason, that his face betrays him, and his voice utters the mostimprobable untruths[218] or the most artificial rhetoric[219] But whenit is asleep he is firm, self-controlled and practical, as in theconversation where he skilfully elicits from Banquo that informationabout his movements which is required for the successful arrangement ofhis murder. [220] Here he is hateful; and so he is in the conversationwith the murderers, who are not professional cut-throats but oldsoldiers, and whom, without a vestige of remorse, he beguiles withcalumnies against Banquo and with such appeals as his wife had used tohim. [221] On the other hand, we feel much pity as well as anxiety in thescene (I. vii. ) where she overcomes his opposition to the murder; and wefeel it (though his imagination is not specially active) because thisscene shows us how little he understands himself. This is his greatmisfortune here. Not that he fails to realise in reflection the basenessof the deed (the soliloquy with which the scene opens shows that he doesnot). But he has never, to put it pedantically, accepted as theprinciple of his conduct the morality which takes shape in hisimaginative fears. Had he done so, and said plainly to his wife, 'Thething is vile, and, however much I have sworn to do it, I will not,' shewould have been helpless; for all her arguments proceed on theassumption that there is for them no such point of view. Macbeth doesapproach this position once, when, resenting the accusation ofcowardice, he answers, I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none. She feels in an instant that everything is at stake, and, ignoring thepoint, overwhelms him with indignant and contemptuous personal reproach. But he yields to it because he is himself half-ashamed of that answer ofhis, and because, for want of habit, the simple idea which it expresseshas no hold on him comparable to the force it acquires when it becomesincarnate in visionary fears and warnings. Yet these were so insistent, and they offered to his ambition aresistance so strong, that it is impossible to regard him as fallingthrough the blindness or delusion of passion. On the contrary, hehimself feels with such intensity the enormity of his purpose that, itseems clear, neither his ambition nor yet the prophecy of the Witcheswould ever without the aid of Lady Macbeth have overcome this feeling. As it is, the deed is done in horror and without the faintest desire orsense of glory,--done, one may almost say, as if it were an appallingduty; and, the instant it is finished, its futility is revealed toMacbeth as clearly as its vileness had been revealed beforehand. As hestaggers from the scene he mutters in despair, Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou could'st. When, half an hour later, he returns with Lennox from the room of themurder, he breaks out: Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had lived a blessed time; for from this instant There's nothing serious in mortality: All is but toys: renown and grace is dead; The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of. This is no mere acting. The language here has none of the falserhetoric of his merely hypocritical speeches. It is meant to deceive,but it utters at the same time his profoundest feeling. And this he canhenceforth never hide from himself for long. However he may try to drownit in further enormities, he hears it murmuring, Duncan is in his grave: After life's fitful fever he sleeps well:or, better be with the dead:or, I have lived long enough:and it speaks its last words on the last day of his life: 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. How strange that this judgment on life, the despair of a man who hadknowingly made mortal war on his own soul, should be frequently quotedas Shakespeare's own judgment, and should even be adduced, in seriouscriticism, as a proof of his pessimism! It remains to look a little more fully at the history of Macbeth afterthe murder of Duncan. Unlike his first struggle this history exciteslittle suspense or anxiety on his account: we have now no hope for him. But it is an engrossing spectacle, and psychologically it is perhaps themost remarkable exhibition of the _development_ of a character to befound in Shakespeare's tragedies. That heart-sickness which comes from Macbeth's perception of thefutility of his crime, and which never leaves him for long, is not,however, his habitual state. It could not be so, for two reasons. In thefirst place the consciousness of guilt is stronger in him than theconsciousness of failure; and it keeps him in a perpetual agony ofrestlessness, and forbids him simply to droop and pine. His mind is'full of scorpions. ' He cannot sleep. He 'keeps alone,' moody andsavage. 'All that is within him does condemn itself for being there. 'There is a fever in his blood which urges him to ceaseless action in thesearch for oblivion. And, in the second place, ambition, the love ofpower, the instinct of self-assertion, are much too potent in Macbeth topermit him to resign, even in spirit, the prize for which he has putrancours in the vessel of his peace. The 'will to live' is mighty inhim. The forces which impelled him to aim at the crown re-assertthemselves. He faces the world, and his own conscience, desperate, butnever dreaming of acknowledging defeat. He will see 'the frame of thingsdisjoint' first. He challenges fate into the lists. The result is frightful. He speaks no more, as before Duncan's murder,of honour or pity. That sleepless torture, he tells himself, is nothingbut the sense of insecurity and the fear of retaliation. If only he weresafe, it would vanish. And he looks about for the cause of his fear; andhis eye falls on Banquo. Banquo, who cannot fail to suspect him, has notfled or turned against him: Banquo has become his chief counsellor. Why? Because, he answers, the kingdom was promised to Banquo's children. Banquo, then, is waiting to attack him, to make a way for them. The'bloody instructions' he himself taught when he murdered Duncan, areabout to return, as he said they would, to plague the inventor. _This_then, he tells himself, is the fear that will not let him sleep; and itwill die with Banquo. There is no hesitation now, and no remorse: he hasnearly learned his lesson. He hastens feverishly, not to murder Banquo,but to procure his murder: some strange idea is in his mind that thethought of the dead man will not haunt him, like the memory of Duncan,if the deed is done by other hands. [222] The deed is done: but, insteadof peace descending on him, from the depths of his nature hishalf-murdered conscience rises; his deed confronts him in the apparitionof Banquo's Ghost, and the horror of the night of his first murderreturns. But, alas, _it_ has less power, and _he_ has more will. Agonised and trembling, he still faces this rebel image, and it yields: Why, so: being gone, I am a man again. Yes, but his secret is in the hands of the assembled lords. And, worse,this deed is as futile as the first. For, though Banquo is dead and evenhis Ghost is conquered, that inner torture is unassuaged. But he willnot bear it. His guests have hardly left him when he turns roughly tohis wife: How say'st thou, that Macduff denies his person At our great bidding? Macduff it is that spoils his sleep. He shall perish,--he and aught elsethat bars the road to peace. For mine own good All causes shall give way: I am in blood Stepp'd in so far that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er: Strange things I have in head that will to hand, Which must be acted ere they may be scann'd. She answers, sick at heart, You lack the season of all natures, sleep. No doubt: but he has found the way to it now: Come, we'll to sleep. My strange and self abuse Is the initiate fear that wants hard use; We are yet but young in deed. What a change from the man who thought of Duncan's virtues, and of pitylike a naked new-born babe! What a frightful clearness ofself-consciousness in this descent to hell, and yet what a furious forcein the instinct of life and self-assertion that drives him on! He goes to seek the Witches. He will know, by the worst means, theworst. He has no longer any awe of them. How now, you secret, black and midnight hags! --so he greets them, and at once he demands and threatens. They tell himhe is right to fear Macduff. They tell him to fear nothing, for none ofwoman born can harm him. He feels that the two statements are atvariance; infatuated, suspects no double meaning; but, that he may'sleep in spite of thunder,' determines not to spare Macduff. But hisheart throbs to know one thing, and he forces from the Witches thevision of Banquo's children crowned. The old intolerable thoughtreturns, 'for Banquo's issue have I filed my mind'; and with it, for allthe absolute security apparently promised him, there returns that inwardfever. Will nothing quiet it? Nothing but destruction. Macduff, onecomes to tell him, has escaped him; but that does not matter: he canstill destroy:[223] And even now, To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done: The castle of Macduff I will surprise; Seize upon Fife; give to the edge o' the sword His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls That trace him in's line. No boasting like a fool; This deed I'll do before this purpose cool. But no more sights! No, he need fear no more 'sights. ' The Witches have done their work,and after this purposeless butchery his own imagination will trouble himno more. [224] He has dealt his last blow at the conscience and pitywhich spoke through it. The whole flood of evil in his nature is now let loose. He becomes anopen tyrant, dreaded by everyone about him, and a terror to his country. She 'sinks beneath the yoke. ' Each new morn New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows Strike heaven on the face. She weeps, she bleeds, 'and each new day a gash is added to her wounds. 'She is not the mother of her children, but their grave; where nothing, But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile: Where sighs and groans and shrieks that rend the air Are made, not mark'd. For this wild rage and furious cruelty we are prepared; but vices ofanother kind start up as he plunges on his downward way. I grant him bloody, Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, Sudden, malicious,says Malcolm; and two of these epithets surprise us. Who would haveexpected avarice or lechery[225] in Macbeth? His ruin seems complete. Yet it is never complete. To the end he never totally loses oursympathy; we never feel towards him as we do to those who appear theborn children of darkness. There remains something sublime in thedefiance with which, even when cheated of his last hope, he faces earthand hell and heaven. Nor would any soul to whom evil was congenial becapable of that heart-sickness which overcomes him when he thinks of the'honour, love, obedience, troops of friends' which 'he must not look tohave' (and which Iago would never have cared to have), and contrastswith them Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not,(and which Iago would have accepted with indifference). Neither can Iagree with those who find in his reception of the news of his wife'sdeath proof of alienation or utter carelessness. There is no proof ofthese in the words, She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word,spoken as they are by a man already in some measure prepared for suchnews, and now transported by the frenzy of his last fight for life. Hehas no time now to feel. [226] Only, as he thinks of the morrow when timeto feel will come--if anything comes, the vanity of all hopes andforward-lookings sinks deep into his soul with an infinite weariness,and he murmurs, 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. In the very depths a gleam of his native love of goodness, and with it atouch of tragic grandeur, rests upon him. The evil he has desperatelyembraced continues to madden or to wither his inmost heart. Noexperience in the world could bring him to glory in it or make his peacewith it, or to forget what he once was and Iago and Goneril never were. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 194: See note BB. ][Footnote 195: 'Hell is murky' (V. i. 35). This, surely, is not meantfor a scornful repetition of something said long ago by Macbeth. Hewould hardly in those days have used an argument or expressed a fearthat could provoke nothing but contempt. ][Footnote 196: Whether Banquo's ghost is a mere illusion, like thedagger, is discussed in Note FF. ][Footnote 197: In parts of this paragraph I am indebted to Hunter's_Illustrations of Shakespeare_. ][Footnote 198: The line is a foot short. ][Footnote 199: It should be observed that in some cases the irony wouldescape an audience ignorant of the story and watching the play for thefirst time,--another indication that Shakespeare did not write solelyfor immediate stage purposes. ][Footnote 200: Their influence on spectators is, I believe, veryinferior. These scenes, like the Storm-scenes in _King Lear_, belongproperly to the world of imagination. ][Footnote 201: 'By yea and no, I think the 'oman is a witch indeed: Ilike not when a 'oman has a great peard' (_Merry Wives_, IV. ii. 202). ][Footnote 202: Even the metaphor in the lines (II. iii. 127), What should be spoken here, where our fate, Hid in an auger-hole, may rush and seize us? was probably suggested by the words in Scot's first chapter, 'They cango in and out at awger-holes. '][Footnote 203: Once, 'weird women. ' Whether Shakespeare knew that'weird' signified 'fate' we cannot tell, but it is probable that he did. The word occurs six times in _Macbeth_ (it does not occur elsewhere inShakespeare). The first three times it is spelt in the Folio _weyward_,the last three _weyard_. This may suggest a miswriting or misprinting of_wayward_; but, as that word is always spelt in the Folio either rightlyor _waiward_, it is more likely that the _weyward_ and _weyard_ of_Macbeth_ are the copyist's or printer's misreading of Shakespeare's_weird_ or _weyrd_. ][Footnote 204: The doubt as to these passages (see Note Z) does notarise from the mere appearance of this figure. The idea of Hecate'sconnection with witches appears also at II. i. 52, and she is mentionedagain at III. ii. 41 (cf. _Mid. Night's Dream_, V. i. 391, for herconnection with fairies). It is part of the common traditional notion ofthe heathen gods being now devils. Scot refers to it several times. Seethe notes in the Clarendon Press edition on III. v. 1, or those inFurness's Variorum. Of course in the popular notion the witch's spirits are devils orservants of Satan. If Shakespeare openly introduces this idea only insuch phrases as 'the instruments of darkness' and 'what! can the devilspeak true? ' the reason is probably his unwillingness to give too muchprominence to distinctively religious ideas. ][Footnote 205: If this paragraph is true, some of the statements even ofLamb and of Coleridge about the Witches are, taken literally, incorrect. What these critics, and notably the former, describe so well is thepoetic aspect abstracted from the remainder; and in describing this theyattribute to the Witches themselves what belongs really to the complexof Witches, Spirits, and Hecate. For the purposes of imagination, nodoubt, this inaccuracy is of small consequence; and it is these purposesthat matter. [I have not attempted to fulfil them. ]][Footnote 206: See Note CC. ][Footnote 207: The proclamation of Malcolm as Duncan's successor (I. iv. ) changes the position, but the design of murder is prior to this. ][Footnote 208: Schlegel's assertion that the first thought of the murdercomes from the Witches is thus in flat contradiction with the text. (Thesentence in which he asserts this is, I may observe, badly mistranslatedin the English version, which, wherever I have consulted the original,shows itself untrustworthy. It ought to be revised, for Schlegel is wellworth reading. )][Footnote 209: It is noticeable that Dr. Forman, who saw the play in1610 and wrote a sketch of it in his journal, says nothing about thelater prophecies. Perhaps he despised them as mere stuff for thegroundlings. The reader will find, I think, that the great poetic effectof Act IV. Sc. i. depends much more on the 'charm' which precedesMacbeth's entrance, and on Macbeth himself, than on the predictions. ][Footnote 210: This comparison was suggested by a passage in Hegel's_Aesthetik_, i. 291 ff. ][Footnote 211: _Il. _ i. 188 ff. (Leaf's translation). ][Footnote 212: The supernaturalism of the modern poet, indeed, is more'external' than that of the ancient. We have already had evidence ofthis, and shall find more when we come to the character of Banquo. ][Footnote 213: The assertion that Lady Macbeth sought a crown forherself, or sought anything for herself, apart from her husband, isabsolutely unjustified by anything in the play. It is based on asentence of Holinshed's which Shakespeare did _not_ use. ][Footnote 214: The word is used of him (I. ii. 67), but not in a waythat decides this question or even bears on it. ][Footnote 215: This view, thus generally stated, is not original, but Icannot say who first stated it. ][Footnote 216: The latter, and more important, point was put quiteclearly by Coleridge. ][Footnote 217: It is the consequent insistence on the idea of fear, andthe frequent repetition of the word, that have principally led tomisinterpretation. ][Footnote 218: _E. g. _ I. iii. 149, where he excuses his abstraction bysaying that his 'dull brain was wrought with things forgotten,' whennothing could be more natural than that he should be thinking of his newhonour. ][Footnote 219: _E. g. _ in I. iv. This is so also in II. iii. 114 ff. ,though here there is some real imaginative excitement mingled with therhetorical antitheses and balanced clauses and forced bombast. ][Footnote 220: III. i. Lady Macbeth herself could not more naturallyhave introduced at intervals the questions 'Ride you this afternoon? '(l. 19), 'Is't far you ride? ' (l. 24), 'Goes Fleance with you? ' (l. 36). ][Footnote 221: We feel here, however, an underlying subdued frenzy whichawakes some sympathy. There is an almost unendurable impatienceexpressed even in the rhythm of many of the lines; _e. g. _: Well then, now Have you consider'd of my speeches? Know That it was he in the times past which held you So under fortune, which you thought had been Our innocent self: this I made good to you In our last conference, pass'd in probation with you, How you were borne in hand, how cross'd, the instruments, Who wrought with them, and all things else that might To half a soul and to a notion crazed Say, 'Thus did Banquo. 'This effect is heard to the end of the play in Macbeth's less poeticspeeches, and leaves the same impression of burning energy, though notof imaginative exaltation, as his great speeches. In these we findeither violent, huge, sublime imagery, or a torrent of figurativeexpressions (as in the famous lines about 'the innocent sleep'). Ourimpressions as to the diction of the play are largely derived from thesespeeches of the hero, but not wholly so. The writing almost throughoutleaves an impression of intense, almost feverish, activity. ][Footnote 222: See his first words to the Ghost: 'Thou canst not say Idid it. '][Footnote 223: For only in destroying I find ease To my relentless thoughts. --_Paradise Lost_, ix. 129. Milton's portrait of Satan's misery here, and at the beginning of BookIV. , might well have been suggested by _Macbeth_. Coleridge, afterquoting Duncan's speech, I. iv. 35 ff. , says: 'It is a fancy; but I cannever read this, and the following speeches of Macbeth, withoutinvoluntarily thinking of the Miltonic Messiah and Satan. ' I doubt if itwas a mere fancy. (It will be remembered that Milton thought at one timeof writing a tragedy on Macbeth. )][Footnote 224: The immediate reference in 'But no more sights' isdoubtless to the visions called up by the Witches; but one of these, the'blood-bolter'd Banquo,' recalls to him the vision of the precedingnight, of which he had said, You make me strange Even to the disposition that I owe, When now I think you can behold such _sights_, And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks, When mine is blanch'd with fear. ][Footnote 225: 'Luxurious' and 'luxury' are used by Shakespeare only inthis older sense. It must be remembered that these lines are spoken byMalcolm, but it seems likely that they are meant to be taken as truethroughout. ][Footnote 226: I do not at all suggest that his love for his wiferemains what it was when he greeted her with the words 'My dearest love,Duncan comes here to-night. ' He has greatly changed; she has ceased tohelp him, sunk in her own despair; and there is no intensity of anxietyin the questions he puts to the doctor about her. But his love for herwas probably never unselfish, never the love of Brutus, who, in somewhatsimilar circumstances, uses, on the death of Cassius, words which remindus of Macbeth's: I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time. For the opposite strain of feeling cf. Sonnet 90: Then hate me if thou wilt; if ever, now, Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross. ]LECTURE XMACBETH1To regard _Macbeth_ as a play, like the love-tragedies _Romeo andJuliet_ and _Antony and Cleopatra_, in which there are two centralcharacters of equal importance, is certainly a mistake. But Shakespearehimself is in a measure responsible for it, because the first half of_Macbeth_ is greater than the second, and in the first half Lady Macbethnot only appears more than in the second but exerts the ultimatedeciding influence on the action. And, in the opening Act at least, LadyMacbeth is the most commanding and perhaps the most awe-inspiring figurethat Shakespeare drew. Sharing, as we have seen, certain traits with herhusband, she is at once clearly distinguished from him by aninflexibility of will, which appears to hold imagination, feeling, andconscience completely in check. To her the prophecy of things that willbe becomes instantaneously the determination that they shall be: Glamis thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt be That thou art promised. She knows her husband's weakness, how he scruples 'to catch the nearestway' to the object he desires; and she sets herself without a trace ofdoubt or conflict to counteract this weakness. To her there is noseparation between will and deed; and, as the deed falls in part to her,she is sure it will be done: The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements. On the moment of Macbeth's rejoining her, after braving infinite dangersand winning infinite praise, without a syllable on these subjects or aword of affection, she goes straight to her purpose and permits him tospeak of nothing else. She takes the superior position and assumes thedirection of affairs,--appears to assume it even more than she reallycan, that she may spur him on. She animates him by picturing the deed asheroic, 'this night's _great_ business,' or 'our _great_ quell,' whileshe ignores its cruelty and faithlessness. She bears down his faintresistance by presenting him with a prepared scheme which may removefrom him the terror and danger of deliberation. She rouses him with ataunt no man can bear, and least of all a soldier,--the word 'coward. 'She appeals even to his love for her: from this time Such I account thy love;--such, that is, as the protestations of a drunkard. Her reasonings aremere sophisms; they could persuade no man. It is not by them, it is bypersonal appeals, through the admiration she extorts from him, andthrough sheer force of will, that she impels him to the deed. Her eyesare fixed upon the crown and the means to it; she does not attend to theconsequences. Her plan of laying the guilt upon the chamberlains isinvented on the spur of the moment, and simply to satisfy her husband. Her true mind is heard in the ringing cry with which she answers hisquestion, 'Will it not be received . . . that they have done it? ' Who _dares_ receive it other? And this is repeated in the sleep-walking scene: 'What need we fear whoknows it, when none can call our power to account? ' Her passionatecourage sweeps him off his feet. His decision is taken in a moment ofenthusiasm: Bring forth men-children only; For thy undaunted mettle should compose Nothing but males. And even when passion has quite died away her will remains supreme. Inpresence of overwhelming horror and danger, in the murder scene and thebanquet scene, her self-control is perfect. When the truth of what shehas done dawns on her, no word of complaint, scarcely a word of her ownsuffering, not a single word of her own as apart from his, escapes herwhen others are by. She helps him, but never asks his help. She leans onnothing but herself. And from the beginning to the end--though she makesonce or twice a slip in acting her part--her will never fails her. Itsgrasp upon her nature may destroy her, but it is never relaxed. We aresure that she never betrayed her husband or herself by a word or even alook, save in sleep. However appalling she may be, she is sublime. In the earlier scenes of the play this aspect of Lady Macbeth'scharacter is far the most prominent. And if she seems invincible sheseems also inhuman. We find no trace of pity for the kind old king; noconsciousness of the treachery and baseness of the murder; no sense ofthe value of the lives of the wretched men on whom the guilt is to belaid; no shrinking even from the condemnation or hatred of the world. Yet if the Lady Macbeth of these scenes were really utterly inhuman, ora 'fiend-like queen,' as Malcolm calls her, the Lady Macbeth of thesleep-walking scene would be an impossibility. The one woman could neverbecome the other. And in fact, if we look below the surface, there isevidence enough in the earlier scenes of preparation for the later. I donot mean that Lady Macbeth was naturally humane. There is nothing in theplay to show this, and several passages subsequent to the murder-scenesupply proof to the contrary. One is that where she exclaims, on beinginformed of Duncan's murder, Woe, alas! What, in our house? This mistake in acting shows that she does not even know what thenatural feeling in such circumstances would be; and Banquo's curtanswer, 'Too cruel anywhere,' is almost a reproof of her insensibility. But, admitting this, we have in the first place to remember, inimagining the opening scenes, that she is deliberately bent oncounteracting the 'human kindness' of her husband, and also that she isevidently not merely inflexibly determined but in a condition ofabnormal excitability. That exaltation in the project which is soentirely lacking in Macbeth is strongly marked in her. When she tries tohelp him by representing their enterprise as heroic, she is deceivingherself as much as him. Their attainment of the crown presents itself toher, perhaps has long presented itself, as something so glorious, andshe has fixed her will upon it so completely, that for the time she seesthe enterprise in no other light than that of its greatness. When shesoliloquises, Yet do I fear thy nature: It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great; Art not without ambition, but without The illness should attend it; what thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily,one sees that 'ambition' and 'great' and 'highly' and even 'illness' areto her simply terms of praise, and 'holily' and 'human kindness' simplyterms of blame. Moral distinctions do not in this exaltation exist forher; or rather they are inverted: 'good' means to her the crown andwhatever is required to obtain it, 'evil' whatever stands in the way ofits attainment. This attitude of mind is evident even when she is alone,though it becomes still more pronounced when she has to work upon herhusband. And it persists until her end is attained. But, without beingexactly forced, it betrays a strain which could not long endure. Besides this, in these earlier scenes the traces of feminine weaknessand human feeling, which account for her later failure, are not absent. Her will, it is clear, was exerted to overpower not only her husband'sresistance but some resistance in herself. Imagine Goneril uttering thefamous words, Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had done 't. They are spoken, I think, without any sentiment--impatiently, as thoughshe regretted her weakness: but it was there. And in reality, quiteapart from this recollection of her father, she could never have donethe murder if her husband had failed. She had to nerve herself with wineto give her 'boldness' enough to go through her minor part. Thatappalling invocation to the spirits of evil, to unsex her and fill herfrom the crown to the toe topfull of direst cruelty, tells the same taleof determination to crush the inward protest. Goneril had no need ofsuch a prayer. In the utterance of the frightful lines, I have given suck, and know How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me: I would, while it was smiling in my face, Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums, And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you Have done to this,her voice should doubtless rise until it reaches, in 'dash'd the brainsout,' an almost hysterical scream. [227] These lines show unmistakablythat strained exaltation which, as soon as the end is reached, vanishes,never to return. The greatness of Lady Macbeth lies almost wholly in courage and force ofwill. It is an error to regard her as remarkable on the intellectualside. In acting a part she shows immense self-control, but not muchskill. Whatever may be thought of the plan of attributing the murder ofDuncan to the chamberlains, to lay their bloody daggers on theirpillows, as if they were determined to advertise their guilt, was amistake which can be accounted for only by the excitement of the moment. But the limitations of her mind appear most in the point where she ismost strongly contrasted with Macbeth,--in her comparative dulness ofimagination. I say 'comparative,' for she sometimes uses highly poeticlanguage, as indeed does everyone in Shakespeare who has any greatnessof soul. Nor is she perhaps less imaginative than the majority of hisheroines. But as compared with her husband she has little imagination. It is not _simply_ that she suppresses what she has. To her, thingsremain at the most terrible moment precisely what they were at thecalmest, plain facts which stand in a given relation to a certain deed,not visions which tremble and flicker in the light of other worlds. Theprobability that the old king will sleep soundly after his long journeyto Inverness is to her simply a fortunate circumstance; but one canfancy the shoot of horror across Macbeth's face as she mentions it. Sheuses familiar and prosaic illustrations, like Letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,' Like the poor cat i' the adage,(the cat who wanted fish but did not like to wet her feet); or, We fail? But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we'll not fail;[228]or, Was the hope drunk Wherein you dress'd yourself? hath it slept since? And wakes it now, to look so green and pale At what it did so freely? The Witches are practically nothing to her. She feels no sympathy inNature with her guilty purpose, and would never bid the earth not hearher steps, which way they walk.

The noises before the murder, and duringit, are heard by her as simple facts, and are referred to their truesources. The knocking has no mystery for her: it comes from 'the southentry. ' She calculates on the drunkenness of the grooms, compares thedifferent effects of wine on herself and on them, and listens to theirsnoring. To her the blood upon her husband's hands suggests only thetaunt, My hands are of your colour, but I shame To wear a heart so white;and the blood to her is merely 'this filthy witness,'--words impossibleto her husband, to whom it suggested something quite other than sensuousdisgust or practical danger. The literalism of her mind appears fully intwo contemptuous speeches where she dismisses his imaginings; in themurder scene: Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers! The sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil;and in the banquet scene: O these flaws and starts, Impostors to true fear, would well become A woman's story at a winter's fire, Authorised by her grandam. Shame itself! Why do you make such faces? When all's done, You look but on a stool. Even in the awful scene where her imagination breaks loose in sleep sheuses no such images as Macbeth's. It is the direct appeal of the factsto sense that has fastened on her memory. The ghastly realism of 'Yetwho would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? ' or'Here's the smell of the blood still,' is wholly unlike him. Her mostpoetical words, 'All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this littlehand,' are equally unlike his words about great Neptune's ocean. Hers,like some of her other speeches, are the more moving, from their greatersimplicity and because they seem to tell of that self-restraint insuffering which is so totally lacking in him; but there is in themcomparatively little of imagination. If we consider most of the passagesto which I have referred, we shall find that the quality which moves ouradmiration is courage or force of will. This want of imagination, though it helps to make Lady Macbeth strongfor immediate action, is fatal to her. If she does not feel beforehandthe cruelty of Duncan's murder, this is mainly because she hardlyimagines the act, or at most imagines its outward show, 'the motion of amuscle this way or that. ' Nor does she in the least foresee those inwardconsequences which reveal themselves immediately in her husband, andless quickly in herself. It is often said that she understands him well. Had she done so, she never would have urged him on. She knows that he isgiven to strange fancies; but, not realising what they spring from, shehas no idea either that they may gain such power as to ruin the scheme,or that, while they mean present weakness, they mean also perception ofthe future. At one point in the murder scene the force of hisimagination impresses her, and for a moment she is startled; a lightthreatens to break on her: These deeds must not be thought After these ways: so, it will make us mad,she says, with a sudden and great seriousness. And when he goes pantingon, 'Methought I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more,"' . . . she breaks in,'What do you mean? ' half-doubting whether this was not a real voice thathe heard. Then, almost directly, she recovers herself, convinced of thevanity of his fancy. Nor does she understand herself any better thanhim. She never suspects that these deeds _must_ be thought after theseways; that her facile realism, A little water clears us of this deed,will one day be answered by herself, 'Will these hands ne'er be clean? 'or that the fatal commonplace, 'What's done is done,' will make way forher last despairing sentence, 'What's done cannot be undone. 'Hence the development of her character--perhaps it would be morestrictly accurate to say, the change in her state of mind--is bothinevitable, and the opposite of the development we traced in Macbeth. When the murder has been done, the discovery of its hideousness, firstreflected in the faces of her guests, comes to Lady Macbeth with theshock of a sudden disclosure, and at once her nature begins to sink. Thefirst intimation of the change is given when, in the scene of thediscovery, she faints. [229] When next we see her, Queen of Scotland, theglory of her dream has faded. She enters, disillusioned, and weary withwant of sleep: she has thrown away everything and gained nothing: Nought's had, all's spent, Where our desire is got without content: 'Tis safer to be that which we destroy Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy. Henceforth she has no initiative: the stem of her being seems to be cutthrough. Her husband, physically the stronger, maddened by pangs he hadforeseen, but still flaming with life, comes into the foreground, andshe retires. Her will remains, and she does her best to help him; but herarely needs her help. Her chief anxiety appears to be that he shouldnot betray his misery. He plans the murder of Banquo without herknowledge (not in order to spare her, I think, for he never shows loveof this quality, but merely because he does not need her now); and evenwhen she is told vaguely of his intention she appears but littleinterested. In the sudden emergency of the banquet scene she makes aprodigious and magnificent effort; her strength, and with it herascendancy, returns, and she saves her husband at least from an opendisclosure. But after this she takes no part whatever in the action. Weonly know from her shuddering words in the sleep-walking scene, 'TheThane of Fife had a wife: where is she now? ' that she has even learnedof her husband's worst crime; and in all the horrors of his tyranny overScotland she has, so far as we hear, no part. Disillusionment anddespair prey upon her more and more. That she should seek any relief inspeech, or should ask for sympathy, would seem to her mere weakness, andwould be to Macbeth's defiant fury an irritation. Thinking of the changein him, we imagine the bond between them slackened, and Lady Macbethleft much alone. She sinks slowly downward. She cannot bear darkness,and has light by her continually: 'tis her command. At last her nature,not her will, gives way. The secrets of the past find vent in a disorderof sleep, the beginning perhaps of madness. What the doctor fears isclear. He reports to her husband no great physical mischief, but bidsher attendant to remove from her all means by which she could harmherself, and to keep eyes on her constantly. It is in vain. Her death isannounced by a cry from her women so sudden and direful that it wouldthrill her husband with horror if he were any longer capable of fear. Inthe last words of the play Malcolm tells us it is believed in thehostile army that she died by her own hand. And (not to speak of theindications just referred to) it is in accordance with her characterthat even in her weakest hour she should cut short by one determinedstroke the agony of her life. The sinking of Lady Macbeth's nature, and the marked change in herdemeanour to her husband, are most strikingly shown in the conclusion ofthe banquet scene; and from this point pathos is mingled with awe. Theguests are gone. She is completely exhausted, and answers Macbeth inlistless, submissive words which seem to come with difficulty. Howstrange sounds the reply 'Did you send to him, sir? ' to his imperiousquestion about Macduff! And when he goes on, 'waxing desperate inimagination,' to speak of new deeds of blood, she seems to sicken at thethought, and there is a deep pathos in that answer which tells at onceof her care for him and of the misery she herself has silently endured, You lack the season of all natures, sleep. We begin to think of her now less as the awful instigator of murder thanas a woman with much that is grand in her, and much that is piteous. Strange and almost ludicrous as the statement may sound,[230] she is, upto her light, a perfect wife. She gives her husband the best she has;and the fact that she never uses to him the terms of affection which, upto this point in the play, he employs to her, is certainly no indicationof want of love. She urges, appeals, reproaches, for a practical end,but she never recriminates. The harshness of her taunts is free frommere personal feeling, and also from any deep or more than momentarycontempt. She despises what she thinks the weakness which stands in theway of her husband's ambition; but she does not despise _him_. Sheevidently admires him and thinks him a great man, for whom the throne isthe proper place. Her commanding attitude in the moments of hishesitation or fear is probably confined to them. If we consider thepeculiar circumstances of the earlier scenes and the banquet scene, andif we examine the language of the wife and husband at other times, weshall come, I think, to the conclusion that their habitual relations arebetter represented by the later scenes than by the earlier, thoughnaturally they are not truly represented by either. Her ambition for herhusband and herself (there was no distinction to her mind) proved fatalto him, far more so than the prophecies of the Witches; but even whenshe pushed him into murder she believed she was helping him to do whathe merely lacked the nerve to attempt; and her part in the crime was somuch less open-eyed than his, that, if the impossible and undramatictask of estimating degrees of culpability were forced on us, we shouldsurely have to assign the larger share to Macbeth. 'Lady Macbeth,' says Dr. Johnson, 'is merely detested'; and for a longtime critics generally spoke of her as though she were Malcolm's'fiend-like queen. ' In natural reaction we tend to insist, as I havebeen doing, on the other and less obvious side; and in the criticism ofthe last century there is even a tendency to sentimentalise thecharacter. But it can hardly be doubted that Shakespeare meant thepredominant impression to be one of awe, grandeur, and horror, and thathe never meant this impression to be lost, however it might be modified,as Lady Macbeth's activity diminishes and her misery increases. I cannotbelieve that, when she said of Banquo and Fleance, But in them nature's copy's not eterne,she meant only that they would some day die; or that she felt anysurprise when Macbeth replied, There's comfort yet: they are assailable;though I am sure no light came into her eyes when he added thosedreadful words, 'Then be thou jocund. ' She was listless. She herselfwould not have moved a finger against Banquo. But she thought his death,and his son's death, might ease her husband's mind, and she suggestedthe murders indifferently and without remorse. The sleep-walking scene,again, inspires pity, but its main effect is one of awe. There is greathorror in the references to blood, but it cannot be said that there ismore than horror; and Campbell was surely right when, in alluding toMrs. Jameson's analysis, he insisted that in Lady Macbeth's misery thereis no trace of contrition. [231] Doubtless she would have given the worldto undo what she had done; and the thought of it killed her; but,regarding her from the tragic point of view, we may truly say she wastoo great to repent. [232]2The main interest of the character of Banquo arises from the changesthat take place in him, and from the influence of the Witches upon him. And it is curious that Shakespeare's intention here is so frequentlymissed. Banquo being at first strongly contrasted with Macbeth, as aninnocent man with a guilty, it seems to be supposed that this contrastmust be continued to his death; while, in reality, though it is neverremoved, it is gradually diminished. Banquo in fact may be describedmuch more truly than Macbeth as the victim of the Witches. If we followhis story this will be evident. He bore a part only less distinguished than Macbeth's in the battlesagainst Sweno and Macdonwald. He and Macbeth are called 'our captains,'and when they meet the Witches they are traversing the 'blastedheath'[233] alone together. Banquo accosts the strange shapes withoutthe slightest fear. They lay their fingers on their lips, as if tosignify that they will not, or must not, speak to _him_. To Macbeth'sbrief appeal, 'Speak, if you can: what are you? ' they at once reply, notby saying what they are, but by hailing him Thane of Glamis, Thane ofCawdor, and King hereafter. Banquo is greatly surprised that his partnershould start as if in fear, and observes that he is at once 'rapt'; andhe bids the Witches, if they know the future, to prophesy to _him_, whoneither begs their favour nor fears their hate. Macbeth, looking back ata later time, remembers Banquo's daring, and how he chid the sisters, When first they put the name of king upon me, And bade them speak to him. 'Chid' is an exaggeration; but Banquo is evidently a bold man, probablyan ambitious one, and certainly has no lurking guilt in his ambition. Onhearing the predictions concerning himself and his descendants he makesno answer, and when the Witches are about to vanish he shows none ofMacbeth's feverish anxiety to know more. On their vanishing he is simplyamazed, wonders if they were anything but hallucinations, makes noreference to the predictions till Macbeth mentions them, and thenanswers lightly. When Ross and Angus, entering, announce to Macbeth that he has been madeThane of Cawdor, Banquo exclaims, aside, to himself or Macbeth, 'What! can the devil speak true? ' He now believes that the Witches were realbeings and the 'instruments of darkness. ' When Macbeth, turning to him,whispers, Do you not hope your children shall be kings, When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me Promised no less to them? he draws with the boldness of innocence the inference which is reallyoccupying Macbeth, and answers, That, trusted home, Might yet enkindle you unto the crown Besides the thane of Cawdor. Here he still speaks, I think, in a free, off-hand, even jesting,[234]manner ('enkindle' meaning merely 'excite you to _hope_ for'). But then,possibly from noticing something in Macbeth's face, he becomes graver,and goes on, with a significant 'but,' But 'tis strange: And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence. He afterwards observes for the second time that his partner is 'rapt';but he explains his abstraction naturally and sincerely by referring tothe surprise of his new honours; and at the close of the scene, whenMacbeth proposes that they shall discuss the predictions together atsome later time, he answers in the cheerful, rather bluff manner, whichhe has used almost throughout, 'Very gladly. ' Nor was there any reasonwhy Macbeth's rejoinder, 'Till then, enough,' should excite misgivingsin him, though it implied a request for silence, and though the wholebehaviour of his partner during the scene must have looked verysuspicious to him when the prediction of the crown was made good throughthe murder of Duncan. In the next scene Macbeth and Banquo join the King, who welcomes themboth with the kindest expressions of gratitude and with promises offavours to come. Macbeth has indeed already received a noble reward. Banquo, who is said by the King to have 'no less deserved,' receives asyet mere thanks. His brief and frank acknowledgment is contrasted withMacbeth's laboured rhetoric; and, as Macbeth goes out, Banquo turns withhearty praises of him to the King. And when next we see him, approaching Macbeth's castle in company withDuncan, there is still no sign of change. Indeed he gains on us. It ishe who speaks the beautiful lines, 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, Buttress, 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;--lines which tell of that freedom of heart, and that sympathetic senseof peace and beauty, which the Macbeth of the tragedy could never feel. But now Banquo's sky begins to darken. At the opening of the Second Actwe see him with Fleance crossing the court of the castle on his way tobed. The blackness of the moonless, starless night seems to oppress him. And he is oppressed by something else. A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, And yet I would not sleep: merciful powers, Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature Gives way to in repose! On Macbeth's entrance we know what Banquo means: he says toMacbeth--and it is the first time he refers to the subject unprovoked, I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters. His will is still untouched: he would repel the 'cursed thoughts'; andthey are mere thoughts, not intentions. But still they are 'thoughts,'something more, probably, than mere recollections; and they bring withthem an undefined sense of guilt. The poison has begun to work. The passage that follows Banquo's words to Macbeth is difficult tointerpret: I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters: To you they have show'd some truth. _Macb. _ I think not of them: Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve, We would spend it in some words upon that business, If you would grant the time. _Ban. _ At your kind'st leisure. _Macb. _ If you shall cleave to my consent, when 'tis, It shall make honour for you. _Ban. _ So I lose none In seeking to augment it, but still keep My bosom franchised and allegiance clear, I shall be counsell'd. _Macb. _ Good repose the while! _Ban. _ Thanks, sir: the like to you! Macbeth's first idea is, apparently, simply to free himself from anysuspicion which the discovery of the murder might suggest, by showinghimself, just before it, quite indifferent to the predictions, andmerely looking forward to a conversation about them at some future time. But why does he go on, 'If you shall cleave,' etc. ? Perhaps he foreseesthat, on the discovery, Banquo cannot fail to suspect him, and thinks itsafest to prepare the way at once for an understanding with him (in theoriginal story he makes Banquo his accomplice _before_ the murder). Banquo's answer shows three things,--that he fears a treasonableproposal, that he has no idea of accepting it, and that he has no fearof Macbeth to restrain him from showing what is in his mind. Duncan is murdered. In the scene of discovery Banquo of course appears,and his behaviour is significant. When he enters, and Macduff cries outto him, O Banquo, Banquo, Our royal master's murdered,and Lady Macbeth, who has entered a moment before, exclaims, Woe, alas! What, in our house? his answer, Too cruel anywhere,shows, as I have pointed out, repulsion, and we may be pretty sure thathe suspects the truth at once. After a few words to Macduff he remainsabsolutely silent while the scene is continued for nearly forty lines. He is watching Macbeth and listening as he tells how he put thechamberlains to death in a frenzy of loyal rage. At last Banquo appearsto have made up his mind. On Lady Macbeth's fainting he proposes thatthey shall all retire, and that they shall afterwards meet, And question this most bloody piece of work To know it further. Fears and scruples[235] shake us: In the great hand of God I stand, and thence Against the undivulged pretence[236] I fight Of treasonous malice. His solemn language here reminds us of his grave words about 'theinstruments of darkness,' and of his later prayer to the 'mercifulpowers. ' He is profoundly shocked, full of indignation, and determinedto play the part of a brave and honest man. But he plays no such part. When next we see him, on the last day of hislife, we find that he has yielded to evil. The Witches and his ownambition have conquered him. He alone of the lords knew of theprophecies, but he has said nothing of them. He has acquiesced inMacbeth's accession, and in the official theory that Duncan's sons hadsuborned the chamberlains to murder him. Doubtless, unlike Macduff, hewas present at Scone to see the new king invested. He has, not formallybut in effect, 'cloven to' Macbeth's 'consent'; he is knit to him by 'amost indissoluble tie'; his advice in council has been 'most grave andprosperous'; he is to be the 'chief guest' at that night's supper. Andhis soliloquy tells us why: Thou hast it now: king, Cawdor, Glamis, all, As the weird women promised, and, I fear, Thou play'dst most foully for't: yet it was said It should not stand in thy posterity, But that myself should be the root and father Of many kings. If there come truth from them-- As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine-- Why, by the verities on thee made good, May they not be my oracles as well, And set me up in hope? But hush! no more. This 'hush! no more' is not the dismissal of 'cursed thoughts': it onlymeans that he hears the trumpets announcing the entrance of the King andQueen. His punishment comes swiftly, much more swiftly than Macbeth's, andsaves him from any further fall. He is a very fearless man, and still sofar honourable that he has no thought of acting to bring about thefulfilment of the prophecy which has beguiled him. And therefore he hasno fear of Macbeth. But he little understands him. To Macbeth'stormented mind Banquo's conduct appears highly suspicious. _Why_ hasthis bold and circumspect[237] man kept his secret and become his chiefadviser? In order to make good _his_ part of the predictions afterMacbeth's own precedent. Banquo, he is sure, will suddenly and secretlyattack him. It is not the far-off accession of Banquo's descendants thathe fears; it is (so he tells himself) swift murder; not that the 'barrensceptre' will some day droop from his dying hand, but that it will be'wrenched' away now (III. i. 62). [238] So he kills Banquo. But theBanquo he kills is not the innocent soldier who met the Witches anddaffed their prophecies aside, nor the man who prayed to be deliveredfrom the temptation of his dreams. _Macbeth_ leaves on most readers a profound impression of the misery ofa guilty conscience and the retribution of crime. And the strength ofthis impression is one of the reasons why the tragedy is admired byreaders who shrink from _Othello_ and are made unhappy by _Lear_. Butwhat Shakespeare perhaps felt even more deeply, when he wrote this play,was the _incalculability_ of evil,--that in meddling with it humanbeings do they know not what. The soul, he seems to feel, is a thing ofsuch inconceivable depth, complexity, and delicacy, that when youintroduce into it, or suffer to develop in it, any change, andparticularly the change called evil, you can form only the vaguest ideaof the reaction you will provoke. All you can be sure of is that it willnot be what you expected, and that you cannot possibly escape it. Banquo's story, if truly apprehended, produces this impression quite asstrongly as the more terrific stories of the chief characters, andperhaps even more clearly, inasmuch as he is nearer to average humannature, has obviously at first a quiet conscience, and uses with evidentsincerity the language of religion. 3Apart from his story Banquo's character is not very interesting, nor isit, I think, perfectly individual. And this holds good of the rest ofthe minor characters. They are sketched lightly, and are seldomdeveloped further than the strict purposes of the action required. Fromthis point of view they are inferior to several of the less importantfigures in each of the other three tragedies. The scene in which LadyMacduff and her child appear, and the passage where their slaughter isreported to Macduff, have much dramatic value, but in neither case isthe effect due to any great extent to the special characters of thepersons concerned. Neither they, nor Duncan, nor Malcolm, nor evenBanquo himself, have been imagined intensely, and therefore they do notproduce that sense of unique personality which Shakespeare could conveyin a much smaller number of lines than he gives to most of them. [239]And this is of course even more the case with persons like Ross, Angus,and Lennox, though each of these has distinguishable features. I doubtif any other great play of Shakespeare's contains so many speeches whicha student of the play, if they were quoted to him, would be puzzled toassign to the speakers. Let the reader turn, for instance, to the secondscene of the Fifth Act, and ask himself why the names of the personsshould not be interchanged in all the ways mathematically possible. Canhe find, again, any signs of character by which to distinguish thespeeches of Ross and Angus in Act I. scenes ii. and iii. , or todetermine that Malcolm must have spoken I. iv. 2-11? Most of thiswriting, we may almost say, is simply Shakespeare's writing, not that ofShakespeare become another person. And can anything like the sameproportion of such writing be found in _Hamlet_, _Othello_, or _KingLear_? Is it possible to guess the reason of this characteristic of _Macbeth_? I cannot believe it is due to the presence of a second hand. Thewriting, mangled by the printer and perhaps by 'the players,' seems tobe sometimes obviously Shakespeare's, sometimes sufficientlyShakespearean to repel any attack not based on external evidence. It maybe, as the shortness of the play has suggested to some, that Shakespearewas hurried, and, throwing all his weight on the principal characters,did not exert himself in dealing with the rest. But there is anotherpossibility which may be worth considering. _Macbeth_ is distinguishedby its simplicity,--by grandeur in simplicity, no doubt, but still bysimplicity. The two great figures indeed can hardly be called simple,except in comparison with such characters as Hamlet and Iago; but inalmost every other respect the tragedy has this quality. Its plot isquite plain. It has very little intermixture of humour. It has littlepathos except of the sternest kind. The style, for Shakespeare, has notmuch variety, being generally kept at a higher pitch than in the otherthree tragedies; and there is much less than usual of the interchange ofverse and prose. [240] All this makes for simplicity of effect. And, thisbeing so, is it not possible that Shakespeare instinctively felt, orconsciously feared, that to give much individuality or attraction to thesubordinate figures would diminish this effect, and so, like a goodartist, sacrificed a part to the whole? And was he wrong? He hascertainly avoided the overloading which distresses us in _King Lear_,and has produced a tragedy utterly unlike it, not much less great as adramatic poem, and as a drama superior. I would add, though without much confidence, another suggestion. Thesimplicity of _Macbeth_ is one of the reasons why many readers feelthat, in spite of its being intensely 'romantic,' it is less unlike aclassical tragedy than _Hamlet_ or _Othello_ or _King Lear_. And it ispossible that this effect is, in a sense, the result of design. I do notmean that Shakespeare intended to imitate a classical tragedy; I meanonly that he may have seen in the bloody story of Macbeth a subjectsuitable for treatment in a manner somewhat nearer to that of Seneca, orof the English Senecan plays familiar to him in his youth, than was themanner of his own mature tragedies. The Witches doubtless are'romantic,' but so is the witch-craft in Seneca's _Medea_ and _HerculesOetaeus_; indeed it is difficult to read the account of Medea'spreparations (670-739) without being reminded of the incantations in_Macbeth_. Banquo's Ghost again is 'romantic,' but so are Seneca'sghosts. For the swelling of the style in some of the greatpassages--however immeasurably superior these may be to anything inSeneca--and certainly for the turgid bombast which occasionally appearsin _Macbeth_, and which seems to have horrified Jonson, Shakespearemight easily have found a model in Seneca. Did he not think that thiswas the high Roman manner? Does not the Sergeant's speech, as Coleridgeobserved, recall the style of the 'passionate speech' of the Player in_Hamlet_,--a speech, be it observed, on a Roman subject? [241] And is itentirely an accident that parallels between Seneca and Shakespeare seemto be more frequent in _Macbeth_ than in any other of his undoubtedlygenuine works except perhaps _Richard III. _, a tragedy unquestionablyinfluenced either by Seneca or by English Senecan plays? [242] If thereis anything in these suggestions, and if we suppose that Shakespearemeant to give to his play a certain classical tinge, he might naturallycarry out this idea in respect to the characters, as well as in otherrespects, by concentrating almost the whole interest on the importantfigures and leaving the others comparatively shadowy. 4_Macbeth_ being more simple than the other tragedies, and broader andmore massive in effect, three passages in it are of great importance assecuring variety in tone, and also as affording relief from the feelingsexcited by the Witch-scenes and the principal characters. They are thepassage where the Porter appears, the conversation between Lady Macduffand her little boy, and the passage where Macduff receives the news ofthe slaughter of his wife and babes. Yet the first of these, we are toldeven by Coleridge, is unworthy of Shakespeare and is not his; and thesecond, with the rest of the scene which contains it, appears to beusually omitted in stage representations of _Macbeth_. I question if either this scene or the exhibition of Macduff's grief isrequired to heighten our abhorrence of Macbeth's cruelty. They have atechnical value in helping to give the last stage of the action the formof a conflict between Macbeth and Macduff. But their chief function isof another kind. It is to touch the heart with a sense of beauty andpathos, to open the springs of love and of tears. Shakespeare is lovedfor the sweetness of his humanity, and because he makes this kind ofappeal with such irresistible persuasion; and the reason why _Macbeth_,though admired as much as any work of his, is scarcely loved, is thatthe characters who predominate cannot make this kind of appeal, and atno point are able to inspire unmingled sympathy. The two passages inquestion supply this want in such measure as Shakespeare thoughtadvisable in _Macbeth_, and the play would suffer greatly from theirexcision. The second, on the stage, is extremely moving, and Macbeth'sreception of the news of his wife's death may be intended to recall itby way of contrast. The first brings a relief even greater, because herethe element of beauty is more marked, and because humour is mingled withpathos. In both we escape from the oppression of huge sins andsufferings into the presence of the wholesome affections of unambitioushearts; and, though both scenes are painful and one dreadful, oursympathies can flow unchecked. [243]Lady Macduff is a simple wife and mother, who has no thought foranything beyond her home. Her love for her children shows her at oncethat her husband's flight exposes them to terrible danger. She is in anagony of fear for them, and full of indignation against him. It does noteven occur to her that he has acted from public spirit, or that there issuch a thing. What had he done to make him fly the land? He must have been mad to do it. He fled for fear. He does not love hiswife and children. He is a traitor. The poor soul is almost besideherself--and with too good reason. But when the murderer bursts in withthe question 'Where is your husband? ' she becomes in a moment the wife,and the great noble's wife: I hope, in no place so unsanctified Where such as thou may'st find him. What did Shakespeare mean us to think of Macduff's flight, for whichMacduff has been much blamed by others beside his wife? Certainly notthat fear for himself, or want of love for his family, had anything todo with it. His love for his country, so strongly marked in the scenewith Malcolm, is evidently his one motive. He is noble, wise, judicious, and best knows The fits o' the season,says Ross. That his flight was 'noble' is beyond doubt. That it was notwise or judicious in the interest of his family is no less clear. Butthat does not show that it was wrong; and, even if it were, to representits consequences as a judgment on him for his want of due considerationis equally monstrous and ludicrous. [244] The further question whether hedid fail in due consideration, or whether for his country's sake hedeliberately risked a danger which he fully realised, would inShakespeare's theatre have been answered at once by Macduff's expressionand demeanour on hearing Malcolm's words, Why in that rawness left you wife and child, Those precious motives, those strong knots of love, Without leave-taking? It cannot be decided with certainty from the mere text; but, withoutgoing into the considerations on each side, I may express the opinionthat Macduff knew well what he was doing, and that he fled withoutleave-taking for fear his purpose should give way. Perhaps he said tohimself, with Coriolanus, Not of a woman's tenderness to be, Requires nor child nor woman's face to see. Little Macduff suggests a few words on Shakespeare's boys (there arescarcely any little girls). It is somewhat curious that nearly all ofthem appear in tragic or semi-tragic dramas. I remember but twoexceptions: little William Page, who said his _Hic, haec, hoc_ to SirHugh Evans; and the page before whom Falstaff walked like a sow thathath overwhelmed all her litter but one; and it is to be feared thateven this page, if he is the Boy of _Henry V. _, came to an ill end,being killed with the luggage. So wise so young, they say, do ne'er live long,as Richard observed of the little Prince of Wales. Of too many of thesechildren (some of the 'boys,' _e. g. _ those in _Cymbeline_, are lads, notchildren) the saying comes true. They are pathetic figures, the more sobecause they so often appear in company with their unhappy mothers, andcan never be thought of apart from them. Perhaps Arthur is even thefirst creation in which Shakespeare's power of pathos showed itselfmature;[245] and the last of his children, Mamillius, assuredly provesthat it never decayed. They are almost all of them noble figures,too,--affectionate, frank, brave, high-spirited, 'of an open and freenature' like Shakespeare's best men. And almost all of them, again, areamusing and charming as well as pathetic; comical in their mingledacuteness and _naïveté_, charming in their confidence in themselves andthe world, and in the seriousness with which they receive the jocosityof their elders, who commonly address them as strong men, greatwarriors, or profound politicians. Little Macduff exemplifies most of these remarks. There is nothing inthe scene of a transcendent kind, like the passage about Mamillius'never-finished 'Winter's Tale' of the man who dwelt by a churchyard, orthe passage about his death, or that about little Marcius and thebutterfly, or the audacity which introduces him, at the supreme momentof the tragedy, outdoing the appeals of Volumnia and Virgilia by thestatement, 'A shall not tread on me: I'll run away till I'm bigger, but then I'll fight. Still one does not easily forget little Macduff's delightful andwell-justified confidence in his ability to defeat his mother inargument; or the deep impression she made on him when she spoke of hisfather as a 'traitor'; or his immediate response when he heard themurderer call his father by the same name,-- Thou liest, thou shag-haired villain. Nor am I sure that, if the son of Coriolanus had been murdered, his lastwords to his mother would have been, 'Run away, I pray you. 'I may add two remarks. The presence of this child is one of the thingsin which _Macbeth_ reminds us of _Richard III. _ And he is perhaps theonly person in the tragedy who provokes a smile. I say 'perhaps,' forthough the anxiety of the Doctor to escape from the company of hispatient's husband makes one smile, I am not sure that it was meant to. 5The Porter does not make me smile: the moment is too terrific. He isgrotesque; no doubt the contrast he affords is humorous as well asghastly; I dare say the groundlings roared with laughter at his coarsestremarks. But they are not comic enough to allow one to forget for amoment what has preceded and what must follow. And I am far fromcomplaining of this. I believe that it is what Shakespeare intended, andthat he despised the groundlings if they laughed. Of course he couldhave written without the least difficulty speeches five times ashumorous; but he knew better. The Grave-diggers make us laugh: the oldCountryman who brings the asps to Cleopatra makes us smile at least. Butthe Grave-digger scene does not come at a moment of extreme tension; andit is long. Our distress for Ophelia is not so absorbing that we refuseto be interested in the man who digs her grave, or even continuethroughout the long conversation to remember always with pain that thegrave is hers. It is fitting, therefore, that he should be madedecidedly humorous. The passage in _Antony and Cleopatra_ is much nearerto the passage in _Macbeth_, and seems to have been forgotten by thosewho say that there is nothing in Shakespeare resembling thatpassage. [246] The old Countryman comes at a moment of tragic exaltation,and the dialogue is appropriately brief. But the moment, though tragic,is emphatically one of exaltation. We have not been feeling horror, norare we feeling a dreadful suspense. We are going to see Cleopatra die,but she is to die gloriously and to triumph over Octavius. And thereforeour amusement at the old Countryman and the contrast he affords to thesehigh passions, is untroubled, and it was right to make him really comic. But the Porter's case is quite different. We cannot forget how theknocking that makes him grumble sounded to Macbeth, or that within a fewminutes of his opening the gate Duncan will be discovered in his blood;nor can we help feeling that in pretending to be porter of hell-gate heis terribly near the truth. To give him language so humorous that itwould ask us almost to lose the sense of these things would have been afatal mistake,--the kind of mistake that means want of dramaticimagination. And that was not the sort of error into which Shakespearefell. To doubt the genuineness of the passage, then, on the ground that it isnot humorous enough for Shakespeare, seems to me to show this want. Itis to judge the passage as though it were a separate composition,instead of conceiving it in the fulness of its relations to itssurroundings in a stage-play. Taken by itself, I admit, it would bear noindubitable mark of Shakespeare's authorship, not even in the phrase'the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire,' which Coleridge thoughtShakespeare might have added to an interpolation of 'the players. ' Andif there were reason (as in my judgment there is not) to suppose thatShakespeare thus permitted an interpolation, or that he collaboratedwith another author, I could believe that he left 'the players' or hiscollaborator to write the words of the passage. But that anyone exceptthe author of the scene of Duncan's murder _conceived_ the passage, isincredible. [247] * * * * *The speeches of the Porter, a low comic character, are in prose. So isthe letter of Macbeth to his wife. In both these cases Shakespearefollows his general rule or custom. The only other prose-speeches occurin the sleep-walking scene, and here the use of prose may seem strange. For in great tragic scenes we expect the more poetic medium ofexpression, and this is one of the most famous of such scenes. Besides,unless I mistake, Lady Macbeth is the only one of Shakespeare's greattragic characters who on a last appearance is denied the dignity ofverse. Yet in this scene also he adheres to his custom. Somnambulism is anabnormal condition, and it is his general rule to assign prose topersons whose state of mind is abnormal. Thus, to illustrate from thesefour plays, Hamlet when playing the madman speaks prose, but insoliloquy, in talking with Horatio, and in pleading with his mother, hespeaks verse. [248] Ophelia in her madness either sings snatches of songsor speaks prose. Almost all Lear's speeches, after he has becomedefinitely insane, are in prose: where he wakes from sleep recovered,the verse returns. The prose enters with that speech which closes withhis trying to tear off his clothes; but he speaks in verse--some of itvery irregular--in the Timon-like speeches where his intellect suddenlyin his madness seems to regain the force of his best days (IV. vi. ). Othello, in IV. i. , speaks in verse till the moment when Iago tells himthat Cassio has confessed. There follow ten lines of prose--exclamationsand mutterings of bewildered horror--and he falls to the groundunconscious. The idea underlying this custom of Shakespeare's evidently is that theregular rhythm of verse would be inappropriate where the mind issupposed to have lost its balance and to be at the mercy of chanceimpressions coming from without (as sometimes with Lear), or of ideasemerging from its unconscious depths and pursuing one another across itspassive surface. The somnambulism of Lady Macbeth is such a condition. There is no rational connection in the sequence of images and ideas. Thesight of blood on her hand, the sound of the clock striking the hour forDuncan's murder, the hesitation of her husband before that hour came,the vision of the old man in his blood, the idea of the murdered wife ofMacduff, the sight of the hand again, Macbeth's 'flaws and starts' atthe sight of Banquo's ghost, the smell on her hand, the washing of handsafter Duncan's murder again, her husband's fear of the buried Banquo,the sound of the knocking at the gate--these possess her, one afteranother, in this chance order. It is not much less accidental than theorder of Ophelia's ideas; the great difference is that with Opheliatotal insanity has effaced or greatly weakened the emotional force ofthe ideas, whereas to Lady Macbeth each new image or perception comesladen with anguish. There is, again, scarcely a sign of the exaltationof disordered imagination; we are conscious rather of an intensesuffering which forces its way into light against resistance, and speaksa language for the most part strikingly bare in its diction and simplein its construction. This language stands in strong contrast with thatof Macbeth in the surrounding scenes, full of a feverish and almostfurious excitement, and seems to express a far more desolating misery. The effect is extraordinarily impressive. The soaring pride and power ofLady Macbeth's first speeches return on our memory, and the change isfelt with a breathless awe. Any attempt, even by Shakespeare, to drawout the moral enfolded in this awe, would but weaken it. For the moment,too, all the language of poetry--even of Macbeth's poetry--seems to betouched with unreality, and these brief toneless sentences seem the onlyvoice of truth. [249]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 227: So Mrs. Siddons is said to have given the passage. ][Footnote 228: Surely the usual interpretation of 'We fail? ' as aquestion of contemptuous astonishment, is right. 'We fail! ' givespractically the same sense, but alters the punctuation of the first twoFolios. In either case, 'But,' I think, means 'Only. ' On the other handthe proposal to read 'We fail. ' with a full stop, as expressive ofsublime acceptance of the possibility, seems to me, however attractiveat first sight, quite out of harmony with Lady Macbeth's mood throughoutthese scenes. ][Footnote 229: See Note DD. ][Footnote 230: It is not new. ][Footnote 231: The words about Lady Macduff are of course significant ofnatural human feeling, and may have been introduced expressly to markit, but they do not, I think, show any fundamental change in LadyMacbeth, for at no time would she have suggested or approved a_purposeless_ atrocity. It is perhaps characteristic that this humanfeeling should show itself most clearly in reference to an act for whichshe was not directly responsible, and in regard to which therefore shedoes not feel the instinct of self-assertion. ][Footnote 232: The tendency to sentimentalise Lady Macbeth is partly dueto Mrs. Siddons's fancy that she was a small, fair, blue-eyed woman,'perhaps even fragile. ' Dr. Bucknill, who was unaquainted with thisfancy, independently determined that she was 'beautiful and delicate,''unoppressed by weight of flesh,' 'probably small,' but 'a tawny orbrown blonde,' with grey eyes: and Brandes affirms that she was lean,slight, and hard. They know much more than Shakespeare, who tells usabsolutely nothing on these subjects. That Lady Macbeth, after takingpart in a murder, was so exhausted as to faint, will hardly demonstrateher fragility. That she must have been blue-eyed, fair, or red-haired,because she was a Celt, is a bold inference, and it is an idle dreamthat Shakespeare had any idea of making her or her husbandcharacteristically Celtic. The only evidence ever offered to prove thatshe was small is the sentence, 'All the perfumes of Arabia will notsweeten this little hand'; and Goliath might have called his hand'little' in contrast with all the perfumes of Arabia. One might as wellpropose to prove that Othello was a small man by quoting, I have seen the day, That, with this little arm and this good sword, I have made my way through more impediments Than twenty times your stop. The reader is at liberty to imagine Lady Macbeth's person in the waythat pleases him best, or to leave it, as Shakespeare very likely did,unimagined. Perhaps it may be well to add that there is not the faintest trace inthe play of the idea occasionally met with, and to some extent embodiedin Madame Bernhardt's impersonation of Lady Macbeth, that her hold uponher husband lay in seductive attractions deliberately exercised. Shakespeare was not unskilled or squeamish in indicating such ideas. ][Footnote 233: That it is Macbeth who feels the harmony between thedesolation of the heath and the figures who appear on it is acharacteristic touch. ][Footnote 234: So, in Holinshed, 'Banquho jested with him and sayde, nowMakbeth thou haste obtayned those things which the twoo former sistersprophesied, there remayneth onely for thee to purchase that which thethird sayd should come to passe. '][Footnote 235: =doubts. ][Footnote 236: =design. ][Footnote 237: 'tis much he dares, And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour To act in safety. ][Footnote 238: So when he hears that Fleance has escaped he is not muchtroubled (III. iv. 29): the worm that's fled Hath nature that in time will venom breed, No teeth for the present. I have repeated above what I have said before, because the meaning ofMacbeth's soliloquy is frequently misconceived. ][Footnote 239: Virgilia in _Coriolanus_ is a famous example. She speaksabout thirty-five lines. ][Footnote 240: The percentage of prose is, roughly, in _Hamlet_ 30-2/3,in _Othello_ 16-1/3, in _King Lear_ 27-1/2, in _Macbeth_ 8-1/2. ][Footnote 241: Cf. Note F. There are also in _Macbeth_ several shorterpassages which recall the Player's speech. Cf. 'Fortune . . . showed likea rebel's whore' (I. ii. 14) with 'Out! out! thou strumpet Fortune! ' Theform 'eterne' occurs in Shakespeare only in _Macbeth_, III. ii. 38, andin the 'proof eterne' of the Player's speech. Cf. 'So, as a paintedtyrant, Pyrrhus stood,' with _Macbeth_, V. viii. 26; 'the ruggedPyrrhus, like the Hyrcanian beast,' with 'the rugged Russian bear . . . orthe Hyrcan tiger' (_Macbeth_, III. iv. 100); 'like a neutral to his willand matter' with _Macbeth_, I. v. 47. The words 'Till he unseam'd himfrom the nave to the chaps,' in the Serjeant's speech, recall the words'Then from the navel to the throat at once He ript old Priam,' in _DidoQueen of Carthage_, where these words follow those others, about Priamfalling with the mere wind of Pyrrhus' sword, which seem to havesuggested 'the whiff and wind of his fell sword' in the Player'sspeech. ][Footnote 242: See Cunliffe, _The Influence of Seneca on ElizabethanTragedy_. The most famous of these parallels is that between 'Will allgreat Neptune's Ocean,' etc. , and the following passages: Quis eluet me Tanais? aut quae barbaris Maeotis undis Pontico incumbens mari? Non ipse toto magnus Oceano pater Tantum expiarit sceleris. (_Hipp. _ 715. ) Quis Tanais, aut quis Nilus, aut quis Persica Violentus unda Tigris, aut Rhenus ferox, Tagusve Ibera turbidus gaza fluens, Abluere dextram poterit? Arctoum licet Maeotis in me gelida transfundat mare, Et tota Tethys per meas currat manus, Haerebit altum facinus. (_Herc. Furens_, 1323. )(The reader will remember Othello's 'Pontic sea' with its 'violentpace. ') Medea's incantation in Ovid's _Metamorphoses_, vii. 197 ff. ,which certainly suggested Prospero's speech, _Tempest_, V. i. 33 ff. ,should be compared with Seneca, _Herc. Oet. _, 452 ff. , 'Artibusmagicis,' etc. It is of course highly probable that Shakespeare readsome Seneca at school. I may add that in the _Hippolytus_, beside thepassage quoted above, there are others which might have furnished himwith suggestions. Cf. for instance _Hipp. _, 30 ff. , with the lines aboutthe Spartan hounds in _Mids. Night's Dream_, IV. i. 117 ff. , andHippolytus' speech, beginning 483, with the Duke's speech in _As YouLike It_, II. i. ][Footnote 243: Cf. Coleridge's note on the Lady Macduff scene. ][Footnote 244: It is nothing to the purpose that Macduff himself says, Sinful Macduff, They were all struck for thee! naught that I am, Not for their own demerits, but for mine, Fell slaughter on their souls. There is no reason to suppose that the sin and demerit he speaks of isthat of leaving his home. And even if it were, it is Macduff thatspeaks, not Shakespeare, any more than Shakespeare speaks in thepreceding sentence, Did heaven look on, And would not take their part? And yet Brandes (ii. 104) hears in these words 'the voice of revolt . . . that sounds later through the despairing philosophy of _King Lear_. ' Itsounds a good deal earlier too; _e. g. _ in _Tit. And. _, IV. i. 81, and _2Henry VI. _, II. i. 154. The idea is a commonplace of Elizabethantragedy. ][Footnote 245: And the idea that it was the death of his son Hamnet,aged eleven, that brought this power to maturity is one of the moreplausible attempts to find in his dramas a reflection of his privatehistory. It implies however as late a date as 1596 for _King John_. ][Footnote 246: Even if this were true, the retort is obvious thatneither is there anything resembling the murder-scene in _Macbeth_. ][Footnote 247: I have confined myself to the single aspect of thisquestion on which I had what seemed something new to say. ProfessorHales's defence of the passage on fuller grounds, in the admirable paperreprinted in his _Notes and Essays on Shakespeare_, seems to me quiteconclusive. I may add two notes. (1) The references in the Porter'sspeeches to 'equivocation,' which have naturally, and probably rightly,been taken as allusions to the Jesuit Garnet's appeal to the doctrine ofequivocation in defence of his perjury when, on trial for participationin the Gunpowder Plot, do not stand alone in _Macbeth_. The laterprophecies of the Witches Macbeth calls 'the equivocation of the fiendThat lies like truth' (V. v.

43); and the Porter's remarks about theequivocator who 'could swear in both the scales against either scale,who committed treason enough for God's sake, yet could not equivocate toheaven,' may be compared with the following dialogue (IV. ii. 45): _Son. _ What is a traitor? _Lady Macduff. _ Why, one that swears and lies. _Son. _ And be all traitors that do so? _Lady Macduff. _ Everyone that does so is a traitor, and must be hanged. Garnet, as a matter of fact, _was_ hanged in May, 1606; and it is to befeared that the audience applauded this passage. (2) The Porter's soliloquy on the different applicants for admittancehas, in idea and manner, a marked resemblance to Pompey's soliloquy onthe inhabitants of the prison, in _Measure for Measure_, IV. iii. 1 ff. ;and the dialogue between him and Abhorson on the 'mystery' of hanging(IV. ii. 22 ff. ) is of just the same kind as the Porter's dialogue withMacduff about drink. ][Footnote 248: In the last Act, however, he speaks in verse even in thequarrel with Laertes at Ophelia's grave. It would be plausible toexplain this either from his imitating what he thinks the rant ofLaertes, or by supposing that his 'towering passion' made him forget toact the madman. But in the final scene also he speaks in verse in thepresence of all. This again might be accounted for by saying that he issupposed to be in a lucid interval, as indeed his own language at 239ff. implies. But the probability is that Shakespeare's real reason forbreaking his rule here was simply that he did not choose to depriveHamlet of verse on his last appearance. I wonder the disuse of prose inthese two scenes has not been observed, and used as an argument, bythose who think that Hamlet, with the commission in his pocket, is nowresolute. ][Footnote 249: The verse-speech of the Doctor, which closes this scene,lowers the tension towards that of the next scene. His introductoryconversation with the Gentlewoman is written in prose (sometimes verynear verse), partly, perhaps, from its familiar character, but chieflybecause Lady Macbeth is to speak in prose. ]NOTE A. EVENTS BEFORE THE OPENING OF THE ACTION IN _HAMLET_. In Hamlet's first soliloquy he speaks of his father as being 'but twomonths dead,--nay, not so much, not two. ' He goes on to refer to thelove between his father and mother, and then says (I. ii. 145): and yet, within a month-- Let me not think on't--Frailty, thy name is woman! -- A little month, or ere those shoes were old With which she follow'd my poor father's body, Like Niobe, all tears, why she, even she-- O God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, Would have mourn'd longer--married with my uncle. It seems hence to be usually assumed that at this time--the time whenthe action begins--Hamlet's mother has been married a little less than amonth. On this assumption difficulties, however, arise, though I have not foundthem referred to. Why has the Ghost waited nearly a month since themarriage before showing itself? Why has the King waited nearly a monthbefore appearing in public for the first time, as he evidently does inthis scene? And why has Laertes waited nearly a month since thecoronation before asking leave to return to France (I. ii. 53)? To this it might be replied that the marriage and the coronation wereseparated by some weeks; that, while the former occurred nearly a monthbefore the time of this scene, the latter has only just taken place; andthat what the Ghost cannot bear is, not the mere marriage, but theaccession of an incestuous murderer to the throne. But anyone who willread the King's speech at the opening of the scene will certainlyconclude that the marriage has only just been celebrated, and also thatit is conceived as involving the accession of Claudius to the throne. Gertrude is described as the 'imperial jointress' of the State, and theKing says that the lords consented to the marriage, but makes noseparate mention of his election. The solution of the difficulty is to be found in the lines quoted above. The marriage followed, within a month, not the _death_ of Hamlet'sfather, but the _funeral_. And this makes all clear. The death happenednearly two months ago. The funeral did not succeed it immediately, but(say) in a fortnight or three weeks. And the marriage and coronation,coming rather less than a month after the funeral, have just takenplace. So that the Ghost has not waited at all; nor has the King, norLaertes. On this hypothesis it follows that Hamlet's agonised soliloquy is notuttered nearly a month after the marriage which has so horrified him,but quite soon after it (though presumably he would know rather earlierwhat was coming). And from this hypothesis we get also a partialexplanation of two other difficulties, (_a_) When Horatio, at the end ofthe soliloquy, enters and greets Hamlet, it is evident that he andHamlet have not recently met at Elsinore. Yet Horatio came to Elsinorefor the funeral (I. ii. 176). Now even if the funeral took place somethree weeks ago, it seems rather strange that Hamlet, however absorbedin grief and however withdrawn from the Court, has not met Horatio; butif the funeral took place some seven weeks ago, the difficulty isconsiderably greater. (_b_) We are twice told that Hamlet has '_oflate_' been seeking the society of Ophelia and protesting his love forher (I. iii. 91, 99). It always seemed to me, on the usual view of thechronology, rather difficult (though not, of course, impossible) tounderstand this, considering the state of feeling produced in him by hismother's marriage, and in particular the shock it appears to have givento his faith in woman. But if the marriage has only just been celebratedthe words 'of late' would naturally refer to a time before it. This timepresumably would be subsequent to the death of Hamlet's father, but itis not so hard to fancy that Hamlet may have sought relief from mere_grief_ in his love for Ophelia. But here another question arises; May not the words 'of late' include,or even wholly refer to,[250] a time prior to the death of Hamlet'sfather? And this question would be answered universally, I suppose, inthe negative, on the ground that Hamlet was not at Court but atWittenberg when his father died. I will deal with this idea in aseparate note, and will only add here that, though it is quite possiblethat Shakespeare never imagined any of these matters clearly, and soproduced these unimportant difficulties, we ought not to assume thiswithout examination. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 250: This is intrinsically not probable, and is the moreimprobable because in Q1 Hamlet's letter to Ophelia (which must havebeen written before the action of the play begins) is signed 'Thine everthe most unhappy Prince _Hamlet_. ' 'Unhappy' _might_ be meant todescribe an unsuccessful lover, but it probably shows that the letterwas written after his father's death. ]NOTE B. WHERE WAS HAMLET AT THE TIME OF HIS FATHER'S DEATH? The answer will at once be given: 'At the University of Wittenberg. Forthe king says to him (I. ii. 112): For your intent In going back to school in Wittenberg, It is most retrograde to our desire. The Queen also prays him not to go to Wittenberg: and he consents toremain. 'Now I quite agree that the obvious interpretation of this passage isthat universally accepted, that Hamlet, like Horatio, was at Wittenbergwhen his father died; and I do not say that it is wrong. But it involvesdifficulties, and ought not to be regarded as certain. (1) One of these difficulties has long been recognised. Hamlet,according to the evidence of Act V. , Scene i. , is thirty years of age;and that is a very late age for a university student. One solution isfound (by those who admit that Hamlet _was_ thirty) in a passage inNash's _Pierce Penniless_: 'For fashion sake some [Danes] will put theirchildren to schoole, but they set them not to it till they are fourteeneyears old, so that you shall see a great boy with a beard learne hisA. B. C. and sit weeping under the rod when he is thirty years old. 'Another solution, as we saw (p. 105), is found in Hamlet's character. Heis a philosopher who lingers on at the University from love of hisstudies there. (2) But there is a more formidable difficulty, which seems to haveescaped notice. Horatio certainly came from Wittenberg to the funeral. And observe how he and Hamlet meet (I. ii. 160). _Hor. _ Hail to your lordship! _Ham. _ I am glad to see you well: Horatio,--or I do forget myself. _Hor. _ The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever. _Ham. _ Sir, my good friend; I'll change that name with you: And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio? Marcellus? _Mar. _ My good lord-- _Ham. _ I am very glad to see you. Good even, sir. [251] But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg? _Hor. _ A truant disposition, good my lord. _Ham. _ I would not hear your enemy say so, Nor shall you do my ear that violence, To make it truster of your own report Against yourself: I know you are no truant. But what is your affair in Elsinore? We'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart. _Hor. _ My lord, I came to see your father's funeral. _Ham. _ I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student; I think it was to see my mother's wedding. Is not this passing strange? Hamlet and Horatio are supposed to befellow-students at Wittenberg, and to have left it for Elsinore lessthan two months ago. Yet Hamlet hardly recognises Horatio at first, andspeaks as if he himself lived at Elsinore (I refer to his bitter jest,'We'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart'). Who would dream thatHamlet had himself just come from Wittenberg, if it were not for theprevious words about his going back there? How can this be explained on the usual view? Only, I presume, bysupposing that Hamlet is so sunk in melancholy that he really doesalmost 'forget himself'[252] and forget everything else, so that heactually is in doubt who Horatio is. And this, though not impossible, ishard to believe. 'Oh no,' it may be answered, 'for he is doubtful about Marcellus too;and yet, if he were living at Elsinore, he must have seen Marcellusoften. ' But he is _not_ doubtful about Marcellus. That note ofinterrogation after 'Marcellus' is Capell's conjecture: it is not in anyQuarto or any Folio. The fact is that he knows perfectly well the manwho lives at Elsinore, but is confused by the appearance of the friendwho comes from Wittenberg. (3) Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are sent for, to wean Hamlet from hismelancholy and to worm his secret out of him, because he has known themfrom his youth and is fond of them (II. ii. 1 ff. ). They come _to_Denmark (II. ii. 247 f. ): they come therefore _from_ some other country. Where do they come from? They are, we hear, Hamlet's 'school-fellows'(III. iv. 202). And in the first Quarto we are directly told that theywere with him at Wittenberg: _Ham. _ What, Gilderstone, and Rossencraft, Welcome, kind school-fellows, to Elsanore. _Gil. _ We thank your grace, and would be very glad You were as when we were at Wittenberg. Now let the reader look at Hamlet's first greeting of them in thereceived text, and let him ask himself whether it is the greeting of aman to fellow-students whom he left two months ago: whether it is notrather, like his greeting of Horatio, the welcome of an oldfellow-student who has not seen his visitors for a considerable time(II. ii. 226 f. ). (4) Rosencrantz and Guildenstern tell Hamlet of the players who arecoming. He asks what players they are, and is told, 'Even those you werewont to take such delight in, the tragedians of the city. ' He asks, 'Dothey hold the same estimation they did when I was in the city? 'Evidently he has not been in the city for some time. And this is stillmore evident when the players come in, and he talks of one having growna beard, and another having perhaps cracked his voice, since they lastmet. What then is this city, where he has not been for some time, butwhere (it would appear) Rosencrantz and Guildenstern live? It is not inDenmark ('Comest thou to beard me in Denmark? '). It would seem to beWittenberg. [253]All these passages, it should be observed, are consistent with oneanother. And the conclusion they point to is that Hamlet has left theUniversity for some years and has been living at Court. This again isconsistent with his being thirty years of age, and with his beingmentioned as a soldier and a courtier as well as a scholar (III. i. 159). And it is inconsistent, I believe, with nothing in the play,unless with the mention of his 'going back to school in Wittenberg. ' Butit is not really inconsistent with that. The idea may quite well be thatHamlet, feeling it impossible to continue at Court after his mother'smarriage and Claudius' accession, thinks of the University where, yearsago, he was so happy, and contemplates a return to it. If this wereShakespeare's meaning he might easily fail to notice that the expression'going back to school in Wittenberg' would naturally suggest that Hamlethad only just left 'school. 'I do not see how to account for these passages except on thishypothesis. But it in its turn involves a certain difficulty. Horatio,Rosencrantz and Guildenstern seem to be of about the same age as Hamlet. How then do _they_ come to be at Wittenberg? I had thought that thisquestion might be answered in the following way. If 'the city' isWittenberg, Shakespeare would regard it as a place like London, and wemight suppose that Horatio, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were livingthere, though they had ceased to be students. But this can hardly betrue of Horatio, who, when he (to spare Hamlet's feelings) talks ofbeing 'a truant,' must mean a truant from his University. The onlysolution I can suggest is that, in the story or play which Shakespeareused, Hamlet and the others were all at the time of the murder youngstudents at Wittenberg, and that when he determined to make them oldermen (or to make Hamlet, at any rate, older), he did not take troubleenough to carry this idea through all the necessary detail, and so leftsome inconsistencies. But in any case the difficulty in the view which Isuggest seems to me not nearly so great as those which the usual viewhas to meet. [254]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 251: These three words are evidently addressed to Bernardo. ][Footnote 252: Cf. Antonio in his melancholy (_Merchant of Venice_, I. i. 6), And such a want-wit sadness makes of me That I have much ado to know myself. ][Footnote 253: In _Der Bestrafte Brudermord_ it _is_ Wittenberg. Hamletsays to the actors: 'Were you not, a few years ago, at the University ofWittenberg? I think I saw you act there': Furness's _Variorum_, ii. 129. But it is very doubtful whether this play is anything but an adaptationand enlargement of _Hamlet_ as it existed in the stage represented byQ1. ][Footnote 254: It is perhaps worth while to note that in _Der BestrafteBrudermord_ Hamlet is said to have been 'in Germany' at the time of hisfather's murder. ]NOTE C. HAMLET'S AGE. The chief arguments on this question may be found in Furness's _VariorumHamlet_, vol. i. , pp. 391 ff. I will merely explain my position briefly. Even if the general impression I received from the play were that Hamletwas a youth of eighteen or twenty, I should feel quite unable to set itagainst the evidence of the statements in V. i. which show him to beexactly thirty, unless these statements seemed to be casual. But theyhave to my mind, on the contrary, the appearance of being expresslyinserted in order to fix Hamlet's age; and the fact that they differdecidedly from the statements in Q1 confirms that idea. So does the factthat the Player King speaks of having been married thirty years (III. ii. 165), where again the number differs from that in Q1. If V. i. did not contain those decisive statements, I believe myimpression as to Hamlet's age would be uncertain. His being severaltimes called 'young' would not influence me much (nor at all when he iscalled 'young' simply to distinguish him from his father, _as he is inthe very passage which shows him to be thirty_). But I think wenaturally take him to be about as old as Laertes, Rosencrantz andGuildenstern, and take them to be less than thirty. Further, thelanguage used by Laertes and Polonius to Ophelia in I. iii. wouldcertainly, by itself, lead one to imagine Hamlet as a good deal lessthan thirty; and the impression it makes is not, to me, altogethereffaced by the fact that Henry V. at his accession is said to be in 'thevery May-morn of his youth,'--an expression which corresponds closelywith those used by Laertes to Ophelia. In some passages, again, there isan air of boyish petulance. On the other side, however, we should haveto set (1) the maturity of Hamlet's thought; (2) his manner, on thewhole, to other men and to his mother, which, I think, is far fromsuggesting the idea of a mere youth; (3) such a passage as his words toHoratio at III. ii. 59 ff. , which imply that both he and Horatio haveseen a good deal of life (this passage has in Q1 nothing correspondingto the most significant lines). I have shown in Note B that it is veryunsafe to argue to Hamlet's youth from the words about his going back toWittenberg. On the whole I agree with Prof. Dowden that, apart from the statementsin V. i. , one would naturally take Hamlet to be a man of about five andtwenty. It has been suggested that in the old play Hamlet was a mere lad; thatShakespeare, when he began to work on it,[255] had not determined tomake Hamlet older; that, as he went on, he did so determine; and thatthis is the reason why the earlier part of the play makes (if it doesso) a different impression from the later. I see nothing very improbablein this idea, but I must point out that it is a mistake to appeal insupport of it to the passage in V. i. as found in Q1; for that passagedoes not in the least show that the author (if correctly reported)imagined Hamlet as a lad. I set out the statements in Q2 and Q1. Q2 says: (1) The grave-digger came to his business on the day when old Hamlet defeated Fortinbras: (2) On that day young Hamlet was born: (3) The grave-digger has, at the time of speaking, been sexton for thirty years: (4) Yorick's skull has been in the earth twenty-three years: (5) Yorick used to carry young Hamlet on his back. This is all explicit and connected, and yields the result that Hamlet isnow thirty. Q1 says: (1) Yorick's skull has been in the ground a dozen years: (2) It has been in the ground ever since old Hamlet overcame Fortinbras: (3) Yorick used to carry young Hamlet on his back. From this nothing whatever follows as to Hamlet's age, except that he ismore than twelve! [256] Evidently the writer (if correctly reported) hasno intention of telling us how old Hamlet is. That he did not imaginehim as very young appears from his making him say that he has noted'this seven year' (in Q2 'three years') that the toe of the peasantcomes near the heel of the courtier. The fact that the Player-King in Q1speaks of having been married forty years shows that here too the writerhas not any reference to Hamlet's age in his mind. [257]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 255: Of course we do not know that he did work on it. ][Footnote 256: I find that I have been anticipated in this remark by H. Türck (_Jahrbuch_ for 1900, p. 267 ff. )][Footnote 257: I do not know if it has been observed that in the openingof the Player-King's speech, as given in Q2 and the Folio (it is quitedifferent in Q1), there seems to be a reminiscence of Greene's_Alphonsus King of Arragon_, Act IV. , lines 33 ff. (Dyce's _Greene andPeele_, p. 239): Thrice ten times Phoebus with his golden beams Hath compassed the circle of the sky, Thrice ten times Ceres hath her workmen hir'd, And fill'd her barns with fruitful crops of corn, Since first in priesthood I did lead my life. ]NOTE D. 'MY TABLES--MEET IT IS I SET IT DOWN. 'This passage has occasioned much difficulty, and to many readers seemseven absurd. And it has been suggested that it, with much thatimmediately follows it, was adopted by Shakespeare, with very littlechange, from the old play. It is surely in the highest degree improbable that, at such a criticalpoint, when he had to show the first effect on Hamlet of the disclosuresmade by the Ghost, Shakespeare would write slackly or be content withanything that did not satisfy his own imagination. But it is notsurprising that we should find some difficulty in following hisimagination at such a point. Let us look at the whole speech. The Ghost leaves Hamlet with the words,'Adieu, adieu! Hamlet, remember me'; and he breaks out: O all you host of heaven! O earth! what else? And shall I couple hell? O, fie! Hold, hold, my heart; And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, But bear me stiffly up. Remember thee! Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat In this distracted globe. Remember thee! Yea, from the table of my memory I'll wipe away all trivial fond records, All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past, That youth and observation copied there; And thy commandment all alone shall live Within the book and volume of my brain, Unmix'd with baser matter: yes, by heaven! O most pernicious woman! O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain! My tables--meet it is I set it down, That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain; At least I'm sure it may be so in Denmark: [_Writing_ So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word; It is 'Adieu, adieu! remember me. ' I have sworn 't. The man who speaks thus was, we must remember, already well-nighoverwhelmed with sorrow and disgust when the Ghost appeared to him. Hehas now suffered a tremendous shock. He has learned that his mother wasnot merely what he supposed but an adulteress, and that his father wasmurdered by her paramour. This knowledge too has come to him in such away as, quite apart from the _matter_ of the communication, might makeany human reason totter. And, finally, a terrible charge has been laidupon him. Is it strange, then, that he should say what is strange? Why,there would be nothing to wonder at if his mind collapsed on the spot. Now it is just this that he himself fears. In the midst of the firsttremendous outburst, he checks himself suddenly with the exclamation 'O,fie! ' (cf. the precisely similar use of this interjection, II. ii. 617). He must not let himself feel: he has to live. He must not let his heartbreak in pieces ('hold' means 'hold together'), his muscles turn intothose of a trembling old man, his brain dissolve--as they threaten in aninstant to do. For, if they do, how can he--_remember_? He goes onreiterating this 'remember' (the 'word' of the Ghost). He is, literally,afraid that he will _forget_--that his mind will lose the messageentrusted to it. Instinctively, then, he feels that, if he _is_ toremember, he must wipe from his memory everything it already contains;and the image of his past life rises before him, of all his joy inthought and observation and the stores they have accumulated in hismemory. All that is done with for ever: nothing is to remain for him onthe 'table' but the command, 'remember me. ' He swears it; 'yes, byheaven! ' That done, suddenly the repressed passion breaks out, and, mostcharacteristically, he thinks _first_ of his mother; then of his uncle,the smooth-spoken scoundrel who has just been smiling on him and callinghim 'son. ' And in bitter desperate irony he snatches his tables from hisbreast (they are suggested to him by the phrases he has just used,'table of my memory,' 'book and volume'). After all, he _will_ use themonce again; and, perhaps with a wild laugh, he writes with tremblingfingers his last observation: 'One may smile, and smile, and be avillain. 'But that, I believe, is not merely a desperate jest. It springs fromthat _fear of forgetting_. A time will come, he feels, when all thisappalling experience of the last half-hour will be incredible to him,will seem a mere nightmare, will even, conceivably, quite vanish fromhis mind. Let him have something in black and white that will bring itback and _force_ him to remember and believe. What is there so unnaturalin this, if you substitute a note-book or diary for the 'tables'? [258]But why should he write that particular note, and not rather his 'word,''Adieu, adieu! remember me'? I should answer, first, that a grotesquejest at such a moment is thoroughly characteristic of Hamlet (see p. 151), and that the jocose 'So, uncle, there you are! ' shows his state ofmind; and, secondly, that loathing of his uncle is vehement in histhought at this moment. Possibly, too, he might remember that 'tables'are stealable, and that if the appearance of the Ghost should bereported, a mere observation on the smiling of villains could not betrayanything of his communication with the Ghost. What follows shows thatthe instinct of secrecy is strong in him. It seems likely, I may add, that Shakespeare here was influenced,consciously or unconsciously, by recollection of a place in _TitusAndronicus_ (IV. i. ). In that horrible play Chiron and Demetrius, afteroutraging Lavinia, cut out her tongue and cut off her hands, in orderthat she may be unable to reveal the outrage. She reveals it, however,by taking a staff in her mouth, guiding it with her arms, and writing inthe sand, 'Stuprum. Chiron. Demetrius. ' Titus soon afterwards says: I will go get a leaf of brass, And with a gad of steel will write these words, And lay it by. The angry northern wind Will blow these sands, like Sibyl's leaves, abroad, And where's your lesson then? Perhaps in the old _Hamlet_, which may have been a play something like_Titus Andronicus_, Hamlet at this point did write something of theGhost's message in his tables. In any case Shakespeare, whether he wrote_Titus Andronicus_ or only revised an older play on the subject, mightwell recall this incident, as he frequently reproduces other things inthat drama. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 258: The reader will observe that this suggestion of a_further_ reason for his making the note may be rejected without therest of the interpretation being affected. ]NOTE E. THE GHOST IN THE CELLARAGE. It has been thought that the whole of the last part of I. v. , from the entrance of Horatio and Marcellus, follows the old play closely, and that Shakespeare is condescending to the groundlings. Here again, whether or no he took a suggestion from the old play, I see no reason to think that he wrote down to his public. So far as Hamlet's state of mind is concerned, there is not a trace of this. Anyone who has a difficulty in understanding it should read Coleridge's note. What appears grotesque is the part taken by the Ghost, and Hamlet's consequent removal from one part of the stage to another. But, as to the former, should we feel anything grotesque in the four injunctions 'Swear! ' if it were not that they come from under the stage--a fact which to an Elizabethan audience, perfectly indifferent to what is absurdly called stage illusion, was probably not in the least grotesque? And as to the latter, if we knew the Ghost-lore of the time better than we do, perhaps we should see nothing odd in Hamlet's insisting on moving away and proposing the oath afresh when the Ghost intervenes. But, further, it is to be observed that he does not merely propose the oath afresh. He first makes Horatio and Marcellus swear never to make known what they have _seen_. Then, on shifting his ground, he makes them swear never to speak of what they have _heard_. Then, moving again, he makes them swear that, if he should think fit to play the antic, they will give no sign of knowing aught of him. The oath is now complete; and, when the Ghost commands them to swear the last time, Hamlet suddenly becomes perfectly serious and bids it rest. [In Fletcher's _Woman's Prize_, V. iii. , a passage pointed out to me by Mr. C. J. Wilkinson, a man taking an oath shifts his ground. ] NOTE F. THE PLAYER'S SPEECH IN _HAMLET_. There are two extreme views about this speech. According to one, Shakespeare quoted it from some play, or composed it for the occasion, simply and solely in order to ridicule, through it, the bombastic style of dramatists contemporary with himself or slightly older; just as he ridicules in _2 Henry IV. _ Tamburlaine's rant about the kings who draw his chariot, or puts fragments of similar bombast into the mouth of Pistol. According to Coleridge, on the other hand, this idea is 'below criticism. ' No sort of ridicule was intended. 'The lines, as epic narrative, are superb. ' It is true that the language is 'too poetical--the language of lyric vehemence and epic pomp, and not of the drama'; but this is due to the fact that Shakespeare had to distinguish the style of the speech from that of his own dramatic dialogue. In essentials I think that what Coleridge says[259] is true. He goes too far, it seems to me, when he describes the language of the speech as merely 'too poetical'; for with much that is fine there is intermingled a good deal that, in epic as in drama, must be called bombast. But I do not believe Shakespeare meant it for bombast. I will briefly put the arguments which point to this conclusion. Warburton long ago stated some of them fully and cogently, but he misinterpreted here and there, and some arguments have to be added to his. 1. If the speech was meant to be ridiculous, it follows either that Hamlet in praising it spoke ironically, or that Shakespeare, in making Hamlet praise it sincerely, himself wrote ironically. And both these consequences are almost incredible. Let us see what Hamlet says. He asks the player to recite 'a passionate speech'; and, being requested to choose one, he refers to a speech he once heard the player declaim. This speech, he says, was never 'acted' or was acted only once; for the play pleased not the million. But he, and others whose opinion was of more importance than his, thought it an excellent play, well constructed, and composed with equal skill and temperance. One of these other judges commended it because it contained neither piquant indecencies nor affectations of phrase, but showed 'an honest method, as wholesome as sweet, and by very much more handsome than fine. '[260] In this play Hamlet 'chiefly loved' one speech; and he asks for a part of it. Let the reader now refer to the passage I have just summarised; let him consider its tone and manner; and let him ask himself if Hamlet can possibly be speaking ironically. I am sure he will answer No. And then let him observe what follows. The speech is declaimed. Polonius interrupting it with an objection to its length, Hamlet snubs him, bids the player proceed, and adds, 'He's for a jig or a tale of bawdry: or he sleeps. ' 'He,' that is, 'shares the taste of the million for sallets in the lines to make the matter savoury, and is wearied by an honest method. '[261] Polonius later interrupts again, for he thinks the emotion of the player too absurd; but Hamlet respects it; and afterwards, when he is alone (and therefore can hardly be ironical), in contrasting this emotion with his own insensibility, he betrays no consciousness that there was anything unfitting in the speech that caused it. So far I have chiefly followed Warburton, but there is an important point which seems not to have been observed. All Hamlet's praise of the speech is in the closest agreement with his conduct and words elsewhere. His later advice to the player (III. ii. ) is on precisely the same lines. He is to play to the judicious, not to the crowd, whose opinion is worthless. He is to observe, like the author of Aeneas' speech, the 'modesty' of nature. He must not tear a 'passion' to tatters, to split the ears of the incompetent, but in the very tempest of passion is to keep a temperance and smoothness. The million, we gather from the first passage, cares nothing for construction; and so, we learn in the second passage, the barren spectators want to laugh at the clown instead of attending to some necessary question of the play. Hamlet's hatred of exaggeration is marked in both passages. And so (as already pointed out, p. 133) in the play-scene, when his own lines are going to be delivered, he impatiently calls out to the actor to leave his damnable faces and begin; and at the grave of Ophelia he is furious with what he thinks the exaggeration of Laertes, burlesques his language, and breaks off with the words, Nay, an thou'lt mouth, I'll rant as well as thou. Now if Hamlet's praise of the Aeneas and Dido play and speech isironical, his later advice to the player must surely be ironical too:and who will maintain that? And if in the one passage Hamlet is seriousbut Shakespeare ironical, then in the other passage all those famousremarks about drama and acting, which have been cherished asShakespeare's by all the world, express the opposite of Shakespeare'sopinion: and who will maintain that? And if Hamlet and Shakespeare areboth serious--and nothing else is credible--then, to Hamlet andShakespeare, the speeches of Laertes and Hamlet at Ophelia's grave arerant, but the speech of Aeneas to Dido is not rant. Is it not evidentthat he meant it for an exalted narrative speech of 'passion,' in astyle which, though he may not have adopted it, he still approved anddespised the million for not approving,--a speech to be delivered withtemperance or modesty, but not too tamely neither? Is he not aiming hereto do precisely what Marlowe aimed to do when he proposed to lead theaudience From jigging veins of rhyming mother-wits, And such conceits as clownage keeps in pay,to 'stately' themes which beget 'high astounding terms'? And is itstrange that, like Marlowe in _Tamburlaine_, he adopted a style marredin places by that which _we_ think bombast, but which the author meantto be more 'handsome than fine'? 2. If this is so, we can easily understand how it comes about that thespeech of Aeneas contains lines which are unquestionably grand and freefrom any suspicion of bombast, and others which, though not free fromthat suspicion, are nevertheless highly poetic. To the first classcertainly belongs the passage beginning, 'But as we often see. ' To thesecond belongs the description of Pyrrhus, covered with blood that was Baked and impasted with the parching streets, That lend a tyrannous and damned light To their lord's murder;and again the picture of Pyrrhus standing like a tyrant in a picture,with his uplifted arm arrested in act to strike by the crash of thefalling towers of Ilium. It is surely impossible to say that these linesare _merely_ absurd and not in the least grand; and with them I shouldjoin the passage about Fortune's wheel, and the concluding lines. But how can the insertion of these passages possibly be explained on thehypothesis that Shakespeare meant the speech to be ridiculous? 3. 'Still,' it may be answered, 'Shakespeare _must_ have been consciousof the bombast in some of these passages. How could he help seeing it? And, if he saw it, he cannot have meant seriously to praise the speech. 'But why must he have seen it? Did Marlowe know when he wrotebombastically? Or Marston? Or Heywood? Does not Shakespeare elsewherewrite bombast? The truth is that the two defects of style in the speechare the very defects we do find in his writings. When he wished to makehis style exceptionally high and passionate he always ran some risk ofbombast. And he was even more prone to the fault which in this speechseems to me the more marked, a use of metaphors which sound to our ears'conceited' or grotesque. To me at any rate the metaphors in 'now is hetotal gules' and 'mincing with his sword her husband's limbs' are moredisturbing than any of the bombast. But, as regards this second defect,there are many places in Shakespeare worse than the speech of Aeneas;and, as regards the first, though in his undoubtedly genuine works thereis no passage so faulty, there is also no passage of quite the samespecies (for his narrative poems do not aim at epic grandeur), and thereare many passages where bombast of the same kind, though not of the samedegree, occurs. Let the reader ask himself, for instance, how the following lines wouldstrike him if he came on them for the first time out of their context: Whip me, ye devils, From the possession of this heavenly sight! Blow me about in winds! Roast me in sulphur! Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire! Are Pyrrhus's 'total gules' any worse than Duncan's 'silver skin lacedwith his golden blood,' or so bad as the chamberlains' daggers'unmannerly breech'd with gore'? [262] If 'to bathe in reeking wounds,'and 'spongy officers,' and even 'alarum'd by his sentinel the wolf,Whose howl's his watch,' and other such phrases in _Macbeth_, hadoccurred in the speech of Aeneas, we should certainly have been toldthat they were meant for burlesque. I open _Troilus and Cressida_(because, like the speech of Aeneas, it has to do with the story ofTroy), and I read, in a perfectly serious context (IV. v. 6 f. ): Thou, trumpet, there's thy purse. Now crack thy lungs, and split thy brazen pipe: Blow, villain, till thy sphered bias cheek Outswell the colic of puff'd Aquilon: Come, stretch thy chest, and let thy eyes spout blood; Thou blow'st for Hector. 'Splendid! ' one cries. Yes, but if you are told it is also bombastic,can you deny it? I read again (V. v. 7): bastard Margarelon Hath Doreus prisoner, And stands colossus-wise, waving his beam, Upon the pashed corses of the kings. Or, to turn to earlier but still undoubted works, Shakespeare wrote in_Romeo and Juliet_, here will I remain With worms that are thy chamber-maids;and in _King John_, And pick strong matter of revolt and wrath Out of the bloody finger-ends of John;and in _Lucrece_, And, bubbling from her breast, it doth divide In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood Circles her body in on every side, Who, like a late-sack'd island, vastly stood Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood. Some of her blood still pure and red remain'd, And some look'd black, and that false Tarquin stain'd. Is it so very unlikely that the poet who wrote thus might, aiming at apeculiarly heightened and passionate style, write the speech of Aeneas? 4. But, pursuing this line of argument, we must go further. There isreally scarcely one idea, and there is but little phraseology, in thespeech that cannot be paralleled from Shakespeare's own works. He merelyexaggerates a little here what he has done elsewhere. I will concludethis Note by showing that this is so as regards almost all the passagesmost objected to, as well as some others. (1) 'The Hyrcanian beast' isMacbeth's 'Hyrcan tiger' (III. iv. 101), who also occurs in _3 Hen. VI. _I. iv. 155. (2) With 'total gules' Steevens compared _Timon_ IV. iii. 59(an undoubtedly Shakespearean passage), With man's blood paint the ground, gules, gules. (3) With 'baked and impasted' cf. _John_ III. iii. 42, 'If that surlyspirit melancholy Had baked thy blood. ' In the questionable _Tit. And. _V. ii. 201 we have, 'in that paste let their vile heads be baked' (apaste made of blood and bones, _ib. _ 188), and in the undoubted _RichardII. _ III. ii. 154 (quoted by Caldecott) Richard refers to the ground Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. (4) 'O'er-sized with coagulate gore' finds an exact parallel in the'blood-siz'd field' of the _Two Noble Kinsmen_, I. i. 99, a scene which,whether written by Shakespeare (as I fully believe) or by another poet,was certainly written in all seriousness. (5) 'With eyes likecarbuncles' has been much ridiculed, but Milton (_P. L. _ ix. 500) gives'carbuncle eyes' to Satan turned into a serpent (Steevens), and why arethey more outrageous than ruby lips and cheeks (_J. C. _ III. i. 260,_Macb. _ III. iv. 115, _Cym. _ II. ii. 17)? (6) Priam falling with themere wind of Pyrrhus's sword is paralleled, not only in _Dido Queen ofCarthage_, but in _Tr. and Cr.

_ V. iii. 40 (Warburton). (7) With Pyrrhusstanding like a painted tyrant cf. _Macb. _ V. viii. 25 (Delius). (8) Theforging of Mars's armour occurs again in _Tr. and Cr. _ IV. v. 255, whereHector swears by the forge that stithied Mars his helm, just as Hamlethimself alludes to Vulcan's stithy (III. ii. 89). (9) The idea of'strumpet Fortune' is common: _e. g. _ _Macb. _ I. ii. 15, 'Fortune . . . show'd like a rebel's whore. ' (10) With the 'rant' about her wheelWarburton compares _Ant. and Cl. _ IV. xv. 43, where Cleopatra would rail so high That the false huswife Fortune break her wheel. (11. ) Pyrrhus minces with his sword Priam's limbs, and Timon (IV. iii. 122) bids Alcibiades 'mince' the babe without remorse. '[263]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 259: It is impossible to tell whether Coleridge formed hisview independently, or adopted it from Schlegel. For there is no recordof his having expressed his opinion prior to the time of his readingSchlegel's _Lectures_; and, whatever he said to the contrary, hisborrowings from Schlegel are demonstrable. ][Footnote 260: Clark and Wright well compare Polonius' antithesis of'rich, not gaudy': though I doubt if 'handsome' implies richness. ][Footnote 261: Is it not possible that 'mobled queen,' to which Hamletseems to object, and which Polonius praises, is meant for an example ofthe second fault of affected phraseology, from which the play was saidto be free, and an instance of which therefore surprises Hamlet? ][Footnote 262: The extravagance of these phrases is doubtlessintentional (for Macbeth in using them is trying to act a part), but the_absurdity_ of the second can hardly be so. ][Footnote 263: Steevens observes that Heywood uses the phrase 'guledwith slaughter,' and I find in his _Iron Age_ various passagesindicating that he knew the speech of Aeneas (cf. p. 140 for anothersign that he knew _Hamlet_). The two parts of the _Iron Age_ werepublished in 1632, but are said, in the preface to the Second, to have'been long since writ. ' I refer to the pages of vol. 3 of Pearson's_Heywood_ (1874). (1) p. 329, Troilus 'lyeth imbak'd In his cold blood. '(2) p. 341, of Achilles' armour: _Vulcan_ that wrought it out of gadds of Steele With his _Ciclopian_ hammers, never made Such noise upon his Anvile forging it, Than these my arm'd fists in _Ulisses_ wracke. (3) p. 357, 'till _Hecub's_ reverent lockes Be gul'd in slaughter. ' (4)p. 357, '_Scamander_ plaines Ore-spread with intrailes bak'd in bloodand dust. ' (5) p. 378, 'We'll rost them at the scorching flames of_Troy_. ' (6) p. 379, 'tragicke slaughter, clad in gules and sables'(cf. 'sable arms' in the speech in _Hamlet_). (7) p. 384, 'these lockes,now knotted all, As bak't in blood. ' Of these, all but (1) and (2) arein Part II. Part I. has many passages which recall _Troilus andCressida_. Mr. Fleay's speculation as to its date will be found in his_Chronicle History of the English Drama_, i. p. 285. For the same writer's ingenious theory (which is of course incapable ofproof) regarding the relation of the player's speech in _Hamlet_ toMarlowe and Nash's _Dido_, see Furness's Variorum _Hamlet_. ]NOTE G. HAMLET'S APOLOGY TO LAERTES. Johnson, in commenting on the passage (V. ii. 237-255), says: 'I wishHamlet had made some other defence; it is unsuitable to the character ofa good or a brave man to shelter himself in falsehood. ' And Seymour(according to Furness) thought the falsehood so ignoble that he rejectedlines 239-250 as an interpolation! I wish first to remark that we are mistaken when we suppose that Hamletis here apologising specially for his behaviour to Laertes at Ophelia'sgrave. We naturally suppose this because he has told Horatio that he issorry he 'forgot himself' on that occasion, and that he will courtLaertes' favours (V. ii. 75 ff. ). But what he says in that very passageshows that he is thinking chiefly of the greater wrong he has doneLaertes by depriving him of his father: For, by the image of my cause, I see The portraiture of his. And it is also evident in the last words of the apology itself that heis referring in it to the deaths of Polonius and Ophelia: Sir, in this audience, Let my disclaiming from a purposed evil Free me so far in your most generous thoughts, _That I have shot mine arrow o'er the house, And hurt my brother. _But now, as to the falsehood. The charge is not to be set aside lightly;and, for my part, I confess that, while rejecting of course Johnson'snotion that Shakespeare wanted to paint 'a good man,' I have momentarilyshared Johnson's wish that Hamlet had made 'some other defence' thanthat of madness. But I think the wish proceeds from failure to imaginethe situation. In the first place, _what_ other defence can we wish Hamlet to havemade? I can think of none. He cannot tell the truth. He cannot say toLaertes, 'I meant to stab the King, not your father. ' He cannot explainwhy he was unkind to Ophelia. Even on the false supposition that he isreferring simply to his behaviour at the grave, he can hardly say, Isuppose, 'You ranted so abominably that you put me into a toweringpassion. ' _Whatever_ he said, it would have to be more or less untrue. Next, what moral difference is there between feigning insanity andasserting it? If we are to blame Hamlet for the second, why not equallyfor the first? And, finally, even if he were referring simply to his behaviour at thegrave, his excuse, besides falling in with his whole plan of feigninginsanity, would be as near the truth as any he could devise. For we arenot to take the account he gives to Horatio, that he was put in apassion by the bravery of Laertes' grief, as the whole truth. His ravingover the grave is not _mere_ acting. On the contrary, that passage isthe best card that the believers in Hamlet's madness have to play. He isreally almost beside himself with grief as well as anger, half-maddenedby the impossibility of explaining to Laertes how he has come to do whathe has done, full of wild rage and then of sick despair at this wretchedworld which drives him to such deeds and such misery. It is the samerage and despair that mingle with other feelings in his outbreak toOphelia in the Nunnery-scene. But of all this, even if he were clearlyconscious of it, he cannot speak to Horatio; for his love to Ophelia isa subject on which he has never opened his lips to his friend. If we realise the situation, then, we shall, I think, repress the wishthat Hamlet had 'made some other defence' than that of madness. We shallfeel only tragic sympathy. * * * * *As I have referred to Hamlet's apology, I will add a remark on it from adifferent point of view. It forms another refutation of the theory thatHamlet has delayed his vengeance till he could publicly convict theKing, and that he has come back to Denmark because now, with theevidence of the commission in his pocket, he can safely accuse him. Ifthat were so, what better opportunity could he possibly find than thisoccasion, where he has to express his sorrow to Laertes for the grievouswrongs which he has unintentionally inflicted on him? NOTE H. THE EXCHANGE OF RAPIERS. I am not going to discuss the question how this exchange ought to bemanaged. I wish merely to point out that the stage-direction fails toshow the sequence of speeches and events. The passage is as follows(Globe text): _Ham. _ Come, for the third, Laertes: you but dally; I pray you, pass with your best violence; I am afeard you make a wanton of me. _Laer. _ Say you so? come on. [_They play. _ _Osr. _ Nothing, neither way. _Laer. _ Have at you now! [_Laertes wounds Hamlet; then, in scuffling, they change rapiers, and Hamlet wounds Laertes. _[264] _King. _ Part them; they are incensed. _Ham. _ Nay, come, again. _The Queen falls. _[265] _Osr. _ Look to the Queen there, ho! _Hor. _ They bleed on both sides. How is it, my lord? _Osr. _ How is't, Laertes? The words 'and Hamlet wounds Laertes' in Rowe's stage-direction destroythe point of the words given to the King in the text. If Laertes isalready wounded, why should the King care whether the fencers are partedor not? What makes him cry out is that, while he sees his purposeeffected as regards Hamlet, he also sees Laertes in danger through theexchange of foils in the scuffle. Now it is not to be supposed thatLaertes is particularly dear to him; but he sees instantaneously that,if Laertes escapes the poisoned foil, he will certainly hold his tongueabout the plot against Hamlet, while, if he is wounded, he may confessthe truth; for it is no doubt quite evident to the King that Laertes hasfenced tamely because his conscience is greatly troubled by thetreachery he is about to practise. The King therefore, as soon as hesees the exchange of foils, cries out, 'Part them; they are incensed. 'But Hamlet's blood is up. 'Nay, come, again,' he calls to Laertes, whocannot refuse to play, and _now_ is wounded by Hamlet. At the very samemoment the Queen falls to the ground; and ruin rushes on the King fromthe right hand and the left. The passage, therefore, should be printed thus: _Laer. _ Have at you now! [_Laertes wounds Hamlet; then, in scuffling, they change rapiers. _ _King. _ Part them; they are incensed. _Ham. _ Nay, come, again. [_They play, and Hamlet wounds Laertes. The Queen falls. _FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 264: So Rowe. The direction in Q1 is negligible, the textbeing different. Q2 etc. have nothing, Ff. simply 'In scuffling theychange rapiers. '][Footnote 265: Capell. The Quartos and Folios have no directions. ]NOTE I. THE DURATION OF THE ACTION IN _OTHELLO_. The quite unusual difficulties regarding this subject have led to muchdiscussion, a synopsis of which may be found in Furness's Variorumedition, pp. 358-72. Without detailing the facts I will briefly set outthe main difficulty, which is that, according to one set of indications(which I will call A), Desdemona was murdered within a day or two of herarrival in Cyprus, while, according to another set (which I will callB), some time elapsed between her arrival and the catastrophe. Let ustake A first, and run through the play. (A) Act I. opens on the night of Othello's marriage. On that night he isdespatched to Cyprus, leaving Desdemona to follow him. In Act II. Sc. i. , there arrive at Cyprus, first, in one ship, Cassio;then, in another, Desdemona, Iago, and Emilia; then, in another, Othello(Othello, Cassio, and Desdemona being in three different ships, it doesnot matter, for our purpose, how long the voyage lasted). On the nightfollowing these arrivals in Cyprus the marriage is consummated (II. iii. 9), Cassio is cashiered, and, on Iago's advice, he resolves to askDesdemona's intercession 'betimes in the morning' (II. iii. 335). In Act III. Sc. iii. (the Temptation scene), he does so: Desdemona doesintercede: Iago begins to poison Othello's mind: the handkerchief islost, found by Emilia, and given to Iago: he determines to leave it inCassio's room, and, renewing his attack on Othello, asserts that he hasseen the handkerchief in Cassio's hand: Othello bids him kill Cassiowithin three days, and resolves to kill Desdemona himself. All thisoccurs in one unbroken scene, and evidently on the day after the arrivalin Cyprus (see III. i. 33). In the scene (iv. ) following the Temptation scene Desdemona sends to bidCassio come, as she has interceded for him: Othello enters, tests herabout the handkerchief, and departs in anger: Cassio, arriving, is toldof the change in Othello, and, being left _solus_, is accosted byBianca, whom he requests to copy the work on the handkerchief which hehas just found in his room (ll. 188 f. ). All this is naturally taken tohappen in the later part of the day on which the events of III. i. -iii. took place, _i. e. _ the day after the arrival in Cyprus: but I shallreturn to this point. In IV. i. Iago tells Othello that Cassio has confessed, and, placingOthello where he can watch, he proceeds on Cassio's entrance to rallyhim about Bianca; and Othello, not being near enough to hear what issaid, believes that Cassio is laughing at his conquest of Desdemona. Cassio here says that Bianca haunts him and 'was here _even now_'; andBianca herself, coming in, reproaches him about the handkerchief 'yougave me _even now_. ' There is therefore no appreciable time between III. iv. and IV. i. In this same scene Bianca bids Cassio come to supper_to-night_; and Lodovico, arriving, is asked to sup with Othello_to-night_. In IV. ii. Iago persuades Roderigo to kill Cassio _thatnight_ as he comes from Bianca's. In IV. iii. Lodovico, after supper,takes his leave, and Othello bids Desdemona go to bed on the instant anddismiss her attendant. In Act V. , _that night_, the attempted assassination of Cassio, and themurder of Desdemona, take place. From all this, then, it seems clear that the time between the arrival inCyprus and the catastrophe is certainly not more than a few days, andmost probably only about a day and a half: or, to put it otherwise, thatmost probably Othello kills his wife about twenty-four hours after theconsummation of their marriage! The only _possible_ place, it will be seen, where time can elapse isbetween III. iii. and III. iv. And here Mr. Fleay would imagine a gap ofat least a week. The reader will find that this supposition involves thefollowing results, (_a_) Desdemona has allowed at least a week to elapsewithout telling Cassio that she has interceded for him. (_b_) Othello,after being convinced of her guilt, after resolving to kill her, andafter ordering Iago to kill Cassio within three days, has allowed atleast a week to elapse without even questioning her about thehandkerchief, and has so behaved during all this time that she istotally unconscious of any change in his feelings. (_c_) Desdemona, whoreserves the handkerchief evermore about her to kiss and talk to (III. iii. 295), has lost it for at least a week before she is conscious ofthe loss. (_d_) Iago has waited at least a week to leave thehandkerchief in Cassio's chamber; for Cassio has evidently only justfound it, and wants the work on it copied before the owner makesinquiries for it. These are all gross absurdities. It is certain thatonly a short time, most probable that not even a night, elapses betweenIII. iii. and III. iv. (B) Now this idea that Othello killed his wife, probably withintwenty-four hours, certainly within a few days, of the consummation ofhis marriage, contradicts the impression produced by the play on alluncritical readers and spectators. It is also in flat contradiction witha large number of time-indications in the play itself. It is needless tomention more than a few. (_a_) Bianca complains that Cassio has keptaway from her for a week (III. iv. 173). Cassio and the rest havetherefore been more than a week in Cyprus, and, we should naturallyinfer, considerably more. (_b_) The ground on which Iago buildsthroughout is the probability of Desdemona's having got tired of theMoor; she is accused of having repeatedly committed adultery with Cassio(_e. g. _ V. ii. 210); these facts and a great many others, such asOthello's language in III. iii. 338 ff. , are utterly absurd on thesupposition that he murders his wife within a day or two of the nightwhen he consummated his marriage. (_c_) Iago's account of Cassio's dreamimplies (and indeed states) that he had been sleeping with Cassio'lately,' _i. e. _ after arriving at Cyprus: yet, according to A, he hadonly spent one night in Cyprus, and we are expressly told that Cassionever went to bed on that night. Iago doubtless was a liar, but Othellowas not an absolute idiot. * * * * *Thus (1) one set of time-indications clearly shows that Othello murderedhis wife within a few days, probably a day and a half, of his arrival inCyprus and the consummation of his marriage; (2) another set oftime-indications implies quite as clearly that some little time musthave elapsed, probably a few weeks; and this last is certainly theimpression of a reader who has not closely examined the play. It is impossible to escape this result. The suggestion that the imputedintrigue of Cassio and Desdemona took place at Venice before themarriage, not at Cyprus after it, is quite futile. There is no positiveevidence whatever for it; if the reader will merely refer to thedifficulties mentioned under B above, he will see that it leaves almostall of them absolutely untouched; and Iago's accusation is uniformly oneof adultery. How then is this extraordinary contradiction to be explained? It canhardly be one of the casual inconsistencies, due to forgetfulness, whichare found in Shakespeare's other tragedies; for the scheme of timeindicated under A seems deliberate and self-consistent, and the schemeindicated under B seems, if less deliberate, equally self-consistent. This does not look as if a single scheme had been so vaguely imaginedthat inconsistencies arose in working it out; it points to some othersource of contradiction. 'Christopher North,' who dealt very fully with the question, elaborateda doctrine of Double Time, Short and Long. To do justice to this theoryin a few words is impossible, but its essence is the notion thatShakespeare, consciously or unconsciously, wanted to produce on thespectator (for he did not aim at readers) two impressions. He wanted thespectator to feel a passionate and vehement haste in the action; but healso wanted him to feel that the action was fairly probable. Consciouslyor unconsciously he used Short Time (the scheme of A) for the firstpurpose, and Long Time (the scheme of B) for the second. The spectatoris affected in the required manner by both, though without distinctlynoticing the indications of the two schemes. The notion underlying this theory is probably true, but the theoryitself can hardly stand. Passing minor matters by, I would ask thereader to consider the following remarks. (_a_) If, as seems to bemaintained, the spectator does not notice the indications of 'ShortTime' at all, how can they possibly affect him? The passion, vehemenceand haste of Othello affect him, because he perceives them; but if hedoes not perceive the hints which show the duration of the action fromthe arrival in Cyprus to the murder, these hints have simply noexistence for him and are perfectly useless. The theory, therefore, doesnot explain the existence of 'Short Time. ' (_b_) It is not the case that'Short Time' is wanted only to produce an impression of vehemence andhaste, and 'Long Time' for probability. The 'Short Time' is equallywanted for probability: for it is grossly improbable that Iago'sintrigue should not break down if Othello spends a week or weeks betweenthe successful temptation and his execution of justice. (_c_) And thisbrings me to the most important point, which appears to have escapednotice. The place where 'Long Time' is wanted is not _within_ Iago'sintrigue. 'Long Time' is required simply and solely because the intrigueand its circumstances presuppose a marriage consummated, and an adulterypossible, for (let us say) some weeks. But, granted that lapse betweenthe marriage and the temptation, there is no reason whatever why morethan a few days or even one day should elapse between this temptationand the murder. The whole trouble arises because the temptation beginson the morning after the consummated marriage. Let some three weekselapse between the first night at Cyprus and the temptation; let thebrawl which ends in the disgrace of Cassio occur not on that night butthree weeks later; or again let it occur that night, but let three weekselapse before the intercession of Desdemona and the temptation of Iagobegin. All will then be clear. Cassio has time to make acquaintance withBianca, and to neglect her: the Senate has time to hear of the perditionof the Turkish fleet and to recall Othello: the accusations of Iagocease to be ridiculous; and the headlong speed of the action after thetemptation has begun is quite in place. Now, too, there is no reason whywe should not be affected by the hints of time ('to-day,' 'to-night,''even now'), which we _do_ perceive (though we do not calculate themout). And, lastly, this supposition corresponds with our naturalimpression, which is that the temptation and what follows it take placesome little while after the marriage, but occupy, themselves, a veryshort time. Now, of course, the supposition just described is no fact. As the playstands, it is quite certain that there is no space of three weeks, oranything like it, either between the arrival in Cyprus and the brawl, orbetween the brawl and the temptation. And I draw attention to thesupposition chiefly to show that quite a small change would remove thedifficulties, and to insist that there is nothing wrong at all in regardto the time from the temptation onward. How to account for the existingcontradictions I do not at all profess to know, and I will merelymention two possibilities. Possibly, as Mr. Daniel observes, the play has been tampered with. Wehave no text earlier than 1622, six years after Shakespeare's death. Itmay be suggested, then, that in the play, as Shakespeare wrote it, therewas a gap of some weeks between the arrival in Cyprus and Cassio'sbrawl, or (less probably) between the brawl and the temptation. Perhapsthere was a scene indicating the lapse of time. Perhaps it was dull, orthe play was a little too long, or devotees of the unity of time madesport of a second breach of that unity coming just after the breachcaused by the voyage. Perhaps accordingly the owners of the playaltered, or hired a dramatist to alter, the arrangement at this point,and this was unwittingly done in such a way as to produce thecontradictions we are engaged on. There is nothing intrinsicallyunlikely in this idea; and certainly, I think, the amount of suchcorruption of Shakespeare's texts by the players is usually ratherunderrated than otherwise. But I cannot say I see any signs of foreignalteration in the text, though it is somewhat odd that Roderigo, whomakes no complaint on the day of the arrival in Cyprus when he is beingpersuaded to draw Cassio into a quarrel that night, should, directlyafter the quarrel (II. iii. 370), complain that he is making no advancein his pursuit of Desdemona, and should speak as though he had been inCyprus long enough to have spent nearly all the money he brought fromVenice. Or, possibly, Shakespeare's original plan was to allow some time toelapse after the arrival at Cyprus, but when he reached the point hefound it troublesome to indicate this lapse in an interesting way, andconvenient to produce Cassio's fall by means of the rejoicings on thenight of the arrival, and then almost necessary to let the request forintercession, and the temptation, follow on the next day. And perhaps hesaid to himself, No one in the theatre will notice that all this makesan impossible position: and I can make all safe by using language thatimplies that Othello has after all been married for some time. If so,probably he was right. I do not think anyone does notice theimpossibilities either in the theatre or in a casual reading of theplay. Either of these suppositions is possible: neither is, to me, probable. The first seems the less unlikely. If the second is true, Shakespearedid in _Othello_ what he seems to do in no other play. I can believethat he may have done so; but I find it very hard to believe that heproduced this impossible situation without knowing it. It is one thingto read a drama or see it, quite another to construct and compose it,and he appears to have imagined the action in _Othello_ with even morethan his usual intensity. NOTE J. THE 'ADDITIONS' TO _OTHELLO_ IN THE FIRST FOLIO. THE PONTIC SEA. The first printed _Othello_ is the first Quarto (Q1), 1622; the secondis the first Folio (F1), 1623. These two texts are two distinct versionsof the play. Q1 contains many oaths and expletives where less'objectionable' expressions occur in F1. Partly for this reason it isbelieved to represent the _earlier_ text, perhaps the text as it stoodbefore the Act of 1605 against profanity on the stage. Its readings arefrequently superior to those of F1, but it wants many lines that appearin F1, which probably represents the acting version in 1623. I give alist of the longer passages absent from Q1: (_a_) I. i. 122-138. 'If't' . . . 'yourself:' (_b_) I. ii 72-77. 'Judge' . . . 'thee' (_c_) I. iii. 24-30. 'For' . . . 'profitless. ' (_d_) III. iii. 383-390. '_Oth. _ By' . . . 'satisfied! _Iago. _' (_e_) III. iii. 453-460. 'Iago. ' . . . 'heaven,' (_f_) IV. i. 38-44. 'To confess' . . . 'devil! ' (_g_) IV. ii. 73-76, 'Committed! ' . . . 'committed! ' (_h_) IV. ii. 151-164. 'Here' . . . 'make me. ' (_i_) IV. iii. 31-53. 'I have' . . . 'not next' and 55-57. '_Des. _ [_Singing_]' . . . 'men. ' (_j_) IV. iii. 60-63. 'I have' . . . 'question. ' (_k_) IV. iii. 87-104. 'But I' . . . 'us so. ' (_l_) V. ii. 151-154. 'O mistress' . . . 'Iago. ' (_m_) V. ii. 185-193. 'My mistress' . . . 'villany! ' (_n_) V. ii. 266-272. 'Be not' . . . 'wench! 'Were these passages after-thoughts, composed after the versionrepresented by Q1 was written? Or were they in the version representedby Q1, and only omitted in printing, whether accidentally or becausethey were also omitted in the theatre? Or were some of themafter-thoughts, and others in the original version? I will take them in order. (_a_) can hardly be an after-thought. Up tothat point Roderigo had hardly said anything, for Iago had alwaysinterposed; and it is very unlikely that Roderigo would now deliver butfour lines, and speak at once of 'she' instead of 'your daughter. 'Probably this 'omission' represents a 'cut' in stage performance. (_b_)This may also be the case here. In our texts the omission of the passagewould make nonsense, but in Q1 the 'cut' (if a cut) has been mended,awkwardly enough, by the substitution of 'Such' for 'For' in line 78. Inany case, the lines cannot be an addition. (_c_) cannot be anafter-thought, for the sentence is unfinished without it; and that itwas not meant to be interrupted is clear, because in Q1 line 31 begins'And,' not 'Nay'; the Duke might say 'Nay' if he were cutting theprevious speaker short, but not 'And. ' (_d_) is surely no addition. Ifthe lines are cut out, not only is the metre spoilt, but the obviousreason for Iago's words, 'I see, Sir, you are eaten up with passion,'disappears, and so does the reference of his word 'satisfied' in 393 toOthello's 'satisfied' in 390. (_e_) is the famous passage about thePontic Sea, and I reserve it for the present. (_f_) As Pope observes,'no hint of this trash in the first edition,' the 'trash' including thewords 'Nature would not invest herself in such shadowing passion withoutsome instruction. It is not words that shake me thus'! There is nothingto prove these lines to be original or an after-thought. The omission of(_g_) is clearly a printer's error, due to the fact that lines 72 and 76both end with the word 'committed. ' No conclusion can be formed as to(_h_), nor perhaps (_i_), which includes the whole of Desdemona's song;but if (_j_) is removed the reference in 'such a deed' in 64 isdestroyed. (_k_) is Emilia's long speech about husbands. It cannot wellbe an after-thought, for 105-6 evidently refer to 103-4 (even the word'uses' in 105 refers to 'use' in 103). (_l_) is no after-thought, for'if he says so' in 155 must point back to 'my husband say that she wasfalse! ' in 152. (_m_) might be an after-thought, but, if so, in thefirst version the ending 'to speak' occurred twice within three lines,and the reason for Iago's sudden alarm in 193 is much less obvious. If(_n_) is an addition the original collocation was: but O vain boast! Who can control his fate? 'Tis not so now. Pale as thy smock! which does not sound probable. Thus, as it seems to me, in the great majority of cases there is more orless reason to think that the passages wanting in Q1 were neverthelessparts of the original play, and I cannot in any one case see anypositive ground for supposing a subsequent addition. I think that mostof the gaps in Q1 were accidents of printing (like many other smallergaps in Q1), but that probably one or two were 'cuts'--_e. g. _ Emilia'slong speech (_k_). The omission of (_i_) might be due to the state ofthe MS. : the words of the song may have been left out of the dialogue,as appearing on a separate page with the musical notes, or may have beeninserted in such an illegible way as to baffle the printer. I come now to (_e_), the famous passage about the Pontic Sea. Popesupposed that it formed part of the original version, but approved ofits omission, as he considered it 'an unnatural excursion in thisplace. ' Mr. Swinburne thinks it an after-thought, but defends it. 'Inother lips indeed than Othello's, at the crowning minute of culminantagony, the rush of imaginative reminiscence which brings back upon hiseyes and ears the lightning foam and tideless thunder of the Pontic Seamight seem a thing less natural than sublime. But Othello has thepassion of a poet closed in as it were and shut up behind the passion ofa hero' (_Study of Shakespeare_, p. 184). I quote these words all themore gladly because they will remind the reader of my lectures of mydebt to Mr. Swinburne here; and I will only add that the reminiscencehere is of _precisely the same character_ as the reminiscences of theArabian trees and the base Indian in Othello's final speech. But I findit almost impossible to believe that Shakespeare _ever_ wrote thepassage without the words about the Pontic Sea. It seems to me almost animperative demand of imagination that Iago's set speech, if I may usethe phrase, should be preceded by a speech of somewhat the samedimensions, the contrast of which should heighten the horror of itshypocrisy; it seems to me that Shakespeare must have felt this; and itis difficult to me to think that he ever made the lines, In the due reverence of a sacred vow I here engage my words,follow directly on the one word 'Never' (however impressive that word inits isolation might be). And as I can find no _other_ 'omission' in Q1which appears to point to a subsequent addition, I conclude that this'omission' _was_ an omission, probably accidental, conceivably due to astupid 'cut. ' Indeed it is nothing but Mr. Swinburne's opinion thatprevents my feeling certainty on the point. Finally, I may draw attention to certain facts which may be mereaccidents, but may possibly be significant. Passages (_b_) and (_c_)consist respectively of six and seven lines; that is, they are almost ofthe same length, and in a MS. might well fill exactly the same amount ofspace. Passage (_d_) is eight lines long; so is passage (_e_). Now,taking at random two editions of Shakespeare, the Globe and that ofDelius, I find that (_b_) and (_c_) are 6-1/4 inches apart in the Globe,8 in Delius; and that (_d_) and (_e_) are separated by 7-3/8 inches inthe Globe, by 8-3/4 in Delius. In other words, there is about the samedistance in each case between two passages of about equal dimensions. The idea suggested by these facts is that the MS. from which Q1 wasprinted was mutilated in various places; that (_b_) and (_c_) occupiedthe bottom inches of two successive pages, and that these inches weretorn away; and that this was also the case with (_d_) and (_e_). This speculation has amused me and may amuse some reader. I do not knowenough of Elizabethan manuscripts to judge of its plausibility. NOTE K. OTHELLO'S COURTSHIP. It is curious that in the First Act two impressions are produced whichhave afterwards to be corrected. 1.

We must not suppose that Othello's account of his courtship in hisfamous speech before the Senate is intended to be exhaustive. He isaccused of having used drugs or charms in order to win Desdemona; andtherefore his purpose in his defence is merely to show that hiswitchcraft was the story of his life. It is no part of his business totrouble the Senators with the details of his courtship, and he socondenses his narrative of it that it almost appears as though there wasno courtship at all, and as though Desdemona never imagined that he wasin love with her until she had practically confessed her love for him. Hence she has been praised by some for her courage, and blamed by othersfor her forwardness. But at III. iii. 70 f. matters are presented in quite a new light. Therewe find the following words of hers: What! Michael Cassio, That came a-wooing with you, and so many a time, When I have spoke of you dispraisingly, Hath ta'en your part. It seems, then, she understood why Othello came so often to her father'shouse, and was perfectly secure of his love before she gave him thatvery broad 'hint to speak. ' I may add that those who find fault with herforget that it was necessary for her to take the first open step. Shewas the daughter of a Venetian grandee, and Othello was a black soldierof fortune. 2. We learn from the lines just quoted that Cassio used to accompanyOthello in his visits to the house; and from III. iii. 93 f. we learnthat he knew of Othello's love from first to last and 'went between' thelovers 'very oft. ' Yet in Act I. it appears that, while Iago on thenight of the marriage knows about it and knows where to find Othello (I. i. 158 f. ), Cassio, even if he knows where to find Othello (which isdoubtful: see I. ii. 44), seems to know nothing about the marriage. SeeI. ii. 49: _Cas. _ Ancient, what makes he here? _Iago. _ 'Faith, he to-night hath boarded a land carack: If it prove lawful prize, he's made for ever. _Cas. _ I do not understand. _Iago. _ He's married. _Cas. _ To who? It is possible that Cassio does know, and only pretends ignorancebecause he has not been informed by Othello that Iago also knows. Andthis idea is consistent with Iago's apparent ignorance of Cassio's partin the courtship (III. iii. 93). And of course, if this were so, a wordfrom Shakespeare to the actor who played Cassio would enable him to makeall clear to the audience. The alternative, and perhaps more probable,explanation would be that, in writing Act I. , Shakespeare had not yetthought of making Cassio Othello's confidant, and that, after writingAct III. , he neglected to alter the passage in Act I. In that case thefurther information which Act III. gives regarding Othello's courtshipwould probably also be an after-thought. NOTE L. OTHELLO IN THE TEMPTATION SCENE. One reason why some readers think Othello 'easily jealous' is that theycompletely misinterpret him in the early part of this scene. They fancythat he is alarmed and suspicious the moment he hears Iago mutter 'Ha! Ilike not that,' as he sees Cassio leaving Desdemona (III. iii. 35). But,in fact, it takes a long time for Iago to excite surprise, curiosity,and then grave concern--by no means yet jealousy--even about Cassio; andit is still longer before Othello understands that Iago is suggestingdoubts about Desdemona too. ('Wronged' in 143 certainly does not referto her, as 154 and 162 show. ) Nor, even at 171, is the exclamation 'Omisery' meant for an expression of Othello's own present feelings; ashis next speech clearly shows, it expresses an _imagined_ feeling, asalso the speech which elicits it professes to do (for Iago would nothave dared here to apply the term 'cuckold' to Othello). In fact it isnot until Iago hints that Othello, as a foreigner, might easily bedeceived, that he is seriously disturbed about Desdemona. Salvini played this passage, as might be expected, with entireunderstanding. Nor have I ever seen it seriously misinterpreted on thestage. I gather from the Furness Variorum that Fechter and Edwin Boothtook the same view as Salvini. Actors have to ask themselves what wasthe precise state of mind expressed by the words they have to repeat. But many readers never think of asking such a question. The lines which probably do most to lead hasty or unimaginative readersastray are those at 90, where, on Desdemona's departure, Othelloexclaims to himself: Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again. He is supposed to mean by the last words that his love is _now_suspended by suspicion, whereas in fact, in his bliss, he has so totallyforgotten Iago's 'Ha! I like not that,' that the tempter has to beginall over again. The meaning is, 'If ever I love thee not, Chaos willhave come again. ' The feeling of insecurity is due to the excess of_joy_, as in the wonderful words after he rejoins Desdemona at Cyprus(II. i. 191): If it were now to die, 'Twere now to be most happy: for, I fear My soul hath her content so absolute That not another comfort like to this Succeeds in unknown fate. If any reader boggles at the use of the present in 'Chaos _is_ comeagain,' let him observe 'succeeds' in the lines just quoted, or let himlook at the parallel passage in _Venus and Adonis_, 1019: For, he being dead, with him is beauty slain; And, beauty dead, black Chaos comes again. Venus does not know that Adonis is dead when she speaks thus. NOTE M. QUESTIONS AS TO _OTHELLO_, ACT IV. SCENE I. (1) The first part of the scene is hard to understand, and thecommentators give little help. I take the idea to be as follows. Iagosees that he must renew his attack on Othello; for, on the one hand,Othello, in spite of the resolution he had arrived at to put Desdemonato death, has taken the step, without consulting Iago, of testing her inthe matter of Iago's report about the handkerchief; and, on the otherhand, he now seems to have fallen into a dazed lethargic state, and mustbe stimulated to action. Iago's plan seems to be to remind Othello ofeverything that would madden him again, but to do so by professing tomake light of the whole affair, and by urging Othello to put the bestconstruction on the facts, or at any rate to acquiesce. So he says, ineffect: 'After all, if she did kiss Cassio, that might mean little. Nay,she might even go much further without meaning any harm. [266] Of coursethere is the handkerchief (10); but then why should she _not_ give itaway? ' Then, affecting to renounce this hopeless attempt to disguise histrue opinion, he goes on: 'However, _I_ cannot, as your friend, pretendthat I really regard her as innocent: the fact is, Cassio boasted to mein so many words of his conquest. [Here he is interrupted by Othello'sswoon. ] But, after all, why make such a fuss? You share the fate of mostmarried men, and you have the advantage of not being deceived in thematter. ' It must have been a great pleasure to Iago to express his realcynicism thus, with the certainty that he would not be taken seriouslyand would advance his plot by it. At 208-210 he recurs to the same planof maddening Othello by suggesting that, if he is so fond of Desdemona,he had better let the matter be, for it concerns no one but him. Thisspeech follows Othello's exclamation 'O Iago, the pity of it,' and thisis perhaps the moment when we most of all long to destroy Iago. (2) At 216 Othello tells Iago to get him some poison, that he may killDesdemona that night. Iago objects: 'Do it not with poison: strangle herin her bed, even the bed she hath contaminated? ' Why does he object topoison? Because through the sale of the poison he himself would beinvolved? Possibly. Perhaps his idea was that, Desdemona being killed byOthello, and Cassio killed by Roderigo, he would then admit that he hadinformed Othello of the adultery, and perhaps even that he hadundertaken Cassio's death; but he would declare that he never meant tofulfil his promise as to Cassio, and that he had nothing to do withDesdemona's death (he seems to be preparing for this at 285). His buyingpoison might wreck this plan. But it may be that his objection to poisonsprings merely from contempt for Othello's intellect. He can trust himto use violence, but thinks he may bungle anything that requiresadroitness. (3) When the conversation breaks off here (225) Iago has brought Othelloback to the position reached at the end of the Temptation scene (III. iii. ). Cassio and Desdemona are to be killed; and, in addition, the timeis hastened; it is to be 'to-night,' not 'within three days. 'The constructional idea clearly is that, after the Temptation scene,Othello tends to relapse and wait, which is terribly dangerous to Iago,who therefore in this scene quickens his purpose. Yet Othello relapsesagain. He has declared that he will not expostulate with her (IV. i. 217). But he cannot keep his word, and there follows the scene ofaccusation. Its _dramatic_ purposes are obvious, but Othello seems tohave no purpose in it. He asks no questions, or, rather, none that showsthe least glimpse of doubt or hope. He is merely torturing himself. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 266: The reader who is puzzled by this passage should refer tothe conversation at the end of the thirtieth tale in the _Heptameron_. ]NOTE N. TWO PASSAGES IN THE LAST SCENE OF _OTHELLO_. (1) V. ii. 71 f. Desdemona demands that Cassio be sent for to 'confess'the truth that she never gave him the handkerchief. Othello answers thatCassio _has_ confessed the truth--has confessed the adultery. Thedialogue goes on: _Des. _ He will not say so. _Oth. _ No, his mouth is stopp'd: Honest Iago hath ta'en order for 't. _Des. _ O! my fear interprets: what, is he dead? _Oth. _ Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge Had stomach for them all. _Des. _ Alas! he is _betray'd_ and _I_ undone. It is a ghastly idea, but I believe Shakespeare means that, at themention of Iago's name, Desdemona suddenly sees that _he_ is the villainwhose existence he had declared to be impossible when, an hour before,Emilia had suggested that someone had poisoned Othello's mind. But herwords rouse Othello to such furious indignation ('Out, strumpet! Weep'stthou for him to my face? ') that 'it is too late. '(2) V. ii. 286 f. _Oth. _ I look down towards his feet; but that's a fable. If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee. [_Wounds Iago. _ _Lod. _ Wrench his sword from him. _Iago. _ I bleed, sir, but not killed. Are Iago's strange words meant to show his absorption of interest inhimself amidst so much anguish? I think rather he is meant to bealluding to Othello's words, and saying, with a cold contemptuous smile,'You see he is right; I _am_ a devil. 'NOTE O. OTHELLO ON DESDEMONA'S LAST WORDS. I have said that the last scene of _Othello_, though terribly painful,contains almost nothing to diminish the admiration and love whichheighten our pity for the hero (p. 198). I said 'almost' in view of thefollowing passage (V. ii. 123 ff. ): _Emil. _ O, who hath done this deed? _Des. _ Nobody; I myself. Farewell: Commend me to my kind lord: O, farewell! [_Dies. _ _Oth. _ Why, how should she be murdered? [267] _Emil. _ Alas, who knows? _Oth. _ You heard her say herself, it was not I. _Emil. _ She said so: I must needs report the truth. _Oth. _ She's, like a liar, gone to burning hell: 'Twas I that kill'd her. _Emil. _ O, the more angel she, And you the blacker devil! _Oth. _ She turn'd to folly, and she was a whore. This is a strange passage. What did Shakespeare mean us to feel? One isastonished that Othello should not be startled, nay thunder-struck, whenhe hears such dying words coming from the lips of an obdurateadulteress. One is shocked by the moral blindness or obliquity whichtakes them only as a further sign of her worthlessness. Here alone, Ithink, in the scene sympathy with Othello quite disappears. DidShakespeare mean us to feel thus, and to realise how completely confusedand perverted Othello's mind has become? I suppose so: and yet Othello'swords continue to strike me as very strange, and also as not _like_Othello,--especially as at this point he was not in anger, much lessenraged. It has sometimes occurred to me that there is a touch ofpersonal animus in the passage. One remembers the place in _Hamlet_(written but a little while before) where Hamlet thinks he is unwillingto kill the King at his prayers, for fear they may take him to heaven;and one remembers Shakespeare's irony, how he shows that those prayersdo _not_ go to heaven, and that the soul of this praying murderer is atthat moment as murderous as ever (see p. 171), just as here the soul ofthe lying Desdemona is angelic _in_ its lie. Is it conceivable that inboth passages he was intentionally striking at conventional 'religious'ideas; and, in particular, that the belief that a man's everlasting fateis decided by the occupation of his last moment excited in himindignation as well as contempt? I admit that this fancy seemsun-Shakespearean, and yet it comes back on me whenever I read thispassage. [The words 'I suppose so' (l. 3 above) gave my conclusion; butI wish to withdraw the whole Note]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 267: He alludes to her cry, 'O falsely, falsely murder'd! ']NOTE P. DID EMILIA SUSPECT IAGO? I have answered No (p. 216), and have no doubt about the matter; but atone time I was puzzled, as perhaps others have been, by a single phraseof Emilia's. It occurs in the conversation between her and Iago andDesdemona (IV. ii. 130 f. ): I will be hang'd if some eternal villain, Some busy and insinuating rogue, Some cogging, cozening slave, _to get some office_, Have not devised this slander; I'll be hang'd else. Emilia, it may be said, knew that Cassio was the suspected man, so thatshe must be thinking of _his_ office, and must mean that Iago haspoisoned Othello's mind in order to prevent his reinstatement and to getthe lieutenancy for himself. And, it may be said, she speaksindefinitely so that Iago alone may understand her (for Desdemona doesnot know that Cassio is the suspected man). Hence too, it may be said,when, at V. ii. 190, she exclaims, Villany, villany, villany! I think upon't, I think: I smell't: O villany! _I thought so then:_--I'll kill myself for grief;she refers in the words italicised to the occasion of the passage in IV. ii. , and is reproaching herself for not having taken steps on hersuspicion of Iago. I have explained in the text why I think it impossible to suppose thatEmilia suspected her husband; and I do not think anyone who follows herspeeches in V. ii. , and who realises that, if she did suspect him, shemust have been simply _pretending_ surprise when Othello told her thatIago was his informant, will feel any doubt. Her idea in the lines atIV. ii. 130 is, I believe, merely that someone is trying to establish aground for asking a favour from Othello in return for information whichnearly concerns him. It does not follow that, because she knew Cassiowas suspected, she must have been referring to Cassio's office. She wasa stupid woman, and, even if she had not been, she would not put two andtwo together so easily as the reader of the play. In the line, I thought so then: I'll kill myself for grief,I think she certainly refers to IV. ii. 130 f. and also IV. ii. 15(Steevens's idea that she is thinking of the time when she let Iago takethe handkerchief is absurd). If 'I'll kill myself for grief' is to betaken in close connection with the preceding words (which is notcertain), she may mean that she reproaches herself for not having actedon her general suspicion, or (less probably) that she reproaches herselffor not having suspected that Iago was the rogue. With regard to my view that she failed to think of the handkerchief whenshe saw how angry Othello was, those who believe that she did think ofit will of course also believe that she suspected Iago. But in additionto other difficulties, they will have to suppose that her astonishment,when Othello at last mentioned the handkerchief, was mere acting. Andanyone who can believe this seems to me beyond argument. [I regret thatI cannot now discuss some suggestions made to me in regard to thesubjects of Notes O and P. ]NOTE Q. IAGO'S SUSPICION REGARDING CASSIO AND EMILIA. The one expression of this suspicion appears in a very curious manner. Iago, soliloquising, says (II. i. 311): Which thing to do, If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trash For his quick hunting, stand the putting on, I'll have our Michael Cassio on the hip, Abuse him to the Moor in the rank [F. right] garb-- For I fear Cassio with my night-cap too-- Make the Moor thank me, etc. Why '_For_ I fear Cassio,' etc. ? He can hardly be giving himself anadditional reason for involving Cassio; the parenthesis must beexplanatory of the preceding line or some part of it. I think itexplains 'rank garb' or 'right garb,' and the meaning is, 'For Cassio_is_ what I shall accuse him of being, a seducer of wives. ' He isreturning to the thought with which the soliloquy begins, 'That Cassioloves her, I do well believe it. ' In saying this he is unconsciouslytrying to believe that Cassio would at any rate _like_ to be anadulterer, so that it is not so very abominable to say that he _is_ one. And the idea 'I suspect him with Emilia' is a second and strongerattempt of the same kind. The idea probably was born and died in onemoment. It is a curious example of Iago's secret subjection to morality. NOTE R. REMINISCENCES OF _OTHELLO_ IN _KING LEAR_. The following is a list, made without any special search, and doubtlessincomplete, of words and phrases in _King Lear_ which recall words andphrases in _Othello_, and many of which occur only in these two plays: 'waterish,' I. i. 261, appears only here and in _O. _ III. iii. 15. 'fortune's alms,' I. i. 281, appears only here and in _O. _ III. iv. 122. 'decline' seems to be used of the advance of age only in I. ii. 78 and _O. _ III. iii. 265. 'slack' in 'if when they chanced to slack you,' II. iv. 248, has no exact parallel in Shakespeare, but recalls 'they slack their duties,' _O. _ IV. iii. 88. 'allowance' (=authorisation), I. iv. 228, is used thus only in _K. L. _, _O. _ I. i. 128, and two places in _Hamlet_ and _Hen. VIII. _ 'besort,' vb. , I. iv. 272, does not occur elsewhere, but 'besort,' sb. , occurs in _O. _ I. iii. 239 and nowhere else. Edmund's 'Look, sir, I bleed,' II. i. 43, sounds like an echo of Iago's 'I bleed, sir, but not killed,' _O. _ V. ii. 288. 'potential,' II. i. 78, appears only here, in _O. _ I. ii. 13, and in the _Lover's Complaint_ (which, I think, is certainly not an early poem). 'poise' in 'occasions of some poise,' II. i. 122, is exactly like 'poise' in 'full of poise and difficult weight,' _O. _ III. iii. 82, and not exactly like 'poise' in the three other places where it occurs. 'conjunct,' used only in II. ii. 125 (Q), V. i. 12, recalls 'conjunctive,' used only in _H_. IV. vii. 14, _O. _ I. iii. 374 (F). 'grime,' vb. , used only in II. iii. 9, recalls 'begrime,' used only in _O. _ III. iii. 387 and _Lucrece_. 'unbonneted,' III. i. 14, appears only here and in _O. _ I. ii. 23. 'delicate,' III. iv. 12, IV. iii. 15, IV. vi. 188, is not a rare word with Shakespeare; he uses it about thirty times in his plays. But it is worth notice that it occurs six times in _O. _ 'commit,' used intr. for 'commit adultery,' appears only in III. iv. 83, but cf. the famous iteration in _O. _ IV. ii. 72 f. 'stand in hard cure,' III. vi. 107, seems to have no parallel except _O. _ II. i. 51, 'stand in bold cure. ' 'secure'=make careless, IV. i. 22, appears only here and in _O. _ I. iii. 10 and (not quite the same sense) _Tim. _ II. ii. 185. Albany's 'perforce must wither,' IV. ii. 35, recalls Othello's 'It must needs wither,' V. ii. 15. 'deficient,' IV. vi. 23, occurs only here and in _O. _ I. iii. 63. 'the safer sense,' IV. vi. 81, recalls 'my blood begins my safer guides to rules,' _O. _ II. iii. 205. 'fitchew,' IV. vi. 124, is used only here, in _O. _ IV. i. 150, and in _T. C. _ V. i. 67 (where it has not the same significance). Lear's 'I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion I would have made them skip,' V. iii. 276, recalls Othello's 'I have seen the day, That with this little arm and this good sword,' etc. , V. ii. 261. The fact that more than half of the above occur in the first two Acts of_King Lear_ may possibly be significant: for the farther removedShakespeare was from the time of the composition of _Othello_, the lesslikely would be the recurrence of ideas or words used in that play. NOTE S. _KING LEAR_ AND _TIMON OF ATHENS_. That these two plays are near akin in character, and probably in date,is recognised by many critics now; and I will merely add here a fewreferences to the points of resemblance mentioned in the text (p. 246),and a few notes on other points. (1) The likeness between Timon's curses and some of the speeches of Learin his madness is, in one respect, curious. It is natural that Timon,speaking to Alcibiades and two courtezans, should inveigh in particularagainst sexual vices and corruption, as he does in the terrific passageIV. iii. 82-166; but why should Lear refer at length, and with the sameloathing, to this particular subject (IV. vi. 112-132)? It almost looksas if Shakespeare were expressing feelings which oppressed him at thisperiod of his life. The idea may be a mere fancy, but it has seemed to me that thispre-occupation, and sometimes this oppression, are traceable in otherplays of the period from about 1602 to 1605 (_Hamlet_, _Measure forMeasure_, _Troilus and Cressida_, _All's Well_, _Othello_); while inearlier plays the subject is handled less, and without disgust, and inlater plays (e. g. _Antony and Cleopatra_, _The Winter's Tale_,_Cymbeline_) it is also handled, however freely, without this air ofrepulsion (I omit _Pericles_ because the authorship of thebrothel-scenes is doubtful). (2) For references to the lower animals, similar to those in _KingLear_, see especially _Timon_, I. i. 259; II. ii. 180; III. vi. 103 f. ;IV. i. 2, 36; IV. iii. 49 f. , 177 ff. , 325 ff. (surely a passage writtenor, at the least, rewritten by Shakespeare), 392, 426 f. I ignore theconstant abuse of the dog in the conversations where Apemantus appears. (3) Further points of resemblance are noted in the text at pp. 246, 247,310, 326, 327, and many likenesses in word, phrase and idea might beadded, of the type of the parallel 'Thine Do comfort and not burn,'_Lear_, II. iv. 176, and 'Thou sun, that comfort'st, burn! ' _Timon_, V. i. 134. (4) The likeness in style and versification (so far as the purelyShakespearean parts of _Timon_ are concerned) is surely unmistakable,but some readers may like to see an example. Lear speaks here (IV. vi. 164 ff. ): Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand! Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back; Thou hotly lust'st to use her in that kind For which thou whipp'st her. The usurer hangs the cozener. Through tatter'd clothes small vices do appear; Robes and furr'd gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold, And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks; Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it. None does offend, none, I say, none; I'll able 'em: Take that of me, my friend, who have the power To seal the accuser's lips. Get thee glass eyes; And, like a scurvy politician, seem To see the things thou dost not. And Timon speaks here (IV. iii. 1 ff. ): O blessed breeding sun, draw from the earth Rotten humidity; below thy sister's orb Infect the air! Twinn'd brothers of one womb, Whose procreation, residence, and birth, Scarce is dividant, touch them with several fortunes, The greater scorns the lesser: not nature, To whom all sores lay siege, can bear great fortune, But by contempt of nature. Raise me this beggar, and deny't that lord: The senator shall bear contempt hereditary, The beggar native honour. It is the pasture lards the rother's sides, The want that makes him lean. Who dares, who dares. In purity of manhood stand upright And say 'This man's a flatterer'? if one be, So are they all: for every grise of fortune Is smooth'd by that below: the learned pate Ducks to the golden fool: all is oblique; There's nothing level in our cursed natures, But direct villany. The reader may wish to know whether metrical tests throw any light onthe chronological position of _Timon_; and he will find such informationas I can give in Note BB. But he will bear in mind that results arrivedat by applying these tests to the whole play can have little value,since it is practically certain that Shakespeare did not write the wholeplay. It seems to consist (1) of parts that are purely Shakespearean(the text, however, being here, as elsewhere, very corrupt); (2) ofparts untouched or very slightly touched by him; (3) of parts where agood deal is Shakespeare's but not all (_e. g. _, in my opinion, III. v. ,which I cannot believe, with Mr. Fleay, to be wholly, or almost wholly,by another writer). The tests ought to be applied not only to the wholeplay but separately to (1), about which there is little difference ofopinion. This has not been done: but Dr. Ingram has applied one test,and I have applied another, to the parts assigned by Mr. Fleay toShakespeare (see Note BB. ). [268] The result is to place _Timon_ between_King Lear_ and _Macbeth_ (a result which happens to coincide with thatof the application of the main tests to the whole play): and this resultcorresponds, I believe, with the general impression which we derive fromthe three dramas in regard to versification. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 268: These are I. i. ; II. i.

; II. ii. , except 194-204; in III. vi. Timon's verse speech; IV. i. ; IV. ii. 1-28; IV. iii. , except292-362, 399-413, 454-543; V. i. , except 1-50; V. ii. ; V. iv. I am notto be taken as accepting this division throughout. ]NOTE T. DID SHAKESPEARE SHORTEN _KING LEAR_? I have remarked in the text (pp. 256 ff. ) on the unusual number ofimprobabilities, inconsistencies, etc. , in _King Lear_. The list ofexamples given might easily be lengthened. Thus (_a_) in IV. iii. Kentrefers to a letter which he confided to the Gentleman for Cordelia; butin III. i. he had given to the Gentleman not a letter but a message. (_b_) In III. i. again he says Cordelia will inform the Gentleman whothe sender of the message was; but from IV. iii. it is evident that shehas done no such thing, nor does the Gentleman show any curiosity on thesubject. (_c_) In the same scene (III. i. ) Kent and the Gentlemanarrange that whichever finds the King first shall halloo to the other;but when Kent finds the King he does not halloo. These are all examplesof mere carelessness as to matters which would escape attention in thetheatre,--matters introduced not because they are essential to the plot,but in order to give an air of verisimilitude to the conversation. Andhere is perhaps another instance. When Lear determines to leave Goneriland go to Regan he says, 'call my train together' (I. iv. 275). When hearrives at Gloster's house Kent asks why he comes with so small a train,and the Fool gives a reply which intimates that the rest have desertedhim (II. iv. 63 ff. ). He and his daughters, however, seem unaware of anydiminution; and, when Lear 'calls to horse' and leaves Gloster's house,the doors are shut against him partly on the excuse that he is 'attendedwith a desperate train' (308). Nevertheless in the storm he has noknights with him, and in III. vii. 15 ff. we hear that 'some five or sixand thirty of his knights'[269] are 'hot questrists after him,' asthough the real reason of his leaving Goneril with so small a train wasthat he had hurried away so quickly that many of his knights wereunaware of his departure. This prevalence of vagueness or inconsistency is probably due tocarelessness; but it may possibly be due to another cause. There are, ithas sometimes struck me, slight indications that the details of the plotwere originally more full and more clearly imagined than one wouldsuppose from the play as we have it; and some of the defects to which Ihave drawn attention might have arisen if Shakespeare, finding hismatter too bulky, had (_a_) omitted to write some things originallyintended, and (_b_), after finishing his play, had reduced it byexcision, and had not, in these omissions and excisions, takensufficient pains to remove the obscurities and inconsistenciesoccasioned by them. Thus, to take examples of (_b_), Lear's 'What, fifty of my followers ata clap! ' (I. iv. 315) is very easily explained if we suppose that in thepreceding conversation, as originally written, Goneril had mentioned thenumber. Again the curious absence of any indication why Burgundy shouldhave the first choice of Cordelia's hand might easily be due to the samecause. So might the ignorance in which we are left as to the fate of theFool, and several more of the defects noticed in the text. To illustrate the other point (_a_), that Shakespeare may have omittedto write some things which he had originally intended, the play wouldobviously gain something if it appeared that, at a time shortly beforethat of the action, Gloster had encouraged the King in his idea ofdividing the kingdom, while Kent had tried to dissuade him. And thereare one or two passages which suggest that this is what Shakespeareimagined. If it were so, there would be additional point in the Fool'sreference to the lord who counselled Lear to give away his land (I. iv. 154), and in Gloster's reflection (III. iv. 168), His daughters seek his death: ah, that good Kent! He said it would be thus:('said,' of course, not to the King but to Gloster and perhaps others ofthe council). Thus too the plots would be still more closely joined. Then also we should at once understand the opening of the play. ToKent's words, 'I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albanythan Cornwall,' Gloster answers, 'It did always seem so to us. ' Who arethe 'us' from whom Kent is excluded? I do not know, for there is no signthat Kent has been absent. But if Kent, in consequence of hisopposition, had fallen out of favour and absented himself from thecouncil, it would be clear. So, besides, would be the strange suddennesswith which, after Gloster's answer, Kent changes the subject; he wouldbe avoiding, in presence of Gloster's son, any further reference to asubject on which he and Gloster had differed. That Kent, I may add, hadalready the strongest opinion about Goneril and Regan is clear from hisextremely bold words (I. i. 165), Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow Upon thy foul disease. Did Lear remember this phrase when he called Goneril 'a disease that'sin my flesh' (II. iv. 225)? Again, the observant reader may have noticed that Goneril is not onlyrepresented as the fiercer and more determined of the two sisters butalso strikes one as the more sensual. And with this may be connected oneor two somewhat curious points: Kent's comparison of Goneril to thefigure of Vanity in the Morality plays (II. ii. 38); the Fool'sapparently quite irrelevant remark (though his remarks are scarcely everso), 'For there was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass'(III. ii. 35); Kent's reference to Oswald (long before there is any signof Goneril's intrigue with Edmund) as 'one that would be a bawd in wayof good service' (II. ii. 20); and Edgar's words to the corpse of Oswald(IV. vi. 257), also spoken before he knew anything of the intrigue withEdmund, I know thee well: a serviceable villain; As duteous to the vices of thy mistress As badness would desire. Perhaps Shakespeare had conceived Goneril as a woman who before hermarriage had shown signs of sensual vice; but the distinct indicationsof this idea were crowded out of his exposition when he came to writeit, or, being inserted, were afterwards excised. I will not go on tohint that Edgar had Oswald in his mind when (III. iv. 87) he describedthe serving-man who 'served the lust of his mistress' heart, and did theact of darkness with her'; and still less that Lear can have had Gonerilin his mind in the declamation against lechery referred to in Note S. I do not mean to imply, by writing this note, that I believe in thehypotheses suggested in it. On the contrary I think it more probablethat the defects referred to arose from carelessness and other causes. But this is not, to me, certain; and the reader who rejects thehypotheses may be glad to have his attention called to the points whichsuggested them. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 269: It has been suggested that 'his' means 'Gloster's'; but'him' all through the speech evidently means Lear. ]NOTE U. MOVEMENTS OF THE DRAMATIS PERSONÆ IN ACT II. OF _KING LEAR_. I have referred in the text to the obscurity of the play on thissubject, and I will set out the movements here. When Lear is ill-treated by Goneril his first thought is to seek refugewith Regan (I. iv. 274 f. , 327 f. ). Goneril, accordingly, who hadforeseen this, and, even before the quarrel, had determined to write toRegan (I. iii. 25), now sends Oswald off to her, telling her not toreceive Lear and his hundred knights (I. iv. 354 f. ). In consequence ofthis letter Regan and Cornwall immediately leave their home and ride bynight to Gloster's house, sending word on that they are coming (II. i. 1ff. , 81, 120 ff. ). Lear, on his part, just before leaving Goneril'shouse, sends Kent with a letter to Regan, and tells him to be quick, orLear will be there before him. And we find that Kent reaches Regan anddelivers his letter before Oswald, Goneril's messenger. Both themessengers are taken on by Cornwall and Regan to Gloster's house. In II. iv. Lear arrives at Gloster's house, having, it would seem,failed to find Regan at her own home. And, later, Goneril arrives atGloster's house, in accordance with an intimation which she had sent inher letter to Regan (II. iv. 186 f. ). Thus all the principal persons except Cordelia and Albany are broughttogether; and the crises of the double action--the expulsion of Lear andthe blinding and expulsion of Gloster--are reached in Act III. And thisis what was required. But it needs the closest attention to follow these movements. And, apartfrom this, difficulties remain. 1. Goneril, in despatching Oswald with the letter to Regan, tells him tohasten his return (I. iv. 363). Lear again is surprised to find that_his_ messenger has not been sent back (II. iv. 1 f. , 36 f. ). Yetapparently both Goneril and Lear themselves start at once, so that theirmessengers _could_ not return in time. It may be said that they expectedto meet them coming back, but there is no indication of this in thetext. 2. Lear, in despatching Kent, says (I. v. 1): Go you before to Gloster with these letters. Acquaint my daughter no further with anything you know than comes from her demand out of the letter. This would seem to imply that Lear knew that Regan and Cornwall were atGloster's house, and meant either to go there (so Koppel) or to summonher back to her own home to receive him. Yet this is clearly not so, forKent goes straight to Regan's house (II. i. 124, II. iv. 1, 27 ff. , 114ff. ). Hence it is generally supposed that by 'Gloster,' in the passage justquoted, Lear means not the Earl but the _place_; that Regan's home wasthere; and that Gloster's castle was somewhere not very far off. This isto some extent confirmed by the fact that Cornwall is the 'arch' orpatron of Gloster (II. i. 60 f. , 112 ff. ). But Gloster's home or housemust not be imagined quite close to Cornwall's, for it takes a night toride from the one to the other, and Gloster's house is in the middle ofa solitary heath with scarce a bush for many miles about (II. iv. 304). The plural 'these letters' in the passage quoted need give no trouble,for the plural is often used by Shakespeare for a single letter; and thenatural conjecture that Lear sent one letter to Regan and another toGloster is not confirmed by anything in the text. The only difficulty is that, as Koppel points out, 'Gloster' is nowhereelse used in the play for the place (except in the phrase 'Earl ofGloster' or 'my lord of Gloster'); and--what is more important--that itwould unquestionably be taken by the audience to stand in this passagefor the Earl, especially as there has been no previous indication thatCornwall lived at Gloster. One can only suppose that Shakespeare forgotthat he had given no such indication, and so wrote what was sure to bemisunderstood,--unless we suppose that 'Gloster' is a mere slip of thepen, or even a misprint, for 'Regan. ' But, apart from otherconsiderations, Lear would hardly have spoken to a servant of 'Regan,'and, if he had, the next words would have run 'Acquaint her,' not'Acquaint my daughter. 'NOTE V. SUSPECTED INTERPOLATIONS IN _KING LEAR_. There are three passages in _King Lear_ which have been held to beadditions made by 'the players. 'The first consists of the two lines of indecent doggerel spoken by theFool at the end of Act I. ; the second, of the Fool's prophecy in rhymeat the end of III. ii. ; the third, of Edgar's soliloquy at the end ofIII. vi. It is suspicious (1) that all three passages occur at the ends ofscenes, the place where an addition is most easily made; and (2) that ineach case the speaker remains behind alone to utter the words after theother persons have gone off. I postpone discussion of the several passages until I have calledattention to the fact that, if these passages are genuine, the number ofscenes which end with a soliloquy is larger in _King Lear_ than in anyother undoubted tragedy. Thus, taking the tragedies in their probablechronological order (and ignoring the very short scenes into which abattle is sometimes divided),[270] I find that there are in _Romeo andJuliet_ four such scenes, in _Julius Cæsar_ two, in _Hamlet_ six, in_Othello_ four,[271] in _King Lear_ seven,[272] in _Macbeth_ two,[273]in _Antony and Cleopatra_ three, in _Coriolanus_ one. The differencebetween _King Lear_ and the plays that come nearest to it is really muchgreater than it appears from this list, for in _Hamlet_ four of the sixsoliloquies, and in _Othello_ three of the four, are long speeches,while most of those in _King Lear_ are quite short. Of course I do not attach any great importance to the fact just noticed,but it should not be left entirely out of account in forming an opinionas to the genuineness of the three doubted passages. (_a_) The first of these, I. v. 54-5, I decidedly believe to bespurious. (1) The scene ends quite in Shakespeare's manner without it. (2) It does not seem likely that at the _end_ of the scene Shakespearewould have introduced anything _violently_ incongruous with theimmediately preceding words, Oh let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven! Keep me in temper: I would not be mad! (3) Even if he had done so, it is very unlikely that the incongruouswords would have been grossly indecent. (4) Even if they had been,surely they would not have been _irrelevantly_ indecent and evidentlyaddressed to the audience, two faults which are not in Shakespeare'sway. (5) The lines are doggerel. Doggerel is not uncommon in theearliest plays; there are a few lines even in the _Merchant of Venice_,a line and a half, perhaps, in _As You Like It_; but I do not think itoccurs later, not even where, in an early play, it would certainly havebeen found, _e. g. _ in the mouth of the Clown in _All's Well_. The bestthat can be said for these lines is that they appear in the Quartos,_i. e. _ in reports, however vile, of the play as performed within two orthree years of its composition. (_b_) I believe, almost as decidedly, that the second passage, III. ii. 79 ff. , is spurious. (1) The scene ends characteristically without thelines. (2) They are addressed directly to the audience. (3) They destroythe pathetic and beautiful effect of the immediately preceding words ofthe Fool, and also of Lear's solicitude for him. (4) They involve theabsurdity that the shivering timid Fool would allow his master andprotector, Lear and Kent, to go away into the storm and darkness,leaving him alone. (5) It is also somewhat against them that they do notappear in the Quartos. At the same time I do not think one wouldhesitate to accept them if they occurred at any natural place _within_the dialogue. (_c_) On the other hand I see no sufficient reason for doubting thegenuineness of Edgar's soliloquy at the end of III. vi. (1) Those whodoubt it appear not to perceive that _some_ words of soliloquy arewanted; for it is evidently intended that, when Kent and Gloster bearthe King away, they should leave the Bedlam behind. Naturally they doso. He is only accidentally connected with the King; he was taken toshelter with him merely to gratify his whim, and as the King is nowasleep there is no occasion to retain the Bedlam; Kent, we know, shrankfrom him, 'shunn'd [his] abhorr'd society' (V. iii. 210). So he is leftto return to the hovel where he was first found. When the others depart,then, he must be left behind, and surely would not go off without aword. (2) If his speech is spurious, therefore, it has been substitutedfor some genuine speech; and surely that is a supposition not to beentertained except under compulsion. (3) There is no such compulsion inthe speech. It is not very good, no doubt; but the use of rhymed andsomewhat antithetic lines in a gnomic passage is quite in Shakespeare'smanner, _more_ in his manner than, for example, the rhymed passages inI. i. 183-190, 257-269, 281-4, which nobody doubts; quite like manyplaces in _All's Well_, or the concluding lines of _King Lear_ itself. (4) The lines are in spirit of one kind with Edgar's fine lines at thebeginning of Act IV. (5) Some of them, as Delius observes, emphasize theparallelism between the stories of Lear and Gloster. (6) The fact thatthe Folio omits the lines is, of course, nothing against them. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 270: I ignore them partly because they are not significant forthe present purpose, but mainly because it is impossible to accept thedivision of battle-scenes in our modern texts, while to depart from itis to introduce intolerable inconvenience in reference. The only properplan in Elizabethan drama is to consider a scene ended as soon as noperson is left on the stage, and to pay no regard to the question oflocality,--a question theatrically insignificant and undetermined inmost scenes of an Elizabethan play, in consequence of the absence ofmovable scenery. In dealing with battles the modern editors seem to havegone on the principle (which they could not possibly apply generally)that, so long as the place is not changed, you have only one scene. Hence in _Macbeth_, Act V. , they have included in their Scene vii. threedistinct scenes; yet in _Antony and Cleopatra_, Act III. , following theright division for a wrong reason, they have two scenes (viii. and ix. ),each less than four lines long. ][Footnote 271: One of these (V. i. ) is not marked as such, but it isevident that the last line and a half form a soliloquy of one remainingcharacter, just as much as some of the soliloquies marked as such inother plays. ][Footnote 272: According to modern editions, eight, Act II. , scene ii. ,being an instance. But it is quite ridiculous to reckon as three sceneswhat are marked as scenes ii. , iii. , iv. Kent is on the lower stage thewhole time, Edgar in the so-called scene iii. being on the upper stageor balcony. The editors were misled by their ignorance of the stagearrangements. ][Footnote 273: Perhaps three, for V. iii. is perhaps an instance, thoughnot so marked. ]NOTE W. THE STAGING OF THE SCENE OF LEAR'S REUNION WITH CORDELIA. As Koppel has shown, the usual modern stage-directions[274] for thisscene (IV. vii. ) are utterly wrong and do what they can to defeat thepoet's purpose. It is evident from the text that the scene shows the _first_ meeting ofCordelia and Kent, and _first_ meeting of Cordelia and Lear, since theyparted in I. i. Kent and Cordelia indeed are doubtless supposed to haveexchanged a few words before they come on the stage; but Cordelia hasnot seen her father at all until the moment before she begins (line 26),'O my dear father! ' Hence the tone of the first part of the scene, thatbetween Cordelia and Kent, is kept low, in order that the latter part,between Cordelia and Lear, may have its full effect. The modern stage-direction at the beginning of the scene, as found, forexample, in the Cambridge and Globe editions, is as follows: 'SCENE vii. --A tent in the French camp. LEAR on a bed asleep, soft music playing; _Gentleman_, and others attending. Enter CORDELIA, KENT, and _Doctor_. 'At line 25, where the Doctor says 'Please you, draw near,' Cordelia issupposed to approach the bed, which is imagined by some editors visiblethroughout at the back of the stage, by others as behind a curtain atthe back, this curtain being drawn open at line 25. Now, to pass by the fact that these arrangements are in flatcontradiction with the stage-directions of the Quartos and the Folio,consider their effect upon the scene. In the first place, the reader atonce assumes that Cordelia has already seen her father; for otherwise itis inconceivable that she would quietly talk with Kent while he waswithin a few yards of her. The edge of the later passage where sheaddresses him is therefore blunted. In the second place, through Lear'spresence the reader's interest in Lear and his meeting with Cordelia isat once excited so strongly that he hardly attends at all to theconversation of Cordelia and Kent; and so this effect is blunted too. Thirdly, at line 57, where Cordelia says, O, look upon me, sir, And hold your hands in benediction o'er me! No, sir, you must not kneel,the poor old King must be supposed either to try to get out of bed, oractually to do so, or to kneel, or to try to kneel, on the bed. Fourthly, consider what happens at line 81. _Doctor. _ Desire him to _go in_; trouble him no more Till further settling. _Cor. _ Will't please your highness _walk? _ _Lear. _ You must bear with me; Pray you now, forget and forgive; I am old and foolish. [_Exeunt all but Kent and Gentleman_. If Lear is in a tent containing his bed, why in the world, when thedoctor thinks he can bear no more emotion, is he made to walk out of thetent? A pretty doctor! But turn now to the original texts. Of course they say nothing about theplace. The stage-direction at the beginning runs, in the Quartos, 'EnterCordelia, Kent, and Doctor;' in the Folio, 'Enter Cordelia, Kent, andGentleman. ' They differ about the Gentleman and the Doctor, and theFolio later wrongly gives to the Gentleman the Doctor's speeches as wellas his own. This is a minor matter. But they agree in _making no mentionof Lear_. He is not on the stage at all. Thus Cordelia, and the reader,can give their whole attention to Kent. Her conversation with Kent finished, she turns (line 12) to the Doctorand asks 'How does the King? '[275] The Doctor tells her that Lear isstill asleep, and asks leave to wake him. Cordelia assents and asks ifhe is 'arrayed,' which does not mean whether he has a night-gown on, butwhether they have taken away his crown of furrow-weeds, and tended himduly after his mad wanderings in the fields. The Gentleman says that inhis sleep 'fresh garments' (not a night-gown) have been put on him. TheDoctor then asks Cordelia to be present when her father is waked. Sheassents, and the Doctor says, 'Please you, draw near. Louder the musicthere. ' The next words are Cordelia's, 'O my dear father! 'What has happened? At the words 'is he arrayed? ' according to the Folio,'_Enter Lear in a chair carried by Servants. _' The moment of thisentrance, as so often in the original editions, is doubtless too soon. It should probably come at the words 'Please you, draw near,' which_may_, as Koppel suggests, be addressed to the bearers. But that thestage-direction is otherwise right there cannot be a doubt (and that theQuartos omit it is no argument against it, seeing that, according totheir directions, Lear never enters at all). This arrangement (1) allows Kent his proper place in the scene, (2)makes it clear that Cordelia has not seen her father before, (3) makesher first sight of him a theatrical crisis in the best sense, (4) makesit quite natural that he should kneel, (5) makes it obvious why heshould leave the stage again when he shows signs of exhaustion, and (6)is the only arrangement which has the slightest authority, for 'Lear ona bed asleep' was never heard of till Capell proposed it. The ruinouschange of the staging was probably suggested by the version of thatunhappy Tate. Of course the chair arrangement is primitive, but the Elizabethans didnot care about such things. What they cared for was dramatic effect. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 274: There are exceptions: _e. g. _, in the editions of Deliusand Mr. W. J. Craig. ][Footnote 275: And it is possible that, as Koppel suggests, the Doctorshould properly enter at this point; for if Kent, as he says, wishes toremain unknown, it seems strange that he and Cordelia should talk asthey do before a third person. This change however is not necessary, forthe Doctor might naturally stand out of hearing till he was addressed;and it is better not to go against the stage-direction withoutnecessity. ]NOTE X. THE BATTLE IN _KING LEAR_. I found my impression of the extraordinary ineffectiveness of thisbattle (p. 255) confirmed by a paper of James Spedding (_New ShakspereSociety Transactions_, 1877, or Furness's _King Lear_, p. 312 f. ); buthis opinion that this is the one technical defect in _King Lear_ seemscertainly incorrect, and his view that this defect is not due toShakespeare himself will not, I think, bear scrutiny. To make Spedding's view quite clear I may remind the reader that in thepreceding scene the two British armies, that of Edmund and Regan, andthat of Albany and Goneril, have entered with drum and colours, and havedeparted. Scene ii. is as follows (Globe): SCENE II. --_A field between the two camps. Alarum within. Enter, with drum and colours_, LEAR, CORDELIA, _and_ Soldiers, _over the stage; and exeunt. _ _Enter_ EDGAR _and_ GLOSTER. _Edg. _ Here, father, take the shadow of this tree For your good host; pray that the right may thrive: If ever I return to you again, I'll bring you comfort. _Glo. _ Grace go with you, sir! [_Exit_ Edgar _Alarum and retreat within. _ _Re-enter_ EDGAR. _Edg. _ Away, old man; give me thy hand; away! King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta'en: Give me thy hand; come on. _Glo. _ No farther, sir; a man may rot even here. _Edg. _ What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither: Ripeness is all: come on. _Glo. _ And that's true too. [_Exeunt_. The battle, it will be seen, is represented only by military musicwithin the tiring-house, which formed the back of the stage. 'Thescene,' says Spedding, 'does not change; but 'alarums' are heard, andafterwards a 'retreat,' and on the same field over which that great armyhas this moment passed, fresh and full of hope, re-appears, with tidingsthat all is lost, the same man who last left the stage to follow andfight in it. [276] That Shakespeare meant the scene to stand thus, no onewho has the true faith will believe. 'Spedding's suggestion is that things are here run together whichShakespeare meant to keep apart. Shakespeare, he thinks, continued ActIV. to the '_exit_ Edgar' after l. 4 of the above passage. Thus, justbefore the close of the Act, the two British armies and the French armyhad passed across the stage, and the interest of the audience in thebattle about to be fought was raised to a high pitch. Then, after ashort interval, Act V. opened with the noise of battle in the distance,followed by the entrance of Edgar to announce the defeat of Cordelia'sarmy. The battle, thus, though not fought on the stage, was shown andfelt to be an event of the greatest importance. Apart from the main objection of the entire want of evidence of so greata change having been made, there are other objections to this idea andto the reasoning on which it is based. (1) The pause at the end of thepresent Fourth Act is far from 'faulty,' as Spedding alleges it to be;that Act ends with the most melting scene Shakespeare ever wrote; and apause after it, and before the business of the battle, was perfectlyright. (2) The Fourth Act is already much longer than the Fifth (aboutfourteen columns of the Globe edition against about eight and a half),and Spedding's change would give the Fourth nearly sixteen columns, andthe Fifth less than seven. (3) Spedding's proposal requires a muchgreater alteration in the existing text than he supposed. It does notsimply shift the division of the two Acts, it requires the disappearanceand re-entrance of the blind Gloster. Gloster, as the text stands, isalone on the stage while the battle is being fought at a distance, andthe reference to the tree shows that he was on the main or lower stage. The main stage had no front curtain; and therefore, if Act IV. is to endwhere Spedding wished it to end, Gloster must go off unaided at itsclose, and come on again unaided for Act V. And this means that the_whole_ arrangement of the present Act V. Sc. ii. must be changed. IfSpedding had been aware of this it is not likely that he would havebroached his theory. [277]It is curious that he does not allude to the one circumstance whichthrows some little suspicion on the existing text. I mean thecontradiction between Edgar's statement that, if ever he returns to hisfather again, he will bring him comfort, and the fact that immediatelyafterwards he returns to bring him discomfort. It is possible to explainthis psychologically, of course, but the passage is not one in which weshould expect psychological subtlety. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 276: Where did Spedding find this? I find no trace of it, andsurely Edgar would not have risked his life in the battle, when he had,in case of defeat, to appear and fight Edmund. He does not appear'armed,' according to the Folio, till V. iii. 117. ][Footnote 277: Spedding supposed that there was a front curtain, andthis idea, coming down from Malone and Collier, is still found inEnglish works of authority. But it may be stated without hesitation thatthere is no positive evidence at all for the existence of such acurtain, and abundant evidence against it. ]NOTE Y. SOME DIFFICULT PASSAGES IN _KING LEAR_. The following are notes on some passages where I have not been able toaccept any of the current interpretations, or on which I wish to expressan opinion or represent a little-known view. 1. _Kent's soliloquy at the end of_ II. ii. (_a_) In this speech the application of the words 'Nothing, almost seesmiracles but misery' seems not to have been understood. The 'misery' issurely not that of Kent but that of Lear, who has come 'out of heaven'sbenediction to the warm sun,' _i. e. _ to misery. This, says Kent, is justthe situation where something like miraculous help may be looked for;and he finds the sign of it in the fact that a letter from Cordelia hasjust reached him; for his course since his banishment has been soobscured that it is only by the rarest good fortune (something like amiracle) that Cordelia has got intelligence of it. We may suppose thatthis intelligence came from one of Albany's or Cornwall's servants, someof whom are, he says (III. i. 23), to France the spies and speculations Intelligent of our state. (_b_) The words 'and shall find time,' etc. , have been much discussed. Some have thought that they are detached phrases from the letter whichKent is reading: but Kent has just implied by his address to the sunthat he has no light to read the letter by. [278] It has also beensuggested that the anacoluthon is meant to represent Kent's sleepiness,which prevents him from finishing the sentence, and induces him todismiss his thoughts and yield to his drowsiness. But I remember nothinglike this elsewhere in Shakespeare, and it seems much more probable thatthe passage is corrupt, perhaps from the loss of a line containing wordslike 'to rescue us' before 'From this enormous state' (with 'state' cf. 'our state' in the lines quoted above). When we reach III. i. we find that Kent has now read the letter; heknows that a force is coming from France and indeed has already 'secretfeet' in some of the harbours. So he sends the Gentleman to Dover. 2. _The Fool's Song in_ II. iv. At II. iv. 62 Kent asks why the King comes with so small a train. TheFool answers, in effect, that most of his followers have deserted himbecause they see that his fortunes are sinking. He proceeds to adviseKent ironically to follow their example, though he confesses he does notintend to follow it himself. 'Let go thy hold when a great wheel runsdown a hill, lest it break thy neck with following it: but the great onethat goes up the hill, let him draw thee after. When a wise man givesthee better counsel, give me mine again: I would have none but knavesfollow it, since a fool gives it. That sir which serves and seeks for gain, And follows but for form, Will pack when it begins to rain, And leave thee in the storm. But I will tarry; the fool will stay, And let the wise man fly: The knave turns fool that runs away; The fool no knave, perdy. The last two lines have caused difficulty. Johnson wanted to read, The fool turns knave that runs away, The knave no fool, perdy;_i. e. _ if I ran away, I should prove myself to be a knave and a wiseman, but, being a fool, I stay, as no knave or wise man would. Those whorightly defend the existing reading misunderstand it, I think. Shakespeare is not pointing out, in 'The knave turns fool that runsaway,' that the wise knave who runs away is really a 'fool with acircumbendibus,' 'moral miscalculator as well as moral coward. ' The Foolis referring to his own words, 'I would have none but knaves follow [myadvice to desert the King], since a fool gives it'; and the last twolines of his song mean, 'The knave who runs away follows the advicegiven by a fool; but I, the fool, shall not follow my own advice byturning knave. 'For the ideas compare the striking passage in _Timon_, I. i. 64 ff. 3. '_Decline your head. _'At IV. ii. 18 Goneril, dismissing Edmund in the presence of Oswald,says: This trusty servant Shall pass between us: ere long you are like to hear, If you dare venture in your own behalf, A mistress's command. Wear this; spare speech; Decline your head: this kiss, if it durst speak, Would stretch thy spirits up into the air. I copy Furness's note on 'Decline': 'STEEVENS thinks that Goneril bidsEdmund decline his head that she might, while giving him a kiss, appearto Oswald merely to be whispering to him. But this, WRIGHT says, isgiving Goneril credit for too much delicacy, and Oswald was a"serviceable villain. " DELIUS suggests that perhaps she wishes to put achain around his neck. 'Surely 'Decline your head' is connected, not with 'Wear this' (whatever'this' may be), but with 'this kiss,' etc. Edmund is a good deal tallerthan Goneril, and must stoop to be kissed. 4. _Self-cover'd_. At IV. ii. 59 Albany, horrified at the passions of anger, hate, andcontempt expressed in his wife's face, breaks out: See thyself, devil! Proper deformity seems not in the fiend So horrid as in woman. _Gon. _ O vain fool! _Alb. _ Thou changed and self-cover'd thing, for shame, Be-monster not thy feature. Were't my fitness To let these hands obey my blood, They are apt enough to dislocate and tear Thy flesh and bones: howe'er thou art a fiend, A woman's shape doth shield thee. The passage has been much discussed, mainly because of the strangeexpression 'self-cover'd,' for which of course emendations have beenproposed. The general meaning is clear. Albany tells his wife that sheis a devil in a woman's shape, and warns her not to cast off that shapeby be-monstering her feature (appearance), since it is this shape alonethat protects her from his wrath. Almost all commentators go astraybecause they imagine that, in the words 'thou changed and self-cover'dthing,' Albany is speaking to Goneril as a _woman_ who has been changedinto a fiend. Really he is addressing her as a fiend which has changedits own shape and assumed that of a woman; and I suggest that'self-cover'd' means either 'which hast covered or concealed thyself,'or 'whose self is covered' [so Craig in Arden edition], not (what ofcourse it ought to mean) 'which hast been covered _by_ thyself. 'Possibly the last lines of this passage (which does not appear in theFolios) should be arranged thus: To let these hands obey my blood, they're apt enough To dislocate and tear thy flesh and bones: Howe'er thou art a fiend, a woman's shape Doth shield thee. _Gon. _ Marry, your manhood now-- _Alb. _ What news? 5. _The stage-directions at_ V. i. 37, 39. In V. i. there first enter Edmund, Regan, and their army or soldiers:then, at line 18, Albany, Goneril, and their army or soldiers. Edmundand Albany speak very stiffly to one another, and Goneril bids themdefer their private quarrels and attend to business. Then follows thispassage (according to the modern texts): _Alb. _ Let's then determine With the ancient of war on our proceedings. _Edm. _ I shall attend you presently at your tent. _Reg. _ Sister, you'll go with us? _Gon. _ No. _Reg.

_ 'Tis most convenient: pray you, go with us. _Gon. _ [_Aside_] O, ho, I know the riddle. --I will go. _As they are going out, enter_ EDGAR _disguised. _ _Edg. _ If e'er your grace had speech with man so poor, Hear me one word. _Alb. _ I'll overtake you. Speak. [_Exeunt all but_ ALBANY _and_ EDGAR. It would appear from this that all the leading persons are to go to aCouncil of War with the ancient (plural) in Albany's tent; and they aregoing out, followed by their armies, when Edgar comes in. Why in theworld, then, should Goneril propose (as she apparently does) to absentherself from the Council; and why, still more, should Regan object toher doing so? This is a question which always perplexed me, and I couldnot believe in the only answers I ever found suggested, viz. , that Reganwanted to keep Edmund and Goneril together in order that she mightobserve them (Moberly, quoted in Furness), or that she could not bear tolose sight of Goneril, for fear Goneril should effect a meeting withEdmund after the Council (Delius, if I understand him). But I find in Koppel what seems to be the solution(Verbesserungsvorschläge, p. 127 f. ). He points out that the modernstage-directions are wrong. For the modern direction 'As they are goingout, enter Edgar disguised,' the Ff. read, 'Exeunt both the armies. Enter Edgar. ' For 'Exeunt all but Albany and Edgar' the Ff. havenothing, but Q1 has 'exeunt' after 'word. ' For the first directionKoppel would read, 'Exeunt Regan, Goneril, Gentlemen, and Soldiers': forthe second he would read, after 'overtake you,' 'Exit Edmund. 'This makes all clear. Albany proposes a Council of War. Edmund assents,and says he will come at once to Albany's tent for that purpose. TheCouncil will consist of Albany, Edmund, and the ancient of war. Regan,accordingly, is going away with her soldiers; but she observes thatGoneril shows no sign of moving with _her_ soldiers; and she at oncesuspects that Goneril means to attend the Council in order to be withEdmund. Full of jealousy, she invites Goneril to go with _her_. Gonerilrefuses, but then, seeing Regan's motive, contemptuously and ironicallyconsents (I doubt if 'O ho, I know the riddle' should be 'aside,' as inmodern editions, following Capell). Accordingly the two sisters go out,followed by their soldiers; and Edmund and Albany are just going out, ina different direction, to Albany's tent when Edgar enters. His wordscause Albany to stay; Albany says to Edmund, as Edmund leaves, 'I'llovertake you'; and then, turning to Edgar, bids him 'speak. '6. V. iii. 151 ff. When Edmund falls in combat with the disguised Edgar, Albany producesthe letter from Goneril to Edmund, which Edgar had found in Oswald'spocket and had handed over to Albany. This letter suggested to Edmundthe murder of Albany. The passage in the Globe edition is as follows: _Gon. _ This is practice, Gloucester: By the law of arms thou wast not bound to answer An unknown opposite: thou art not vanquish'd, But cozen'd and beguiled. _Alb. _ Shut your mouth, dame, Or with this paper shall I stop it: Hold, sir; Thou worse than any name, read thy own evil: No tearing, lady; I perceive you know it. [_Gives the letter to Edmund. _ _Gon. _ Say, if I do, the laws are mine, not thine: Who can arraign me for't? _Alb. _ Most monstrous! oh! Know'st thou this paper? _Gon. _ Ask me not what I know. [_Exit. _ _Alb. _ Go after her: she's desperate: govern her. _Edm. _ What you have charged me with, that have I done; And more, much more; the time will bring it out. 'Tis past, and so am I. But what art thou That hast this fortune on me? The first of the stage-directions is not in the Qq. or Ff. : it wasinserted by Johnson. The second ('Exit') is both in the Qq. and in theFf. , but the latter place it after the words 'arraign me for't. ' Andthey give the words 'Ask me not what I know' to Edmund, not to Goneril,as in the Qq. (followed by the Globe). I will not go into the various views of these lines, but will simply saywhat seems to me most probable. It does not matter much where preciselyGoneril's 'exit' comes; but I believe the Folios are right in giving thewords 'Ask me not what I know' to Edmund. It has been pointed out byKnight that the question 'Know'st thou this paper? ' cannot very well beaddressed to Goneril, for Albany has already said to her, 'I perceiveyou know it. ' It is possible to get over this difficulty by saying thatAlbany wants her confession: but there is another fact which seems tohave passed unnoticed. When Albany is undoubtedly speaking to his wife,he uses the plural pronoun, 'Shut _your_ mouth, dame,' 'No tearing,lady; I perceive _you_ know it. ' When then he asks 'Know'st _thou_ thispaper? ' he is probably _not_ speaking to her. I should take the passage thus. At 'Hold, sir,' [omitted in Qq. ] Albanyholds the letter out towards Edmund for him to see, or possibly gives itto him. [279] The next line, with its 'thou,' is addressed to Edmund,whose 'reciprocal vows' are mentioned in the letter. Goneril snatches atit to tear it up: and Albany, who does not know whether Edmund ever sawthe letter or not, says to her 'I perceive _you_ know it,' the 'you'being emphatic (her very wish to tear it showed she knew what was init). She practically admits her knowledge, defies him, and goes out tokill herself. He exclaims in horror at her, and, turning again toEdmund, asks if _he_ knows it. Edmund, who of course does not know it,refuses to answer (like Iago), not (like Iago) out of defiance, but fromchivalry towards Goneril; and, having refused to answer _this_ charge,he goes on to admit the charges brought against himself previously byAlbany (82 f. ) and Edgar (130 f. ). I should explain the change from'you' to 'thou' in his speech by supposing that at first he is speakingto Albany and Edgar together. 7. V. iii. 278. Lear, looking at Kent, asks, Who are you? Mine eyes are not o' the best: I'll tell you straight. _Kent. _ If fortune brag of two she loved _and_ hated (Qq. _or_), One of them we behold. Kent is not answering Lear, nor is he speaking of himself. He isspeaking of Lear. The best interpretation is probably that of Malone,according to which Kent means, 'We see the man most hated by Fortune,whoever may be the man she has loved best'; and perhaps it is supportedby the variation of the text in the Qq. , though their texts are so badin this scene that their support is worth little. But it occurs to me aspossible that the meaning is rather: 'Did Fortune ever show the extremes_both_ of her love _and_ of her hatred to any other man as she has shownthem to this man? '8. _The last lines. _ _Alb. _ Bear them from hence. Our present business Is general woe. [_To Kent and Edgar_] Friends of my soul, you twain Rule in this realm, and the gored state sustain. _Kent. _ I have a journey, sir, shortly to go; My master calls me, I must not say no. _Alb. _ The weight of this sad time we must obey; Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most: we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long. So the Globe. The stage-direction (right, of course) is Johnson's. Thelast four lines are given by the Ff. to Edgar, by the Qq. to Albany. TheQq. read '_have_ borne most. 'To whom ought the last four lines to be given, and what do they mean? Itis proper that the principal person should speak last, and this is infavour of Albany. But in this scene at any rate the Ff. , which give thespeech to Edgar, have the better text (though Ff. 2, 3, 4, make Kent dieafter his two lines! ); Kent has answered Albany, but Edgar has not; andthe lines seem to be rather more appropriate to Edgar. For the 'gentlereproof' of Kent's despondency (if this phrase of Halliwell's is right)is like Edgar; and, although we have no reason to suppose that Albanywas not young, there is nothing to prove his youth. As to the meaning of the last two lines (a poor conclusion to such aplay) I should suppose that 'the oldest' is not Lear, but 'the oldest ofus,' viz. , Kent, the one survivor of the old generation: and this is themore probable if there _is_ a reference to him in the preceding lines. The last words seem to mean, 'We that are young shall never see so much_and yet_ live so long'; _i. e. _ if we suffer so much, we shall not bearit as he has. If the Qq. 'have' is right, the reference is to Lear,Gloster and Kent. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 278: The 'beacon' which he bids approach is not the moon, asPope supposed. The moon was up and shining some time ago (II. ii. 35),and lines 1 and 141-2 imply that not much of the night is left. ][Footnote 279: 'Hold' can mean 'take'; but the word 'this' in line 160('Know'st thou this paper? ') favours the idea that the paper is still inAlbany's hand. ]NOTE Z. SUSPECTED INTERPOLATIONS IN _MACBETH_. I have assumed in the text that almost the whole of _Macbeth_ isgenuine; and, to avoid the repetition of arguments to be found in otherbooks,[280] I shall leave this opinion unsupported. But among thepassages that have been questioned or rejected there are two which seemto me open to serious doubt. They are those in which Hecate appears:viz. the whole of III. v. ; and IV. i. 39-43. These passages have been suspected (1) because they containstage-directions for two songs which have been found in Middleton's_Witch_; (2) because they can be excised without leaving the least traceof their excision; and (3) because they contain lines incongruous withthe spirit and atmosphere of the rest of the Witch-scenes: _e. g. _ III. v. 10 f. : all you have done Hath been but for a wayward son, Spiteful and wrathful, who, as others do, Loves for his own ends, not for you;and IV. i. 41, 2: And now about the cauldron sing, Like elves and fairies in a ring. The idea of sexual relation in the first passage, and the trivialdaintiness of the second (with which cf. III. v. 34, Hark! I am call'd; my little spirit, see, Sits in a foggy cloud, and stays for me)suit Middleton's Witches quite well, but Shakespeare's not at all; andit is difficult to believe that, if Shakespeare had meant to introduce apersonage supreme over the Witches, he would have made her sounimpressive as this Hecate. (It may be added that the originalstage-direction at IV. i. 39, 'Enter Hecat and the other three Witches,'is suspicious. )I doubt if the second and third of these arguments, taken alone, wouldjustify a very serious suspicion of interpolation; but the fact,mentioned under (1), that the play has here been meddled with, treblestheir weight. And it gives some weight to the further fact that thesepassages resemble one another, and differ from the bulk of the otherWitch passages, in being iambic in rhythm. (It must, however, beremembered that, supposing Shakespeare _did_ mean to introduce Hecate,he might naturally use a special rhythm for the parts where sheappeared. )The same rhythm appears in a third passage which has been doubted: IV. i. 125-132. But this is not _quite_ on a level with the other two; for(1), though it is possible to suppose the Witches, as well as theApparitions, to vanish at 124, and Macbeth's speech to run straight onto 133, the cut is not so clean as in the other cases; (2) it is not atall clear that Hecate (the most suspicious element) is supposed to bepresent. The original stage-direction at 133 is merely 'The WitchesDance, and vanish'; and even if Hecate had been present before, shemight have vanished at 43, as Dyce makes her do. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 280: _E. g. _ Mr. Chambers's excellent little edition in theWarwick series. ]NOTE AA. HAS _MACBETH_ BEEN ABRIDGED? _Macbeth_ is a very short play, the shortest of all Shakespeare's exceptthe _Comedy of Errors_. It contains only 1993 lines, while _King Lear_contains 3298, _Othello_ 3324, and _Hamlet_ 3924. The next shortest ofthe tragedies is _Julius Caesar_, which has 2440 lines. (The figures areMr. Fleay's. I may remark that for our present purpose we want thenumber of the lines in the first Folio, not those in modern compositetexts. )Is there any reason to think that the play has been shortened? I willbriefly consider this question, so far as it can be considered apartfrom the wider one whether Shakespeare's play was re-handled byMiddleton or some one else. That the play, as we have it, is _slightly_ shorter than the playShakespeare wrote seems not improbable. (1) We have no Quarto of_Macbeth_; and generally, where we have a Quarto or Quartos of a play,we find them longer than the Folio text. (2) There are perhaps a fewsigns of omission in our text (over and above the plentiful signs ofcorruption). I will give one example (I. iv. 33-43). Macbeth and Banquo,returning from their victories, enter the presence of Duncan (14), whoreceives them with compliments and thanks, which they acknowledge. Hethen speaks as follows: My plenteous joys, Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves In drops of sorrow. Sons, kinsmen, thanes, And you whose places are the nearest, know, We will establish our estate upon Our eldest, Malcolm, whom we name hereafter The Prince of Cumberland; which honour must Not unaccompanied invest him only, But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine On all deservers. From hence to Inverness, And bind us further to you. Here the transition to the naming of Malcolm, for which there has beenno preparation, is extremely sudden; and the matter, considering itsimportance, is disposed of very briefly. But the abruptness and brevityof the sentence in which Duncan invites himself to Macbeth's castle arestill more striking. For not a word has yet been said on the subject;nor is it possible to suppose that Duncan had conveyed his intention bymessage, for in that case Macbeth would of course have informed his wifeof it in his letter (written in the interval between scenes iii. andiv. ). It is difficult not to suspect some omission or curtailment here. On the other hand Shakespeare may have determined to sacrificeeverything possible to the effect of rapidity in the First Act; and hemay also have wished, by the suddenness and brevity of Duncan'sself-invitation, to startle both Macbeth and the audience, and to makethe latter feel that Fate is hurrying the King and the murderer to theirdoom. And that any _extensive_ omissions have been made seems not likely. (1)There is no internal evidence of the omission of anything essential tothe plot. (2) Forman, who saw the play in 1610, mentions nothing whichwe do not find in our play; for his statement that Macbeth was made Dukeof Northumberland is obviously due to a confused recollection ofMalcolm's being made Duke of Cumberland. (3) Whereabouts could suchomissions occur? Only in the first part, for the rest is full enough. And surely anyone who wanted to cut the play down would have operated,say, on Macbeth's talk with Banquo's murderers, or on III. vi. , or onthe very long dialogue of Malcolm and Macduff, instead of reducing themost exciting part of the drama. We might indeed suppose thatShakespeare himself originally wrote the first part more at length, andmade the murder of Duncan come in the Third Act, and then _himself_reduced his matter so as to bring the murder back to its present place,perceiving in a flash of genius the extraordinary effect that might thusbe produced. But, even if this idea suited those who believe in arehandling of the play, what probability is there in it? Thus it seems most likely that the play always was an extremely shortone. Can we, then, at all account for its shortness? It is possible, inthe first place, that it was not composed originally for the publicstage, but for some private, perhaps royal, occasion, when time waslimited. And the presence of the passage about touching for the evil(IV. iii. 140 ff. ) supports this idea. We must remember, secondly, thatsome of the scenes would take longer to perform than ordinary scenes ofmere dialogue and action; _e. g. _ the Witch-scenes, and the Battle-scenesin the last Act, for a broad-sword combat was an occasion for anexhibition of skill. [281] And, lastly, Shakespeare may well have feltthat a play constructed and written like _Macbeth_, a play in which akind of fever-heat is felt almost from beginning to end, and whichoffers very little relief by means of humorous or pathetic scenes, oughtto be short, and would be unbearable if it lasted so long as _Hamlet_ oreven _King Lear_. And in fact I do not think that, in reading, we _feelMacbeth_ to be short: certainly we are astonished when we hear that itis about half as long as _Hamlet_. Perhaps in the Shakespearean theatretoo it appeared to occupy a longer time than the clock recorded. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 281: These two considerations should also be borne in mind inregard to the exceptional shortness of the _Midsummer Night's Dream_ andthe _Tempest_. Both contain scenes which, even on the Elizabethan stage,would take an unusual time to perform. And it has been supposed of eachthat it was composed to grace some wedding. ]NOTE BB. THE DATE OF _MACBETH_. METRICAL TESTS. Dr. Forman saw _Macbeth_ performed at the Globe in 1610. The question ishow much earlier its composition or first appearance is to be put. It is agreed that the date is not earlier than that of the accession ofJames I. in 1603. The style and versification would make an earlier datealmost impossible. And we have the allusions to 'two-fold balls andtreble sceptres' and to the descent of Scottish kings from Banquo; theundramatic description of touching for the King's Evil (James performedthis ceremony); and the dramatic use of witchcraft, a matter on whichJames considered himself an authority. Some of these references would have their fullest effect early inJames's reign. And on this ground, and on account both of resemblancesin the characters of Hamlet and Macbeth, and of the use of thesupernatural in the two plays, it has been held that _Macbeth_ was thetragedy that came next after _Hamlet_, or, at any rate, next after_Othello_. These arguments seem to me to have no force when set against those thatpoint to a later date (about 1606) and place _Macbeth_ after _KingLear_. [282] And, as I have already observed, the probability is that italso comes after Shakespeare's part of _Timon_, and immediately before_Antony and Cleopatra_ and _Coriolanus_. I will first refer briefly to some of the older arguments in favour ofthis later date, and then more at length to those based onversification. (1) In II. iii. 4-5, 'Here's a farmer that hang'd himself on theexpectation of plenty,' Malone found a reference to the exceptionallylow price of wheat in 1606. (2) In the reference in the same speech to the equivocator who couldswear in both scales and committed treason enough for God's sake, hefound an allusion to the trial of the Jesuit Garnet, in the spring of1606, for complicity in the Gunpowder Treason and Plot. Garnet protestedon his soul and salvation that he had not held a certain conversation,then was obliged to confess that he had, and thereupon 'fell into alarge discourse defending equivocation. ' This argument, which I havebarely sketched, seems to me much weightier than the first; and itsweight is increased by the further references to perjury and treasonpointed out on p. 397. (3) Halliwell observed what appears to be an allusion to _Macbeth_ inthe comedy of the _Puritan_, 4to, 1607: 'we'll ha' the ghost i' th'white sheet sit at upper end o' th' table'; and Malone had referred to aless striking parallel in _Caesar and Pompey_, also pub. 1607: Why, think you, lords, that 'tis _ambition's spur_ That _pricketh_ Caesar to these high attempts? He also found a significance in the references in _Macbeth_ to thegenius of Mark Antony being rebuked by Caesar, and to the insane rootthat takes the reason prisoner, as showing that Shakespeare, whilewriting _Macbeth_, was reading Plutarch's _Lives_, with a view to hisnext play _Antony and Cleopatra_ (S. R. 1608). (4) To these last arguments, which by themselves would be of littleweight, I may add another, of which the same may be said. Marston'sreminiscences of Shakespeare are only too obvious. In his _DutchCourtezan_, 1605, I have noticed passages which recall _Othello_ and_King Lear_, but nothing that even faintly recalls _Macbeth_. But inreading _Sophonisba_, 1606, I was several times reminded of _Macbeth_(as well as, more decidedly, of _Othello_). I note the parallels forwhat they are worth. With _Sophonisba_, Act I. Sc. ii. : Upon whose tops the Roman eagles stretch'd Their large spread wings, which fann'd the evening aire To us cold breath,cf. _Macbeth_ I. ii. 49: Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky And fan our people cold. Cf. _Sophonisba_, a page later: 'yet doubtful stood the fight,' with_Macbeth_, I. ii. 7, 'Doubtful it stood' ['Doubtful long it stood'? ] Inthe same scene of _Macbeth_ the hero in fight is compared to an eagle,and his foes to sparrows; and in _Soph. _ III. ii. Massinissa in fight iscompared to a falcon, and his foes to fowls and lesser birds. I shouldnot note this were it not that all these reminiscences (if they aresuch) recall one and the same scene. In _Sophonisba_ also there is atremendous description of the witch Erictho (IV. i. ), who says to theperson consulting her, 'I know thy thoughts,' as the Witch says toMacbeth, of the Armed Head, 'He knows thy thought. '(5) The resemblances between _Othello_ and _King Lear_ pointed out onpp. 244-5 and in Note R. form, when taken in conjunction with otherindications, an argument of some strength in favour of the idea that_King Lear_ followed directly on _Othello_. (6) There remains the evidence of style and especially of metre. I willnot add to what has been said in the text concerning the former; but Iwish to refer more fully to the latter, in so far as it can berepresented by the application of metrical tests. It is impossible toargue here the whole question of these tests. I will only say that,while I am aware, and quite admit the force, of what can be said againstthe independent, rash, or incompetent use of them, I am fully convincedof their value when they are properly used. Of these tests, that of rhyme and that of feminine endings, discreetlyemployed, are of use in broadly distinguishing Shakespeare's plays intotwo groups, earlier and later, and also in marking out the very latestdramas; and the feminine-ending test is of service in distinguishingShakespeare's part in _Henry VIII. _ and the _Two Noble Kinsmen_. Butneither of these tests has any power to separate plays composed within afew years of one another. There is significance in the fact that the_Winter's Tale_, the _Tempest_, _Henry VIII. _, contain hardly any rhymedfive-foot lines; but none, probably, in the fact that _Macbeth_ shows ahigher percentage of such lines than _King Lear_, _Othello_, or_Hamlet_. The percentages of feminine endings, again, in the fourtragedies, are almost conclusive against their being early plays, andwould tend to show that they were not among the latest; but thedifferences in their respective percentages, which would place them inthe chronological order _Hamlet_, _Macbeth_, _Othello_, _King Lear_(König), or _Macbeth_, _Hamlet_, _Othello_, _King Lear_ (Hertzberg), areof scarcely any account. [283] Nearly all scholars, I think, would acceptthese statements. The really useful tests, in regard to plays which admittedly are notwidely separated, are three which concern the endings of speeches andlines. It is practically certain that Shakespeare made his verseprogressively less formal, by making the speeches end more and moreoften within a line and not at the close of it; by making the senseoverflow more and more often from one line into another; and, at last,by sometimes placing at the end of a line a word on which scarcely anystress can be laid. The corresponding tests may be called theSpeech-ending test, the Overflow test, and the Light and Weak Endingtest. I. The Speech-ending test has been used by König,[284] and I will firstgive some of his results. But I regret to say that I am unable todiscover certainly the rule he has gone by. He omits speeches which arerhymed throughout, or which end with a rhymed couplet. And he countsonly speeches which are 'mehrzeilig. ' I suppose this means that hecounts any speech consisting of two lines or more, but omits not onlyone-line speeches, but speeches containing more than one line but lessthan two; but I am not sure. In the plays admitted by everyone to be early the percentage of speechesending with an incomplete line is quite small. In the _Comedy ofErrors_, for example, it is only 0. 6. It advances to 12. 1 in _KingJohn_, 18. 3 in _Henry V. _, and 21. 6 in _As You Like It_. It risesquickly soon after, and in no play written (according to general belief)after about 1600 or 1601 is it less than 30. In the admittedly latestplays it rises much higher, the figures being as follows:--_Antony_77. 5, _Cor. _ 79, _Temp. _ 84. 5, _Cym. _ 85, _Win. Tale_ 87. 6, _HenryVIII. _ (parts assigned to Shakespeare by Spedding) 89. Going back, now,to the four tragedies, we find the following figures: _Othello_ 41. 4,_Hamlet_ 51. 6, _Lear_ 60. 9, _Macbeth_ 77. 2. These figures place_Macbeth_ decidedly last, with a percentage practically equal to that of_Antony_, the first of the final group. I will now give my own figures for these tragedies, as they differsomewhat from König's, probably because my method differs. (1) I haveincluded speeches rhymed or ending with rhymes, mainly because I findthat Shakespeare will sometimes (in later plays) end a speech which ispartly rhymed with an incomplete line (_e. g. Ham. _ III. ii. 187, and thelast words of the play: or _Macb. _ V. i. 87, V. ii. 31). And if suchspeeches are reckoned, as they surely must be (for they may be, and are,highly significant), those speeches which end with complete rhymed linesmust also be reckoned. (2) I have counted any speech exceeding a line inlength, however little the excess may be; _e. g. _ I'll fight till from my bones my flesh be hacked. Give me my armour:considering that the incomplete line here may be just as significant asan incomplete line ending a longer speech. If a speech begins within aline and ends brokenly, of course I have not counted it when it isequivalent to a five-foot line; _e. g. _ Wife, children, servants, all That could be found:but I do count such a speech (they are very rare) as My lord, I do not know: But truly I do fear it:for the same reason that I count You know not Whether it was his wisdom or his fear. Of the speeches thus counted, those which end somewhere within the lineI find to be in _Othello_ about 54 per cent. ; in _Hamlet_ about 57; in_King Lear_ about 69; in _Macbeth_ about 75. [285] The order is the sameas König's, but the figures differ a good deal. I presume in the lastthree cases this comes from the difference in method; but I thinkKönig's figures for _Othello_ cannot be right, for I have tried severalmethods and find that the result is in no case far from the result of myown, and I am almost inclined to conjecture that König's 41. 4 is reallythe percentage of speeches ending with the close of a line, which wouldgive 58. 6 for the percentage of the broken-ended speeches. [286]We shall find that other tests also would put _Othello_ before _Hamlet_,though close to it. This may be due to 'accident'--_i. e. _ a cause orcauses unknown to us; but I have sometimes wondered whether the lastrevision of _Hamlet_ may not have succeeded the composition of_Othello_. In this connection the following fact may be worth notice. Itis well known that the differences of the Second Quarto of _Hamlet_ fromthe First are much greater in the last three Acts than in the firsttwo--so much so that the editors of the Cambridge Shakespeare suggestedthat Q1 represents an old play, of which Shakespeare's rehandling hadnot then proceeded much beyond the Second Act, while Q2 represents hislater completed rehandling. If that were so, the composition of the lastthree Acts would be a good deal later than that of the first two (thoughof course the first two would be revised at the time of the compositionof the last three). Now I find that the percentage of speeches endingwith a broken line is about 50 for the first two Acts, but about 62 forthe last three. It is lowest in the first Act, and in the first twoscenes of it is less than 32. The percentage for the last two Acts isabout 65. II. The Enjambement or Overflow test is also known as the End-stoppedand Run-on line test. A line may be called 'end-stopped' when the sense,as well as the metre, would naturally make one pause at its close;'run-on' when the mere sense would lead one to pass to the next linewithout any pause. [287] This distinction is in a great majority of casesquite easy to draw: in others it is difficult. The reader cannot judgeby rules of grammar, or by marks of punctuation (for there is a distinctpause at the end of many a line where most editors print no stop): hemust trust his ear. And readers will differ, one making a distinct pausewhere another does not. This, however, does not matter greatly, so longas the reader is consistent; for the important point is not the precisenumber of run-on lines in a play, but the difference in this matterbetween one play and another. Thus one may disagree with König in hisestimate of many instances, but one can see that he is consistent. In Shakespeare's early plays, 'overflows' are rare. In the _Comedy ofErrors_, for example, their percentage is 12. 9 according to König[288](who excludes rhymed lines and some others). In the generally admittedlast plays they are comparatively frequent. Thus, according to König,the percentage in the _Winter's Tale_ is 37. 5, in the _Tempest_ 41. 5, in_Antony_ 43. 3, in _Coriolanus_ 45. 9, in _Cymbeline_ 46, in the parts of_Henry VIII. _ assigned by Spedding to Shakespeare 53. 18. König's resultsfor the four tragedies are as follows: _Othello_, 19. 5; _Hamlet_, 23. 1;_King Lear_, 29. 3; _Macbeth_, 36. 6; (_Timon_, the whole play, 32. 5). _Macbeth_ here again, therefore, stands decidedly last: indeed it standsnear the first of the latest plays. And no one who has ever attended to the versification of _Macbeth_ willbe surprised at these figures. It is almost obvious, I should say, thatShakespeare is passing from one system to another. Some passages showlittle change, but in others the change is almost complete. If thereader will compare two somewhat similar soliloquies, 'To be or not tobe' and 'If it were done when 'tis done,' he will recognise this atonce. Or let him search the previous plays, even _King Lear_, for twelveconsecutive lines like these: 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 'ld jump the life to come. But in these cases We still have judgement here; that we but teach Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return To plague the inventor: this even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice To our own lips. Or let him try to parallel the following (III. vi. 37 f. ): and this report Hath so exasperate the king that he Prepares for some attempt of war. _Len. _ Sent he to Macduff? _Lord. _ He did: and with an absolute 'Sir, not I,' The cloudy messenger turns me his back And hums, as who should say 'You'll rue the time That clogs me with this answer. ' _Len. _ And that well might Advise him to a caution, to hold what distance His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel Fly to the court of England, and unfold His message ere he come, that a swift blessing May soon return to this our suffering country Under a hand accurs'd! or this (IV. iii. 118 f. ): Macduff, this noble passion, Child of integrity, hath from my soul Wiped the black scruples, reconciled my thoughts To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth By many of these trains hath sought to win me Into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me From over-credulous haste: but God above Deal between thee and me! for even now I put myself to thy direction, and Unspeak mine own detraction, here abjure The taints and blames I laid upon myself, For strangers to my nature. I pass to another point. In the last illustration the reader willobserve not only that 'overflows' abound, but that they follow oneanother in an unbroken series of nine lines. So long a series could not,probably, be found outside _Macbeth_ and the last plays. A series of twoor three is not uncommon; but a series of more than three is rare in theearly plays, and far from common in the plays of the second period(König). I thought it might be useful for our present purpose, to count theseries of four and upwards in the four tragedies, in the parts of_Timon_ attributed by Mr. Fleay to Shakespeare, and in _Coriolanus_, aplay of the last period. I have not excluded rhymed lines in the twoplaces where they occur, and perhaps I may say that my idea of an'overflow' is more exacting than König's. The reader will understand thefollowing table at once if I say that, according to it, _Othello_contains three passages where a series of four successive overflowinglines occurs, and two passages where a series of five such lines occurs:----------------------------------------------------------------- 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 No. of Lines (Fleay). -----------------------------------------------------------------Othello, 3 2 -- -- -- -- -- 2,758Hamlet, 7 -- -- -- -- -- -- 2,571Lear, 6 2 -- -- -- -- -- 2,312Timon, 7 2 1 1 -- -- -- 1,031 (? )Macbeth, 7 5 1 1 -- 1 -- 1,706Coriolanus, 16 14 7 1 2 -- 1 2,563-----------------------------------------------------------------(The figures for _Macbeth_ and _Timon_ in the last column must be bornein mind. I observed nothing in the non-Shakespeare part of _Timon_ thatwould come into the table, but I did not make a careful search. I feltsome doubt as to two of the four series in _Othello_ and again in_Hamlet_, and also whether the ten-series in _Coriolanus_ should not beput in column 7). III. _The light and weak ending test. _We have just seen that in some cases a doubt is felt whether there is an'overflow' or not. The fact is that the 'overflow' has many degrees ofintensity. If we take, for example, the passage last quoted, and if withKönig we consider the line The taints and blames I laid upon myselfto be run-on (as I do not), we shall at least consider the overflow tobe much less distinct than those in the lines but God above Deal between thee and me! for even now I put myself to thy direction, and Unspeak my own detraction, here abjureAnd of these four lines the third runs on into its successor at much thegreatest speed. 'Above,' 'now,' 'abjure,' are not light or weak endings: 'and' is a weakending. Prof. Ingram gave the name weak ending to certain words on whichit is scarcely possible to dwell at all, and which, therefore,precipitate the line which they close into the following. Light endingsare certain words which have the same effect in a slighter degree. Forexample, _and_, _from_, _in_, _of_, are weak endings; _am_, _are_, _I_,_he_, are light endings. The test founded on this distinction is, within its limits, the mostsatisfactory of all, partly because the work of its author can beabsolutely trusted. The result of its application is briefly as follows. Until quite a late date light and weak endings occur in Shakespeare'sworks in such small numbers as hardly to be worth consideration. [289]But in the well-defined group of last plays the numbers both of lightand of weak endings increase greatly, and, on the whole, the increaseapparently is progressive (I say apparently, because the order in whichthe last plays are generally placed depends to some extent on the testitself). I give Prof. Ingram's table of these plays, premising that in_Pericles_, _Two Noble Kinsmen_, and _Henry VIII. _ he uses only thoseparts of the plays which are attributed by certain authorities toShakespeare (_New Shakspere Soc. Trans. _, 1874). ------------------------------------------------------------------------ | Light | | Percentage | Percentage | Percentage |endings. | Weak. | of light in | of weak in | of | | | verse lines. | verse lines. | both. ------------------------------------------------------------------------Antony & | | | | | Cleopatra, | 71 | 28 | 2. 53 | 1. | 3. 53Coriolanus, | 60 | 44 | 2. 34 | 1. 71 | 4. 05Pericles, | 20 | 10 | 2. 78 | 1. 39 | 4. 17Tempest, | 42 | 25 | 2. 88 | 1. 71 | 4. 59Cymbeline, | 78 | 52 | 2. 90 | 1. 93 | 4. 83Winter's Tale, | 57 | 43 | 3. 12 | 2. 36 | 5. 48Two Noble | | | | | Kinsmen, | 50 | 34 | 3.

63 | 2. 47 | 6. 10Henry VIII. , | 45 | 37 | 3. 93 | 3. 23 | 7. 16------------------------------------------------------------------------Now, let us turn to our four tragedies (with _Timon_). Here again wehave one doubtful play, and I give the figures for the whole of _Timon_,and again for the parts of _Timon_ assigned to Shakespeare by Mr. Fleay,both as they appear in his amended text and as they appear in the Globe(perhaps the better text). ----------------------------------------- | Light. | Weak. -----------------------------------------Hamlet, | 8 | 0Othello, | 2 | 0Lear, | 5 | 1Timon (whole), | 16 | 5 (Sh. in Fleay), | 14 | 7 (Sh. in Globe), | 13 | 2Macbeth, | 21 | 2-----------------------------------------Now here the figures for the first three plays tell us practicallynothing. The tendency to a freer use of these endings is not visible. Asto _Timon_, the number of weak endings, I think, tells us little, forprobably only two or three are Shakespeare's; but the rise in the numberof light endings is so marked as to be significant. And most significantis this rise in the case of _Macbeth_, which, like Shakespeare's part of_Timon_, is much shorter than the preceding plays. It strongly confirmsthe impression that in _Macbeth_ we have the transition to Shakespeare'slast style, and that the play is the latest of the five tragedies. [290]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 282: The fact that _King Lear_ was performed at Court onDecember 26, 1606, is of course very far from showing that it had neverbeen performed before. ][Footnote 283: I have not tried to discover the source of the differencebetween these two reckonings. ][Footnote 284: _Der Vers in Shakspere's Dramen_, 1888. ][Footnote 285: In the parts of _Timon_ (Globe text) assigned by Mr. Fleay to Shakespeare, I find the percentage to be about 74. 5. Königgives 62. 8 as the percentage in the whole of the play. ][Footnote 286: I have noted also what must be a mistake in the case ofPericles. König gives 17. 1 as the percentage of the speeches with brokenends. I was astounded to see the figure, considering the style in theundoubtedly Shakespearean parts; and I find that, on my method, in ActsIII. , IV. , V. the percentage is about 71, in the first two Acts (whichshow very slight, if any, traces of Shakespeare's hand) about 19. Icannot imagine the origin of the mistake here. ][Footnote 287: I put the matter thus, instead of saying that, with arun-on line, one does pass to the next line without any pause, because,in common with many others, I should not in any case whatever _wholly_ignore the fact that one line ends and another begins. ][Footnote 288: These overflows are what König calls 'schroffeEnjambements,' which he considers to correspond with Furnivall's 'run-onlines. '][Footnote 289: The number of light endings, however, in _Julius Caesar_(10) and _All's Well_ (12) is worth notice. ][Footnote 290: The Editors of the Cambridge Shakespeare might appeal insupport of their view, that parts of Act V. are not Shakespeare's, tothe fact that the last of the light endings occurs at IV. iii. 165. ]NOTE CC. WHEN WAS THE MURDER OF DUNCAN FIRST PLOTTED? A good many readers probably think that, when Macbeth first met theWitches, he was perfectly innocent; but a much larger number would saythat he had already harboured a vaguely guilty ambition, though he hadnot faced the idea of murder. And I think there can be no doubt thatthis is the obvious and natural interpretation of the scene. Only it isalmost necessary to go rather further, and to suppose that his guiltyambition, whatever its precise form, was known to his wife and shared byher. Otherwise, surely, she would not, on reading his letter, soinstantaneously assume that the King must be murdered in their castle;nor would Macbeth, as soon as he meets her, be aware (as he evidentlyis) that this thought is in her mind. But there is a famous passage in _Macbeth_ which, closely considered,seems to require us to go further still, and to suppose that, at sometime before the action of the play begins, the husband and wife hadexplicitly discussed the idea of murdering Duncan at some favourableopportunity, and had agreed to execute this idea. Attention seems tohave been first drawn to this passage by Koester in vol. I. of the_Jahrbücher d. deutschen Shakespeare-gesellschaft_, and on it is basedthe interpretation of the play in Werder's very able _Vorlesungen überMacbeth_. The passage occurs in I. vii. , where Lady Macbeth is urging her husbandto the deed: _Macb. _ Prithee, peace: I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none. _Lady M. _ What beast was't, then, That made you break this enterprise to me? When you durst do it, then you were a man; And, to be more than what you were, you would Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place Did then adhere, and yet you would make both: They have made themselves, and that their fitness now Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me: I would, while it was smiling in my face, Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums, And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you Have done to this. Here Lady Macbeth asserts (1) that Macbeth proposed the murder to her:(2) that he did so at a time when there was no opportunity to attackDuncan, no 'adherence' of 'time' and 'place': (3) that he declared hewou'd _make_ an opportunity, and swore to carry out the murder. Now it is possible that Macbeth's 'swearing' might have occurred in aninterview off the stage between scenes v. and vi. , or scenes vi. andvii. ; and, if in that interview Lady Macbeth had with difficulty workedher husband up to a resolution, her irritation at his relapse, in sc. vii. , would be very natural. But, as for Macbeth's first proposal ofmurder, it certainly does not occur in our play, nor could it possiblyoccur in any interview off the stage; for when Macbeth and his wifefirst meet, 'time' and 'place' _do_ adhere; 'they have made themselves. 'The conclusion would seem to be, either that the proposal of the murder,and probably the oath, occurred in a scene at the very beginning of theplay, which scene has been lost or cut out; or else that Macbethproposed, and swore to execute, the murder at some time prior to theaction of the play. [291] The first of these hypotheses is mostimprobable, and we seem driven to adopt the second, unless we consent toburden Shakespeare with a careless mistake in a very critical passage. And, apart from unwillingness to do this, we can find a good deal to sayin favour of the idea of a plan formed at a past time. It would explainMacbeth's start of fear at the prophecy of the kingdom. It would explainwhy Lady Macbeth, on receiving his letter, immediately resolves onaction; and why, on their meeting, each knows that murder is in the mindof the other. And it is in harmony with her remarks on his probableshrinking from the act, to which, _ex hypothesi_, she had alreadythought it necessary to make him pledge himself by an oath. Yet I find it very difficult to believe in this interpretation. It isnot merely that the interest of Macbeth's struggle with himself and withhis wife would be seriously diminished if we felt he had been throughall this before. I think this would be so; but there are two moreimportant objections. In the first place the violent agitation describedin the words, If good, why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,would surely not be natural, even in Macbeth, if the idea of murder werealready quite familiar to him through conversation with his wife, and ifhe had already done more than 'yield' to it. It is not as if the Witcheshad told him that Duncan was coming to his house. In that case theperception that the moment had come to execute a merely general designmight well appal him. But all that he hears is that he will one day beKing--a statement which, supposing this general design, would not pointto any immediate action. [292] And, in the second place, it is hard tobelieve that, if Shakespeare really had imagined the murder planned andsworn to before the action of the play, he would have written the firstsix scenes in such a manner that practically all readers imagine quiteanother state of affairs, and _continue to imagine it_ even after theyhave read in scene vii. the passage which is troubling us. Is it likely,to put it otherwise, that his idea was one which nobody seems to havedivined till late in the nineteenth century? And for what possiblereason could he refrain from making this idea clear to his audience, ashe might so easily have done in the third scene? [293] It seems very muchmore likely that he himself imagined the matter as nearly all hisreaders do. But, in that case, what are we to say of this passage? I will answerfirst by explaining the way in which I understood it before I was awarethat it had caused so much difficulty. I supposed that an interview hadtaken place after scene v. , a scene which shows Macbeth shrinking, andin which his last words were 'we will speak further. ' In this interview,I supposed, his wife had so wrought upon him that he had at last yieldedand pledged himself by oath to do the murder. As for her statement thathe had 'broken the enterprise' to her, I took it to refer to his letterto her,--a letter written when time and place did not adhere, for he didnot yet know that Duncan was coming to visit him. In the letter he doesnot, of course, openly 'break the enterprise' to her, and it is notlikely that he would do such a thing in a letter; but if they had hadambitious conversations, in which each felt that some half-formed guiltyidea was floating in the mind of the other, she might naturally take thewords of the letter as indicating much more than they said; and then inher passionate contempt at his hesitation, and her passionate eagernessto overcome it, she might easily accuse him, doubtless withexaggeration, and probably with conscious exaggeration, of havingactually proposed the murder. And Macbeth, knowing that when he wrotethe letter he really had been thinking of murder, and indifferent toanything except the question whether murder should be done, would easilylet her statement pass unchallenged. This interpretation still seems to me not unnatural. The alternative(unless we adopt the idea of an agreement prior to the action of theplay) is to suppose that Lady Macbeth refers throughout the passage tosome interview subsequent to her husband's return, and that, in makingher do so, Shakespeare simply forgot her speeches on welcoming Macbethhome, and also forgot that at any such interview 'time' and 'place' did'adhere. ' It is easy to understand such forgetfulness in a spectator andeven in a reader; but it is less easy to imagine it in a poet whoseconception of the two characters throughout these scenes was evidentlyso burningly vivid. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 291: The 'swearing' _might_ of course, on this view, occur offthe stage within the play; but there is no occasion to suppose this ifwe are obliged to put the proposal outside the play. ][Footnote 292: To this it might be answered that the effect of theprediction was to make him feel, 'Then I shall succeed if I carry outthe plan of murder,' and so make him yield to the idea over again. Towhich I can only reply, anticipating the next argument, 'How is it thatShakespeare wrote the speech in such a way that practically everybodysupposes the idea of murder to be occurring to Macbeth for the firsttime? '][Footnote 293: It might be answered here again that the actor,instructed by Shakespeare, could act the start of fear so as to conveyquite clearly the idea of definite guilt. And this is true; but we oughtto do our best to interpret the text before we have recourse to thiskind of suggestion. ]NOTE DD. DID LADY MACBETH REALLY FAINT? In the scene of confusion where the murder of Duncan is discovered,Macbeth and Lennox return from the royal chamber; Lennox describes thegrooms who, as it seemed, had done the deed: Their hands and faces were all badged with blood; So were their daggers, which unwiped we found Upon their pillows: They stared, and were distracted; no man's life Was to be trusted with them. _Macb. _ O, yet I do repent me of my fury That I did kill them. _Macd. _ Wherefore did you so? _Macb. _ Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man: The expedition of my violent love Outrun the pauser, reason. Here lay Duncan, His silver skin laced with his golden blood; And his gash'd stabs look'd like a breach in nature For ruin's wasteful entrance: there, the murderers, Steep'd in the colours of their trade, their daggers Unmannerly breech'd with gore: who could refrain, That had a heart to love, and in that heart Courage to make's love known? At this point Lady Macbeth exclaims, 'Help me hence, ho! ' Her husbandtakes no notice, but Macduff calls out 'Look to the lady. ' This, after afew words 'aside' between Malcolm and Donalbain, is repeated by Banquo,and, very shortly after, all except Duncan's sons _exeunt_. (Thestage-direction 'Lady Macbeth is carried out,' after Banquo'sexclamation 'Look to the lady,' is not in the Ff. and was introduced byRowe. If the Ff. are right, she can hardly have fainted _away_. But thepoint has no importance here. )Does Lady Macbeth really turn faint, or does she pretend? The latterseems to have been the general view, and Whately pointed out thatMacbeth's indifference betrays his consciousness that the faint was notreal. But to this it may be answered that, if he believed it to be real,he would equally show indifference, in order to display his horror atthe murder. And Miss Helen Faucit and others have held that there was nopretence. In favour of the pretence it may be said (1) that Lady Macbeth, whoherself took back the daggers, saw the old King in his blood, andsmeared the grooms, was not the woman to faint at a mere description;(2) that she saw her husband over-acting his part, and saw the faces ofthe lords, and wished to end the scene,--which she succeeded in doing. But to the last argument it may be replied that she would not willinglyhave run the risk of leaving her husband to act his part alone. And forother reasons (indicated above, p. 373 f. ) I decidedly believe that sheis meant really to faint. She was no Goneril. She knew that she couldnot kill the King herself; and she never expected to have to carry backthe daggers, see the bloody corpse, and smear the faces and hands of thegrooms. But Macbeth's agony greatly alarmed her, and she was driven tothe scene of horror to complete his task; and what an impression it madeon her we know from that sentence uttered in her sleep, 'Yet who wouldhave thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? ' She had now,further, gone through the ordeal of the discovery. Is it not quitenatural that the reaction should come, and that it should come just whenMacbeth's description recalls the scene which had cost her the greatesteffort? Is it not likely, besides, that the expression on the faces ofthe lords would force her to realise, what before the murder she hadrefused to consider, the horror and the suspicion it must excite? It isnoticeable, also, that she is far from carrying out her intention ofbearing a part in making their 'griefs and clamours roar upon his death'(I. vii. 78). She has left it all to her husband, and, after utteringbut two sentences, the second of which is answered very curtly byBanquo, for some time (an interval of 33 lines) she has said nothing. Ibelieve Shakespeare means this interval to be occupied in desperateefforts on her part to prevent herself from giving way, as she sees forthe first time something of the truth to which she was formerly soblind, and which will destroy her in the end. It should be observed that at the close of the Banquet scene, where shehas gone through much less, she is evidently exhausted. Shakespeare, of course, knew whether he meant the faint to be real: butI am not aware if an actor of the part could show the audience whetherit was real or pretended. If he could, he would doubtless receiveinstructions from the author. NOTE EE. DURATION OF THE ACTION IN _MACBETH_. MACBETH'S AGE. 'HE HAS NOCHILDREN. '1. The duration of the action cannot well be more than a few months. Onthe day following the murder of Duncan his sons fly and Macbeth goes toScone to be invested (II. iv. ). Between this scene and Act III. aninterval must be supposed, sufficient for news to arrive of Malcolmbeing in England and Donalbain in Ireland, and for Banquo to have shownhimself a good counsellor. But the interval is evidently not long:_e. g. _ Banquo's first words are 'Thou hast it now' (III. i. 1). Banquois murdered on the day when he speaks these words. Macbeth's visit tothe Witches takes place the next day (III. iv. 132). At the end of thisvisit (IV. i. ) he hears of Macduff's flight to England, and determinesto have Macduff's wife and children slaughtered without delay; and thisis the subject of the next scene (IV. ii. ). No great interval, then, canbe supposed between this scene and the next, where Macduff, arrived atthe English court, hears what has happened at his castle. At the end ofthat scene (IV. iii. 237) Malcolm says that 'Macbeth is ripe forshaking, and the powers above put on their instruments': and the eventsof Act V. evidently follow with little delay, and occupy but a shorttime. Holinshed's Macbeth appears to have reigned seventeen years:Shakespeare's may perhaps be allowed as many weeks. But, naturally, Shakespeare creates some difficulties through wishing toproduce different impressions in different parts of the play. The maineffect is that of fiery speed, and it would be impossible to imagine thetorment of Macbeth's mind lasting through a number of years, even ifShakespeare had been willing to allow him years of outward success. Hence the brevity of the action. On the other hand time is wanted forthe degeneration of his character hinted at in IV. iii. 57 f. , for thedevelopment of his tyranny, for his attempts to entrap Malcolm (_ib. _117 f. ), and perhaps for the deepening of his feeling that his life hadpassed into the sere and yellow leaf. Shakespeare, as we have seen,scarcely provides time for all this, but at certain points he producesan impression that a longer time has elapsed than he has provided for,and he puts most of the indications of this longer time into a scene(IV. iii. ) which by its quietness contrasts strongly with almost all therest of the play. 2. There is no unmistakable indication of the ages of the two principalcharacters; but the question, though of no great importance, has aninterest. I believe most readers imagine Macbeth as a man between fortyand fifty, and his wife as younger but not young. In many cases thisimpression is doubtless due to the custom of the theatre (which, if itcan be shown to go back far, should have much weight), but it is sharedby readers who have never seen the play performed, and is thenpresumably due to a number of slight influences probably incapable ofcomplete analysis. Such readers would say, 'The hero and heroine do notspeak like young people, nor like old ones'; but, though I think this isso, it can hardly be demonstrated. Perhaps however the following smallindications, mostly of a different kind, tend to the same result. (1) There is no positive sign of youth. (2) A young man would not belikely to lead the army. (3) Macbeth is 'cousin' to an old man. [294] (4)Macbeth calls Malcolm 'young,' and speaks of him scornfully as 'the boyMalcolm. ' He is probably therefore considerably his senior. But Malcolmis evidently not really a boy (see I. ii. 3 f. as well as the laterActs). (5) One gets the impression (possibly without reason) thatMacbeth and Banquo are of about the same age; and Banquo's son, the boyFleance, is evidently not a mere child. (On the other hand the childrenof Macduff, who is clearly a good deal older than Malcolm, are allyoung; and I do not think there is any sign that Macbeth is older thanMacduff. ) (6) When Lady Macbeth, in the banquet scene, says, Sit, worthy friends: my lord is often thus, And hath been from his youth,we naturally imagine him some way removed from his youth. (7) LadyMacbeth saw a resemblance to her father in the aged king. (8) Macbethsays, I have lived long enough: my way[295] of life Is fall'n into the sere, the yellow leaf: And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I may not look to have. It is, surely, of the old age of the soul that he speaks in the secondline, but still the lines would hardly be spoken under any circumstancesby a man less than middle-aged. On the other hand I suppose no one ever imagined Macbeth, or onconsideration could imagine him, as _more_ than middle-aged when theaction begins. And in addition the reader may observe, if he finds itnecessary, that Macbeth looks forward to having children (I. vii. 72),and that his terms of endearment ('dearest love,' 'dearest chuck') andhis language in public ('sweet remembrancer') do not suggest that hiswife and he are old; they even suggest that she at least is scarcelymiddle-aged. But this discussion tends to grow ludicrous. For Shakespeare's audience these mysteries were revealed by a glance atthe actors, like the fact that Duncan was an old man, which the text, Ithink, does not disclose till V. i. 44. 3. Whether Macbeth had children or (as seems usually to be supposed) hadnone, is quite immaterial. But it is material that, if he had none, helooked forward to having one; for otherwise there would be no point inthe following words in his soliloquy about Banquo (III. i. 58 f. ): Then prophet-like They hail'd him father to a line of kings: Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown, And put a barren sceptre in my gripe, Thence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand, No son of mine succeeding. If't be so, For Banquo's issue have I filed my mind. And he is determined that it shall not 'be so': Rather than so, come, fate, into the list And champion me to the utterance! Obviously he contemplates a son of his succeeding, if only he can getrid of Banquo and Fleance. What he fears is that Banquo will kill him;in which case, supposing he has a son, that son will not be allowed tosucceed him, and, supposing he has none, he will be unable to beget one. I hope this is clear; and nothing else matters. Lady Macbeth's child (I. vii. 54) may be alive or may be dead. It may even be, or have been, herchild by a former husband; though, if Shakespeare had followed historyin making Macbeth marry a widow (as some writers gravely assume) hewould probably have told us so. It may be that Macbeth had many childrenor that he had none. We cannot say, and it does not concern the play. But the interpretation of a statement on which some critics build, 'Hehas no children,' has an interest of another kind, and I proceed toconsider it. These words occur at IV. iii. 216. Malcolm and Macduff are talking atthe English Court, and Ross, arriving from Scotland, brings news toMacduff of Macbeth's revenge on him. It is necessary to quote a goodmany lines: _Ross. _ Your castle is surprised; your wife and babes Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner, Were, on the quarry of these murder'd deer, To add the death of you. _Mal. _ Merciful heaven! What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows; Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak Whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break. _Macd. _ My children too? _Ross. _ Wife, children, servants, all That could be found. _Macd. _ And I must be from thence! My wife kill'd too? _Ross. _ I have said. _Mal. _ Be comforted: Let's makes us medicines of our great revenge, To cure this deadly grief. _Macd. _ He has no children. All my pretty ones? Did you say all? O hell-kite! All? What, all my pretty chickens and their dam At one fell swoop? _Mal_. Dispute it like a man. _Macd. _ I shall do so; But I must also feel it as a man: I cannot but remember such things were, That were most precious to me. --Three interpretations have been offered of the words 'He has nochildren. '(_a_) They refer to Malcolm, who, if he had children of his own, wouldnot at such a moment suggest revenge, or talk of curing such a grief. Cf. _King John_, III. iv. 91, where Pandulph says to Constance, You hold too heinous a respect of grief,and Constance answers, He talks to me that never had a son. (_b_) They refer to Macbeth, who has no children, and on whom thereforeMacduff cannot take an adequate revenge. (_c_) They refer to Macbeth, who, if he himself had children, couldnever have ordered the slaughter of children. Cf. _3 Henry VI. _ V. v. 63, where Margaret says to the murderers of Prince Edward, You have no children, butchers! if you had, The thought of them would have stirred up remorse. I cannot think interpretation (_b_) the most natural. The whole idea ofthe passage is that Macduff must feel _grief_ first and before he canfeel anything else, _e. g. _ the desire for vengeance. As he says directlyafter, he cannot at once 'dispute' it like a man, but must 'feel' it asa man; and it is not till ten lines later that he is able to pass to thethought of revenge. Macduff is not the man to conceive at any time theidea of killing children in retaliation; and that he contemplates it_here_, even as a suggestion, I find it hard to believe. For the same main reason interpretation (_a_) seems to me far moreprobable than (_c_). What could be more consonant with the naturalcourse of the thought, as developed in the lines which follow, than thatMacduff, being told to think of revenge, not grief, should answer, 'Noone who was himself a father would ask that of me in the very firstmoment of loss'? But the thought supposed by interpretation (_c_) hasnot this natural connection. It has been objected to interpretation (_a_) that, according to it,Macduff would naturally say 'You have no children,' not 'He has nochildren. ' But what Macduff does is precisely what Constance does in theline quoted from _King John_. And it should be noted that, all throughthe passage down to this point, and indeed in the fifteen lines whichprecede our quotation, Macduff listens only to Ross. His questions 'Mychildren too? ' 'My wife killed too? ' show that he cannot fully realisewhat he is told. When Malcolm interrupts, therefore, he puts aside hissuggestion with four words spoken to himself, or (less probably) to Ross(his relative, who knew his wife and children), and continues hisagonised questions and exclamations. Surely it is not likely that atthat moment the idea of (_c_), an idea which there is nothing tosuggest, would occur to him. In favour of (_c_) as against (_a_) I see no argument except that thewords of Macduff almost repeat those of Margaret; and this fact does notseem to me to have much weight. It shows only that Shakespeare mighteasily use the words in the sense of (_c_) if that sense were suitableto the occasion. It is not unlikely, again, I think, that the words cameto him here because he had used them many years before;[296] but it doesnot follow that he knew he was repeating them; or that, if he did, heremembered the sense they had previously borne; or that, if he didremember it, he might not use them now in another sense. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 294: So in Holinshed, as well as in the play, where however'cousin' need not have its specific meaning. ][Footnote 295: 'May,' Johnson conjectured, without necessity. ][Footnote 296: As this point occurs here, I may observe thatShakespeare's later tragedies contain many such reminiscences of thetragic plays of his young days. For instance, cf. _Titus Andronicus_, I. i. 150 f. : In peace and honour rest you here, my sons, * * * * * Secure from worldly chances and mishaps! Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells, Here grow no damned drugs: here are no storms, No noise, but silence and eternal sleep,with _Macbeth_, III. ii. 22 f. : Duncan is in his grave; 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. In writing IV. i. Shakespeare can hardly have failed to remember theconjuring of the Spirit, and the ambiguous oracles, in _2 Henry VI. _ I. iv. The 'Hyrcan tiger' of _Macbeth_ III. iv. 101, which is also alludedto in _Hamlet_, appears first in _3 Henry VI. _ I. iv. 155. Cf. _RichardIII. _ II. i. 92, 'Nearer in bloody thoughts, but not in blood,' with_Macbeth_ II. iii. 146, 'the near in blood, the nearer bloody'; _RichardIII. _ IV. ii. 64, 'But I am in So far in blood that sin will pluck onsin,' with _Macbeth_ III. iv. 136, 'I am in blood stepp'd in so far,'etc. These are but a few instances. (It makes no difference whetherShakespeare was author or reviser of _Titus_ and _Henry VI. _). ]NOTE FF. THE GHOST OF BANQUO. I do not think the suggestions that the Ghost on its first appearance isBanquo's, and on its second Duncan's, or _vice versâ_, are worthdiscussion. But the question whether Shakespeare meant the Ghost to bereal or a mere hallucination, has some interest, and I have not seen itfully examined. The following reasons may be given for the hallucination view:(1) We remember that Macbeth has already seen one hallucination, that ofthe dagger; and if we failed to remember it Lady Macbeth would remind usof it here: This is the very painting of your fear; This is the air-drawn dagger which, you said, Led you to Duncan. (2) The Ghost seems to be created by Macbeth's imagination; for hiswords, now they rise again With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,describe it, and they echo what the murderer had said to him a littlebefore, Safe in a ditch he bides With twenty trenched gashes on his head. (3) It vanishes the second time on his making a violent effort andasserting its unreality: Hence, horrible shadow! Unreal mockery, hence! This is not quite so the first time, but then too its disappearancefollows on his defying it: Why what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too. So, apparently, the dagger vanishes when he exclaims, 'There's no suchthing! '(4) At the end of the scene Macbeth himself seems to regard it as anillusion: My strange and self-abuse Is the initiate fear that wants hard use. (5) It does not speak, like the Ghost in _Hamlet_ even on its lastappearance, and like the Ghost in _Julius Caesar_. (6) It is visible only to Macbeth. I should attach no weight to (6) taken alone (see p. 140). Of (3) it maybe remarked that Brutus himself seems to attribute the vanishing ofCaesar's Ghost to his taking courage: 'now I have taken heart thouvanishest:' yet he certainly holds it to be real. It may also beremarked on (5) that Caesar's Ghost says nothing that Brutus' ownforebodings might not have conjured up. And further it may be asked why,if the Ghost of Banquo was meant for an illusion, it was represented onthe stage, as the stage-directions and Forman's account show it to havebeen. On the whole, and with some doubt, I think that Shakespeare (1) meantthe judicious to take the Ghost for an hallucination, but (2) knew thatthe bulk of the audience would take it for a reality. And I am more sureof (2) than of (1). INDEXThe titles of plays are in italics. So are the numbers of the pagescontaining the main discussion of a character. The titles of the Notesare not repeated in the Index. Aaron, 200, 211. Abnormal mental conditions, 13, 398. Accident, in tragedy, 7, 14-16, 26, 28; in _Hamlet_, 143, 173; in _Othello_, 181-2; in _King Lear_, 253, 325. Act, difficulty in Fourth, 57-8; the five Acts, 49. Action, tragic, 11, 12, 31; and character, 12, 19; a conflict, 16-19. Adversity and prosperity in _King Lear_, 326-7. Albany, _297-8_. Antonio, 110, 404. _Antony and Cleopatra_, 3, 7, 45, 80; conflict, 17-8; crisis, 53, 55, 66; humour in catastrophe, 62, 395-6; battle-scenes, 62-3; extended catastrophe, 64; faulty construction, 71, 260; passion in, 82; evil in, 83-4; versification, 87, Note BB. Antony, 22, 29, 63, 83-4. _Arden of Feversham_, 9. Ariel, 264. Aristotle, 16, 22. Art, Shakespeare's, conscious, 68-9; defects in, 71-78. Arthur, 294. _As You Like It_, 71, 267, 390. Atmosphere in tragedy, 333. Banquo, 343, _379-86_. Barbara, the maid, 175. Battle-scene, 62, 451, 469; in _King Lear_, 255, Note X. Beast and man, in _King Lear_, 266-8; in _Timon_, 453. Bernhardt, Mme. , 379. Biblical ideas, in _King Lear_, 328. Bombast, 73, 75-6, 389, Note F. Brandes, G. , 379, 393. Brutus, 7, 14, 22, 27, 32, 81-2, 101, 364. Caliban, 264. Cassio, 211-3, _238-9_, 433-4. Catastrophe, humour before, 61-2; battle-scenes in, 62; false hope before, 63; extended, 62; in _Antony_ and _Coriolanus_, 83-4. See _Hamlet_, etc. Character, and plot, 12; is destiny, 13; tragic, 19-23. Chaucer, 8, 346. Children, in the plays, 293-5. Cleopatra, 7, 20, 84, 178, 208. Coleridge, 104-5, 107, 109, 127, 165, 200, 201, 209, 223, 226, 228, 249, 343, 353, 362, 389, 391, 392, 397, 412, 413. Comedy, 15, 41. Conflict, tragic, 16-9; originates in evil, 34; oscillating movement in, 50; crisis in, 51-5; descending movement of, 55-62. Conscience. See Hamlet. Cordelia, 29, 32, 203-6, 250, 290, 314, _315-26_, Note W. _Coriolanus_, 3, 9, 43, 394-5; crisis, 53; hero off stage, 57; counter-stroke, 58; humour, 61; passion, 82; catastrophe, 83-4; versification, Note BB. Coriolanus, 20, 29, 83-4, 196. Cornwall, 298-9. Crisis. See Conflict. Curtain, no front, in Shakespeare's theatre, 185, 458. _Cymbeline_, 7, 21, 72, 80, Note BB; Queen in, 300. Desdemona, 32, 165, 179, 193, 197, _201-6_, 323, 433, 437-9. Disillusionment, in tragedies, 175. Dog, the, Shakespeare and, 268. Don John, 110, 210. Double action in _King Lear_, 255-6, 262. Dowden, E. , 82, 105, 330, 408. Dragging, 57-8, 64. Drunkenness, invective against, 238. Edgar, _305-7_, 453, 465. Edmund, 210, 245, 253, _300-3_, Notes P, Q. See Iago. Emilia, 214-6, 237, _239-42_, Note P. Emotional tension, variations of, 48-9. Evil, origin of conflict, 34; negative, 35; in earlier and later tragedies, 82-3; poetic portrayal of, 207-8; aspects of, specially impressive to Shakespeare, 232-3; in _King Lear_, 298, 303-4, 327; in _Tempest_, 328-30; in _Macbeth_, 331, 386. Exposition, 41-7. Fate, Fatality, 10, 26-30, 45, 59, 177, 181, 287, 340-6. Fleay, F. G. , 419, 424, 445, 467, 479. Fool in _King Lear_, the, 258, _311-5_, 322, 447, Note V. Fools, Shakespeare's, 310. Forman, Dr. , 468, 493. Fortinbras, 90. Fortune, 9, 10. Freytag, G. , 40, 63. Furness, H. H. , 199, 200. Garnet and equivocation, 397, 470-1. Ghost, Banquo's, 332, 335, 338, 361, Note FF. Ghost, Caesar's, Note FF. Ghost in _Hamlet_, 97, 100, 118, 120, 125, 126, 134, 136, 138-40, _173-4_. Ghosts, not hallucinations because appearing only to one in a company, 140. Gloster, 272, _293-6_, 447. Gnomic speeches, 74, 453. Goethe, 101, 127, 165, 208. Goneril, 245, _299-300_, 331, 370, 447-8. Greek tragedy, 7, 16, 30, 33, 182, 276-9, 282. Greene, 409. Hales, J. W. , 397. _Hamlet_, exposition, 43-7; conflict, 17, 47, 50-1; crisis and counter-stroke, 52, 58-60, 136-7; dragging, 57; humour, and false hope, before catastrophe, 61, 63; obscurities, 73; undramatic passages, 72, 74; place among tragedies, 80-8; position of hero, 89-92; not simply tragedy of thought, 82, 113, 127; in the Romantic Revival, 92, 127-8; lapse of time in, 129, 141; accident, 15, 143, 173; religious ideas, 144-5, 147-8, 172-4; player's speech, 389-90, Note F; grave-digger, 395-6; last scene, 256. See Notes A to H, and BB. Hamlet, only tragic character in play, 90; contrasted with Laertes and Fortinbras, 90, 106; failure of early criticism of, 91; supposed unintelligible, 93-4; external view, 94-7; 'conscience' view, 97-101; sentimental view, 101-4; Schlegel-Coleridge view, 104-8, 116, 123, 126-7; temperament, 109-10; moral idealism, 110-3; reflective genius, 113-5; connection of this with inaction, 115-7; origin of melancholy, 117-20; its nature and effects, 120-7, 103, 158; its diminution, 143-4; his 'insanity,' 121-2, 421; in Act II. 129-31, 155-6; in III. i. 131-3, 157, 421; in play-scene, 133-4; spares King, 134-6, 100, 439; with Queen, 136-8; kills Polonius, 136-7, 104; with Ghost, 138-40; leaving Denmark, 140-1; state after return, 143-5, 421; in grave-yard, 145-6, 153, 158, 421-2; in catastrophe, 102, 146-8, 151, 420-1; and Ophelia, 103, 112, 119, 145-6, 152-9, 402, 420-1; letter to Ophelia, 150, 403; trick of repetition, 148-9; word-play and humour, 149-52, 411; aesthetic feeling, 133, 415; and Iago, 208, 217, 222, 226; other references, 9, 14, 20, 22, 28, 316, 353, Notes A to H. Hanmer, 91. Hazlitt, 209, 223, 228, 231, 243, 248. Hecate, 342, Note Z. Hegel, 16, 348. _2 Henry VI. _, 492.

_3 Henry VI. _, 222, 418, 490, 492. _Henry VIII. _, 80, 472, 479. Heredity, 30, 266, 303. Hero, tragic, 7; of 'high degree,' 9-11; contributes to catastrophe, 12; nature of, 19-23, 37; error of, 21, 34; unlucky, 28; place of, in construction, 53-55; absence of, from stage, 57; in earlier and later plays, 81-2, 176; in _King Lear_, 280; feeling at death of, 147-8, 174, 198, 324. Heywood, 140, 419. Historical tragedies, 3, 53, 71. Homer, 348. Horatio, 99, 112, 310, Notes A, B, C. Humour, constructional use of, 61; Hamlet's, 149-52; in _Othello_, 177; in _Macbeth_, 395. Hunter, J. , 199, 338. Iachimo, 21, 210. Iago, and evil, 207, 232-3; false views of, 208-11, 223-7; danger of accepting his own evidence, 211-2, 222-5; how he appeared to others, 213-5; and to Emilia, 215-6, 439-40; inferences hence, 217-8; further analysis, 218-22; source of his action, 222-31; his tragedy, 218, 222, 232; not merely evil, 233-5; nor of supreme intellect, 236; cause of failure, 236-7; and Edmund, 245, 300-1, 464; and Hamlet, 208, 217, 222, 226; other references, 21, 28, 32, 192, 193, 196, 364, Notes L, M, P, Q. Improbability, not always a defect, 69; in _King Lear_, 249, 256-7. Inconsistencies, 73; real or supposed, in _Hamlet_, 408; in _Othello_, Note I; in _King Lear_, 256, Note T; in _Macbeth_, Notes CC, EE. Ingram, Prof. , 478. Insanity in tragedy, 13; Ophelia's, 164-5, 399; Lear's, 288-90. Intrigue in tragedy, 12, 67, 179. Irony, 182, 338. Isabella, 316, 317, 321. Jameson, Mrs. , 165, 204, 379. Jealousy in Othello, 178, 194, Note L. Job, 11. Johnson, 31, 91, 294, 298, 304, 377, 420. Jonson, 69, 282, 389. Juliet, 7, 204, 210. _Julius Caesar_, 3, 7, 9, 33, 34, 479; conflict, 17-8; exposition, 43-5; crisis, 52; dragging, 57; counter-stroke, 58; quarrel-scene, 60-1; battle-scenes, 62; and _Hamlet_, 80-2; style, 85-6. Justice in tragedy, idea of, 31-33, 279, 318. Kean, 99, 243-4. Kent, _307-10_, 314, 321, 447, Note W. King Claudius, 28, 102, 133, 137, 142, _168-72_, 402, 422. _King John_, 394, 490-1. _King Lear_, exposition, 44, 46-7; conflict, 17, 53-4; scenes of high and low tension, 49; dragging, 57; false hope before catastrophe, 63; battle-scene, 62, 456-8; soliloquy in, 72, 222; place among tragedies, 82, 88, see Tate; Tate's, 243-4; two-fold character, 244-6; not wholly dramatic, 247; opening scene, 71, 249-51, 258, 319-21, 447; blinding of Gloster, 185, 251; catastrophe, 250-4, 271, 290-3, 309, 322-6; structural defects, 254-6; improbabilities, etc. , 256-8; vagueness of locality, 259-60; poetic value of defects, 261; double action, 262; characterisation, 263; tendency to symbolism, 264-5; idea of monstrosity, 265-6; beast and man, 266-8; storm-scenes, 269-70, 286-7, 315; question of government of world, in, 271-3; supposed pessimism, 273-9, 284-5, 303-4, 322-30; accident and fatality, 15, 250-4, 287-8; intrigue in, 179; evil in, 298, 303-4; preaching patience, 330; and _Othello_, 176-7, 179, 181, 244-5, 441-3; and _Timon_, 245-7, 310, 326-7, 443-5; other references, 8, 10, 61, 181, Notes R to Y, and BB. König, G. , Note BB. Koppel, R. , 306, 450, 453, 462. Laertes, 90, 111, 142, 422. Lamb, 202, 243, 248, 253, 255, 269, 343. Language, Shakespeare's, defects of, 73, 75, 416. Lear, 13, 14, 20, 28, 29, 32, 249-51, _280-93_, 293-5, Note W. Leontes, 21, 194. _Macbeth_, exposition, 43, 45-6; conflict, 17-9, 48, 52; crisis, 59, 60; pathos and humour, 61, 391, 395-7; battle-scenes, 62; extended catastrophe, 64; defects in construction, 57, 71; place among tragedies, 82, 87-8, Note BB; religious ideas, 172-4; atmosphere of, 333; effects of darkness, 333-4, colour, 334-6, storm, 336-7, supernatural, etc. , 337-8, irony, 338-40; Witches, 340-9, 362, 379-86; imagery, 336, 357; minor characters, 387; simplicity, 388; Senecan effect, 389-90; bombast, 389, 417; prose, 388, 397-400; relief-scenes, 391; sleep-walking scene, 378, 398, 400; references to Gunpowder Plot, 397, 470-1; all genuine? 388, 391, 395-7, Note Z; and _Hamlet_, 331-2; and _Richard III. _, 338, 390, 395, 492; other references, 7, 8, 386, and Notes Z to FF. Macbeth, 13, 14, 20, 22, 28, 32, 63, 172, 343-5, _349-65_, 380, 383, 386, Notes CC, EE. Macbeth, Lady, 13, 28, 32, 349-50, 358, 364, _366-79_, 398-400, Notes CC, DD. Macduff, 387, 391-2, 490-1. Macduff, Lady, 61, 387, 391-2. Macduff, little, 393-5. Mackenzie, 91. Marlowe, 211, 415-6. Marston's possible reminiscences of Shakespeare's plays, 471-2. _Measure for Measure_, 76, 78, 275, 397. Mediaeval idea of tragedy, 8, 9. Melancholy, Shakespeare's representations of, 110, 121. See Hamlet. Mephistopheles, 208. _Merchant of Venice_, 21, 200. Metrical tests, Notes S, BB. Middleton, 466. _Midsummer Night's Dream_, 390, 469. Milton, 207, 362, 418. Monstrosity, idea of, in _King Lear_, 265-6. Moral order in tragedy, idea of, 26, 31-9. Moulton, R. G. , 40. Negro? Othello a, 198-202. Opening scene in tragedy, 43-4. Ophelia, 14, 61, 112, _160-5_, 204, 399. See Hamlet. Oswald, 298, 448. _Othello_, exposition, 44-5; conflict, 17, 18, 48; peculiar construction, 54-5, 64-7, 177; inconsistencies, 73; place among tragedies, 82, 83, 88; and _Hamlet_, 175-6; and _King Lear_, 176-7, 179, 181, 244-5, 441-3; distinctive effect, and its causes, 176-80; accident in, 15, 181-2; objections to, considered, 183-5; point of inferiority to other three tragedies, 185-6; elements of reconciliation in catastrophe, 198, 242; other references, 9, 61, Notes I to R, and BB. Othello, 9, 20, 21, 22, 28, 29, 32, 176, 178, 179, _186-98_, 198-202, 211, 212, Notes K to O. Pathos, and tragedy, 14, 103, 160, 203, 281-2; constructional use of, 60-1. Peele, 200. _Pericles_, 474. Period, Shakespeare's tragic, 79-89, 275-6. Pessimism, supposed, in _King Lear_, 275-9, 327; in _Macbeth_, 359, 393. Plays, Shakespeare's, list of, in periods, 79. Plot, 12. See Action, Intrigue. 'Poetic justice,' 31-2. Poor, goodness of the, in _King Lear_ and _Timon_, 326. Posthumus, 21. Problems, probably non-existent for original audience, 73, 157, 159, 315, 393, 483, 486, 488. Prose, in the tragedies, 388, 397-400. Queen Gertrude, 104, 118, 134, 136-8, 161, 164, _166-8_. Reconciliation, feeling of, in tragedy, 31, 36, 84, 147-8, 174, 198, 242, 322-6. Regan, _299-300_. Religion, in Edgar, 306, Horatio, 310, Banquo, 387. _Richard II. _, 3, 10, 17, 18, 42. Richard II. , 20, 22, 150, 152. _Richard III. _, 3, 18, 42, 62, 82; and _Macbeth_, 338, 390, 395, 492. Richard III. , 14, 20, 22, 32, 63, 152, 207, 210, 217, 218, 233, 301. _Romeo and Juliet_, 3, 7, 9, 15; conflict, 17, 18, 34; exposition, 41-5; crisis, 52; counter-stroke, 58. Romeo, 22, 29, 150, 210. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, 137, 405-6. Rules of drama, Shakespeare's supposed ignorance of, 69. Salvini, 434. Satan, Milton's, 207, 362. Scenery, no, in Shakespeare's theatre, 49, 71, 451. Scenes, their number, length, tone, 49; wrong divisions of, 451. Schlegel, 82, 104, 105, 116, 123, 127, 254, 262, 344, 345, 413. Scot on Witch-craft, 341. Seneca, 389-90. Shakespeare the man, 6, 81, 83, 185-6, 246, 275-6, 282, 285, 327-30, 359, 393, 414-5. Shylock, 21. Siddons, Mrs. , 371, 379. Soliloquy, 72; of villains, 222; scenes ending with, 451. Sonnets, Shakespeare's, 264, 364. Spedding, J. , 255, 476, Note X. Stage-directions, wrong modern, 260, 285, 422, 453-6, 462. Style in the tragedies, 85-9, 332, 336, 357. Suffering, tragic, 7, 8, 11. Supernatural, the, in tragedy, 14, 181, 295-6, 331-2. See Ghost, Witch. Swinburne, A. C. , 80, 179, 191, 209, 218, 223, 228, 231, 276-8, 431. Symonds, J. A. , 10. Tate's version of _King Lear_, 243, 251-3, 313. Temperament, 110, 282, 306. _Tempest_, 42, 80, 185, 264, 328-30, 469; Note BB. Theological ideas in tragedy, 25, 144, 147, 279; in _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_, 171-4, 439; not in _Othello_, 181, 439; in _King Lear_, 271-3, 296. Time, short and long, theory of, 426-7. _Timon of Athens_, 4, 9, 81-3, 88, 245-7, 266, 270, 275, 310, 326-7, 443-5, 460; Note BB. Timon, 9, 82, 112. _Titus Andronicus_, 4, 200, 211, 411, 491. Tourgénief, 11, 295. Toussaint, 198. Tragedy, Shakespearean; parts, 41, 51; earlier and later, 18, 176; pure and historical, 3, 71. See Accident, Action, Hero, Period, Reconciliation, etc. Transmigration of souls, 267. _Troilus and Cressida_, 7, 185-6, 268, 275-6, 302, 417, 419. _Twelfth Night_, 70, 267. _Two Noble Kinsmen_, 418, 472, 479. Ultimate power in tragedy, 24-39, 171-4, 271-9. See Fate, Moral Order, Reconciliation, Theological. Undramatic speeches, 74, 106. Versification. See Style and Metrical tests. Virgilia, 387. Waste, tragic, 23, 37. Werder, K. , 94, 172, 480. _Winter's Tale_, 21, Note BB. Witches, the, and Macbeth, _340-9_, 362; and Banquo, 379-87. Wittenberg, Hamlet at, 403-6. Wordsworth, 30, 198. _Yorkshire Tragedy_, 10. GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD. _8vo. 12s. 6d. net. _Oxford Lectures on PoetryBYA. C. BRADLEY, LL. D. , Litt. D. _ATHENÆUM. _--"A remarkable achievement. . . . It is probable that thisvolume will attain a permanence for which critical literature generallycannot hope. Very many of the things that are said here are finallysaid; they exhaust their subject. Of one thing we are certain--thatthere is no work in English devoted to the interpretation of poeticexperience which can claim the delicacy and sureness of Mr. Bradley's. "_SPECTATOR. _--"In reviewing Professor Bradley's previous book on_Shakespearean Tragedy_ we declared our opinion that it was probably thebest Shakespearean criticism since Coleridge. The new volume shows thesame complete sanity of judgment, the same subtlety, the same persuasiveand eloquent exposition. "_TIMES. _--"Nothing higher need be said of the present volume than it isnot unworthy to be the sequel to _Shakespearean Tragedy_. "_DAILY TELEGRAPH. _--"This is not a book to be written about in a hastyreview of a thousand words. It is one to be perused and appreciated atleisure--to be returned to again and again, partly because of itssupreme interest, partly because it provokes, as all good books shoulddo, a certain antagonism, partly because it is itself the product of acareful, scholarly mind, basing conclusions on a scrupulous perusal ofdocuments and authorities. . . . The whole book is so full of good thingsthat it is impossible to make any adequate selection. In an age which isnot supposed to be very much interested in literary criticism, a booklike Mr. Bradley's is of no little significance and importance. "_SATURDAY REVIEW. _--"The writer of these admirable lectures may claimwhat is rare even in this age of criticism--a note of his own. In typehe belongs to those critics of the best order, whose view of literatureis part and parcel of their view of life. His lectures on poetry aretherefore what they profess to be: not scraps of textual comment, norstudies in the craft of verse-making, but broad considerations of poetryas a mode of spiritual revelation. An accomplished style and signs ofcareful reading we may justly demand from any professor who sets out tolecture in literature. Mr. Bradley has them in full measure. But he hasalso not a little of that priceless quality so seldom found in theprofessional or professorial critic--the capacity of naïve vision andadmiration. Here he is in a line with the really stimulating essayists,the artists in criticism. "MACMILLAN AND CO. LTD. , LONDON. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. 6d. net. _A Commentary on Tennyson's 'In Memoriam'BYA. C. BRADLEY, LL. D. , Litt. D. _THE SATURDAY REVIEW. _--"Here we find a model of what a commentary on agreat work should be, every page instinct with thoughtfulness; completesympathy and appreciation; the most reverent care shown in the attemptedinterpretation of passages whose meaning to a large degree evades, andwill always evade, readers of 'In Memoriam. ' It is clear to us that Mr. Bradley has devoted long time and thought to his work, and that he haspublished the result of his labours simply to help those who, likehimself, have been and are in difficulties as to the drift of variouspassages. He is not of course the first who has addressed himself to theinterpretation of 'In Memoriam'--in this spirit . . . but Mr. Bradley'scommentary is sure to take rank as the most searching and scholarly ofany. "_THE PILOT. _--"In re-studying 'In Memoriam' with Dr. Bradley's aid, wehave found his interpretation helpful in numerous passages. The notesare prefaced by a long introduction dealing with the origin,composition, and structure of the poem, the ideas used in it, the metreand the debt to other poems. All of these are good, but more interestingthan any of them is a section entitled, 'The Way of the Soul,' reviewingthe spiritual experience which 'In Memoriam' records. This is quiteadmirable throughout, and proves conclusively that Dr. Bradley's keendesire to fathom the exact meaning of every phrase has only quickenedhis appreciation of the poem as a whole. "MACMILLAN AND CO. LTD. , LONDON. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Shakespearean Tragedy, by A. C. 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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Shakespeare's Roman Plays and TheirBackground, by Mungo William MacCallumThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States andmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online atwww. gutenberg. org. If you are not located in the United States, youwill have to check the laws of the country where you are located beforeusing this eBook. Title: Shakespeare's Roman Plays and Their BackgroundAuthor: Mungo William MacCallumRelease Date: February 3, 2023 [eBook #69937]Language: EnglishProduced by: Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www. pgdp. net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHAKESPEARE'S ROMAN PLAYS ANDTHEIR BACKGROUND ***Transcriber’s Notes: Underscores “_” before and after a word or phrase indicate _italics_ in the original text. Equal signs “=” before and after a word or phrase indicate =bold= in the original text. Small capitals have been converted to SOLID capitals. Old or antiquated spellings have been preserved. Typographical and punctuation errors have been silently corrected. SHAKESPEARE’S ROMAN PLAYS AND THEIR BACKGROUND [Illustration] MACMILLAN AND CO. , LIMITED LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA MELBOURNE THE MACMILLAN COMPANY NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. TORONTO SHAKESPEARE’S ROMAN PLAYS AND THEIR BACKGROUND BY M. W. MACCALLUM M. A. , HON. LL. D. , GLASGOW PROFESSOR OF MODERN LITERATURE IN THE UNIVERSITY OF SYDNEY MACMILLAN AND CO. , LIMITED ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON 1910 GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD. TO D. M. M·C. “De Leev is Allens op de Welt, Un de is blot bi di. ”PREFACEShakespeare’s Roman plays may be regarded as forming a group bythemselves, less because they make use of practically the sameauthority and deal with similar subjects, than because they follow thesame method of treatment, and that method is to a great extent peculiarto themselves. They have points of contact with the English histories,they have points of contact with the free tragedies, but they are notquite on a line with either class. It seems, therefore, possible anddesirable to discuss them separately. In doing so I have tried to keep myself abreast of the literatureon the subject; which is no easy task when one lives at so great adistance from European libraries, and can go home only on hurried andinfrequent visits. I hope, however, that there is no serious gap in thelist of authorities I have consulted. The particular obligations of which I am conscious I have indicatedin detail. I should like, however, to acknowledge how much I owethroughout to the late F. A. T. Kreyssig, to my mind one of the sanestand most suggestive expositors that Shakespeare has ever had. I amthe more pleased to avow my indebtedness, that at present in GermanyKreyssig is hardly receiving the learned, and in England has neverreceived the popular, recognition that is his due. It is strange thatwhile Ulrici’s metaphysical lucubrations and Gervinus’s somewhatponderous commentaries found their translators and their public,Kreyssig’s purely humane and literary appreciations were passed over. I once began to translate them myself, but “habent sua fata libelli,”the time had gone by. It is almost exactly half a century ago since hislectures were first published; and now there is so much that he wouldwish to omit, alter, or amplify, that it would be unfair to presentthem after this lapse of years for the first time to the Englishpublic. All the same he has not lost his value, and precisely indealing with the English and the Roman histories he seems to me to beat his best. One is naturally led from a consideration of the plays to aconsideration of their background; their antecedents in the drama, andtheir sources, direct and indirect. The previous treatment of Roman subjects in Latin, French, and English,is of some interest, apart from the possible connection of this orthat tragedy with Shakespeare’s masterpieces, as showing by contrastthe originality as well as the splendour of his achievement. For thischapter of my Introduction I therefore offer no apology. On the other hand the sketches of the three “ancestors” ofShakespeare’s Roman histories, and especially of Plutarch, need perhapsto be defended against the charge of irrelevancy. In examining the plays, one must examine their relations with theirsources, and in examining their relations with their sources, onecannot stop short at North, who in the main contributes merely thefinal form, but must go back to the author who furnished the subjectmatter. Perhaps, too, some of the younger students of Shakespeare maybe glad to have a succinct account of the man but for whom the Romanplays would never have been written. Besides, Plutarch, so far asI know, has not before been treated exactly from the point of viewthat is here adopted. My aim has been to portray him mainly in thoseaspects that made him such a power in the period of the Renaissance,and gave him so great a fascination for men like Henry IV. , Montaigne,and, of course, above all, Shakespeare. For the same reason I have mademy quotations exclusively from Philemon Holland’s translation of the_Morals_ (1st edition, 1603) and North’s translation of the _Lives_(Mr. Wyndham’s reprint), as the Elizabethan versions show how he wastaken by that generation. The essay on Amyot needs less apology. In view of the fact that he wasthe immediate original of North, he has received in England far lessrecognition than he deserves. Indeed he has met with injustice. Englishwriters have sometimes challenged his claim to have translated from theGreek. To me it has had the zest of a pious duty to repeat and enforcethe arguments of French scholars which show the extreme improbabilityof this theory. Unfortunately I have been unable to consult the Latinversion of 1470, except in a few transcripts from the copy in theBritish Museum: but while admitting that a detailed comparison ofthat with the Greek and the French would be necessary for the formalcompletion of the proof, I think it has been made practically certainthat Amyot dealt with all his authors at first hand. At any rate heis a man, who, by rendering Plutarch into the vernacular and in manyinstances furnishing the first draught of Shakespeare’s phrases, meritsattention from the countrymen of Shakespeare. Of North, even after Mr. Wyndham’s delightful and admirable study,something remains to be said in supplement. And he too has hardlyhad his rights. The _Morall Philosophie_ and the _Lives_ have beenreprinted, but the _Diall of Princes_ is still to be seen only inthe great libraries of Europe. A hurried perusal of it two years agoconvinced me that, apart from its historical significance, it wasworthy of a place among the _Tudor Translations_ and would help toclear up many obscurities in Elizabethan literature. I at first hoped to discuss in a supplementary section the treatmentof the Roman Play in England by Shakespeare’s younger contemporariesand Caroline successors, and show that while in some specimensShakespeare’s reconciling method is still followed though lesssuccessfully, while in some antiquarian accuracy is the chief aim, andsome are only to be regarded as historical romances, it ultimatelytended towards the phase which it assumed in France under the influenceof the next great practitioner, Corneille, who assimilated theancient to the modern ideal of Roman life as Shakespeare never didand, perhaps fortunately, never tried to do. But certain questions,especially in regard to the sources, are complicated, and, whencontemporary translations, not as yet reprinted, may have been used,are particularly troublesome to one living so far from Europe. Thispart of my project, therefore, if not abandoned, has to be deferred;for it would mean a long delay, and I am admonished that what there isto do must be done quickly. I have complained of the lack of books in Australia, but beforeconcluding I should like to acknowledge my obligations to thebook-loving colonists of an earlier generation, to whose irrepressiblezeal for learning their successors owe access to many volumes thatone would hardly expect to see under the Southern Cross. Thus a 1599edition of Plutarch in the University Library, embodying the apparatusof Xylander and Cruserius, has helped me much in the question ofAmyot’s relations to the Greek. Thus, too, I was able to utilise,among other works not easily met with, the first complete translationof Seneca’s Tragedies (1581), in the collection of the late Mr. DavidScott Mitchell, a “clarum et venerabile nomen” in New South Wales. May I, as a tribute of gratitude, inform my English readers that thisgentleman, after spending his life in collecting books and manuscriptsof literary and historical interest, which he was ever ready to placeat the disposal of those competent to use them, bequeathed at his deathhis splendid library to the State, together with an ample endowment forits maintenance and extension? For much valuable help in the way of information and advice, my thanksare due to my sometime students and present colleagues, first andchiefly, Professor E. R. Holme, then Mr. C. J. Brennan, Mr. J. LeGay Brereton, Mr. G. G. Nicholson, Dr. F. A. Todd; also to Messrs. Bladen and Wright of the Sydney Public Library for looking out booksand references that I required; to Mr. M. L. MacCallum for makingtranscripts for me from books in the Bodleian Library; to ProfessorJones of Glasgow University for various critical suggestions; aboveall to Professor Butler of Sydney University, who has pointed out tome many facts which I might have overlooked and protected me frommany errors into which I should have fallen, and to Professor Ker ofUniversity College, London, who has most kindly undertaken the irksometask of reading through my proofs. M. W. MACCALLUM UNIVERSITY OF SYDNEY, _27th April, 1909_. CONTENTS _INTRODUCTION_ CHAPTER PAGE I. ROMAN PLAYS IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY 1 1. “Appius and Virginia. ” The Translation of “Octavia” 2 2. The French Senecans 19 3. English Followers of the French School. “The Wounds of Civil War” 44 II. SHAKESPEARE’S TREATMENT OF HISTORY 73 III. ANCESTRY OF SHAKESPEARE’S ROMAN PLAYS 1. Plutarch 95 2. Amyot 119 3. North 141 _JULIUS CAESAR_ I. POSITION OF THE PLAY BETWEEN THE HISTORIES AND THE TRAGEDIES. ATTRACTION OF THE SUBJECT FOR SHAKESPEARE AND HIS GENERATION. INDEBTEDNESS TO PLUTARCH 168 II. SHAKESPEARE’S TRANSMUTATION OF HIS MATERIAL 187 III. THE TITULAR HERO OF THE PLAY 212 IV. THE EXCELLENCES AND ILLUSIONS OF BRUTUS 233 V. THE DISILLUSIONMENT OF BRUTUS. PORTIA 255 VI. THE REMAINING CHARACTERS 275 _ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA_ I. POSITION OF THE PLAY AFTER THE GREAT TRAGEDIES. SHAKESPEARE’S INTEREST IN THE SUBJECT 300 II. _ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA_, A HISTORY, TRAGEDY, AND LOVE POEM; AS SHOWN BY ITS RELATIONS WITH PLUTARCH 318 III. THE ASSOCIATES OF ANTONY 344 IV. THE POLITICAL LEADERS 368 V. MARK ANTONY 391 VI. CLEOPATRA 413 VII. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 439 _CORIOLANUS_ I. POSITION OF THE PLAY BEFORE THE ROMANCES. ITS POLITICAL AND ARTISTIC ASPECTS 454 II. PARALLELS AND CONTRASTS WITH PLUTARCH 484 III. THE GRAND CONTRAST. SHAKESPEARE’S CONCEPTION OF THE SITUATION IN ROME 518 IV. THE KINSFOLK AND FRIENDS OF CORIOLANUS 549 V. THE GREATNESS OF CORIOLANUS. AUFIDIUS 571 VI. THE DISASTERS OF CORIOLANUS AND THEIR CAUSES 598 _APPENDICES_ A. NEAREST PARALLELS BETWEEN GARNIER’S _Cornélie_ IN THE FRENCH AND ENGLISH VERSIONS AND _Julius Caesar_ 628 B. THE VERBAL RELATIONS OF THE VARIOUS VERSIONS OF PLUTARCH, ILLUSTRATED BY MEANS OF VOLUMNIA’S SPEECH 631 C. SHAKESPEARE’S ALLEGED INDEBTEDNESS TO APPIAN IN _Julius Caesar_ 644 D. SHAKESPEARE’S LOANS FROM APPIAN IN _Antony and Cleopatra_ 648 E. CLEOPATRA’S _One Word_ 653 F. THE “INEXPLICABLE” PASSAGE IN _Coriolanus_ 657 INDEX 660_INTRODUCTION_CHAPTER IROMAN PLAYS IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURYPlays that dealt with the History of Rome were frequent on theElizabethan stage, and all portions of it were laid under contribution. Subjects were taken from legends of the dawn like the story ofLucretia, and from rumours of the dusk like the story of Lucina; fromRoman pictures of barbarian allies like Massinissa in the South, orbarbarian antagonists like Caractacus in the North; as well as from theintimate records of home affairs and the careers of the great magnatesof the Republic or Empire. But these plays belong more distinctivelyto the Stuart than to the Tudor section of the period loosely namedafter Elizabeth, and few have survived that were composed before thebeginning of the seventeenth century. For long the Historical Dramatreated by preference the traditions and annals of the island realm,and only by degrees did “the matter of Britain” yield its pride ofplace to “the matter of Rome the Grand. ” Moreover, the earlier RomanHistories are of very inferior importance, and none of them reacheseven a moderate standard of merit till the production of Shakespeare’s_Julius Caesar_ in 1600 or 1601. In this department Shakespeare hadnot the light to guide him that he found for his English Histories inMarlowe’s _Edward II. _, or even in such plays as _The Famous Victoriesof Henry V. _ The extant pieces that precede his first experiment,seem only to be groping their way, and it is fair to suppose that theothers which have been lost did no better. Their interest, in so faras they have any interest at all, lies in the light they throw on thegradual progress of dramatic art in this domain. And they illustrateit pretty fully, and show it passing through some of the main generalphases that may be traced in the evolution of the Elizabethan Tragedyas a whole. At the outset we have one specimen of the Roman play inwhich the legitimate drama is just beginning to disengage itself fromthe old Morality, and another in which the unique Senecan exemplar istransformed rather than translated to suit the primitive art of thetime. Then we have several more artistic specimens deriving directlyor indirectly from the French imitators of Seneca, which were the mostdignified and intelligent the sixteenth century had to show. And lastlywe have a specimen of what the Roman play became when elaborated by thescholar-playwrights for the requirements of the popular London stage. A survey of these will show how far the ground was prepared forShakespeare by the traditions of this branch of the drama when heturned to cultivate it himself. 1. APPIUS AND VIRGINIA. THE TRANSLATION OF OCTAVIAThe crudest if not the earliest of the series is entitled _A newTragicall Comedie of Apius and Virginia_, by R. B. , initials whichhave been supposed with some probability to stand for Richard Bower,who was master of the Chapel Royal at Windsor in 1559. It was firstprinted in 1575, but must have been written some years before. Aphrase it contains, “perhaps a number will die of the sweat,” has beenthought to refer to the prevalence of the plague in 1563, and it maybe identified with a play on the same subject that was acted at thattime by the boys of Westminster. At any rate several expressions showbeyond doubt that it was meant for representation, but only on theold-fashioned scaffold which was soon to be out-of-date. Its characterand scope belong too, in part, to a bygone age. The prologue proclaimsits ethical intention with the utmost emphasis: You lordings all that present be, this Tragidie to heare Note well what zeale and loue heerein doth well appeare, And, Ladies, you that linked are in wedlocke bandes for euer Do imitate the life you see, whose fame will perish neuer: But Uirgins you, oh Ladies fair, for honour of your name Doo lead the life apparent heere to win immortall fame. [1]It is written in commendation of chastity and rebuke of vice: Let not the blinded God of Loue, as poets tearm him so, Nor Venus with her venery, nor Lechors, cause of wo, Your Uirgins name to spot or file: deare dames, obserue the life That faire Verginia did obserue, who rather wish(ed) the knife Of fathers hand hir life to ende, then spot her chastety. As she did waile, waile you her want, you maids, of courtesie. If any by example heere would shun that great anoy,[2] Our Authour would rejoyce in hart, and we would leap for joy. [1] Quotations taken, with a few obvious emendations, from Mr. Farmer’sreproduction in the Tudor Facsimile Texts. [2] The hurt of impurity, not of death. No Moral Play could be more explicit in its lesson, and the Moral Playhas also suggested a large number of the personages. Conscience,Justice, Rumour, Comfort, Reward, Doctrine, Memory, are introduced,and some of them not only in scenes by themselves, but in associationwith the concrete characters. Occasionally their functions are merelyfigurative, and can be separated from the action that is supposed tobe proceeding: and then of course they hardly count for more than theattributes that help to explain a statue. Thus, when Appius resolves topursue his ruthless purpose, he exclaims: But out, I am wounded: how am I deuided! Two states of my life from me are now glided:and the quaint stage direction in the margin gives the comment: “Herelet him make as thogh he went out, and let Consience and Justice comeout of[3] him, and let Consience hold in his hande a Lamp burning, andlet Justice haue a sworde and hold it before Apius brest. ” Thus, too,another stage direction runs: “Here let Consience speake within: ‘Judge Apius, prince, oh stay, refuse: be ruled by thy friende: What bloudy death with open shame did Torquin gaine in ende? ’”[3] Altered unnecessarily to _out after_ by Mr. Carew Hazlitt in hisedition of Dodsley’s _Old English Plays_. Appius’ words imply that thetwo principles pass from his life, and the spectators are asked toimagine that they actually see the process. And he answers: “Whence doth this pinching sounde desende? ” Hereclearly it is merely the voice of his own feelings objectified: and inboth instances the interference of the Abstractions is almost whollydecorative; they add nothing to the reflections of Appius, but onlyserve to emphasise them. This however is not always the case. Theyoften comport themselves in every respect like the real men and women. Comfort stays Virginius from suicide till he shall see the punishmentof the wicked. Justice and Reward (that is, Requital) summoned by theunjust judge to doom the father, pronounce sentence on himself. In theend Virginius enters in company with Fame, Doctrina, and Memory. Other of the characters, again, if more than general ideas, are lessthan definite individuals. There is a sub-plot not at all interwovenwith the main plot, in which the class types, Mansipulus, Mansipula,and their crony, Subservus, play their parts. With their help someattempt is made at presenting the humours of vulgar life. They quarrelwith each other, but are presently reconciled in order to divertthemselves together, and put off the business of their master andmistress, hoping to escape the punishment for their negligence bytrickery and good luck. But we do not even know who their master andmistress are, and they come into no contact with either the historicalor the allegorical figures. The only personage who finds his way into both compartments of the“Tragicall Comedie” is Haphazard the Vice, who gives the story suchunity as it possesses. His name happily describes the double aspect ofhis nature. On the one hand he stands for chance itself; on the otherfor dependence on chance, the recklessness that relies on accident,and trusts that all will end well though guilt has been incurred. Inthis way he is both the chief seducer and the chief agent, alike of thepetty rogues and of the grand criminal. To the former he sings: Then wend ye on and folow me, Mansipulus,[4] Mansipula, Let croping cares be cast away; come folow me, come folow me: Subseruus is a joly loute Brace[5] Haphazard, bould blinde bayarde! [6] A figge for his uncourtesie that seekes to shun good company! [4] Text, _Mansipula_. [5] Altered by Hazlitt to “brave. ” It probably means “embrace. ”[6] A horse that does not see where it is going. To Appius’ request for advice he replies: Well, then, this is my counsell, thus standeth the case, Perhaps such a fetche as may please your grace: There is no more wayes but _hap_ or _hap not_, Either hap or els hapless, to knit up the knot: And if you will hazard to venter what falles, Perhaps that Haphazard will end all your thralles. His distinctive note is this, that he tempts men by suggesting thatthey may offend and escape the consequences. In the end he falls intothe pit that he has digged for others, and when his hap is to behanged, like a true Vice he accepts the _contretemps_ with jest andjape. Yet despite the stock-in-trade that it takes over from Morality orInterlude, _Appius and Virginia_ has specialties of its own that werebetter calculated to secure it custom in the period of the Renaissance. The author bestows most care on the main story, and makes a genuineattempt to bring out the human interest of the subject and the persons. In the opening scene he tries, in his well-meaning way, to give theimpression of a home in which affection is the pervading principle, butin which affection itself is not allowed to run riot, but is restrainedby prudence and obligation. Father, mother, and daughter sing a dittyin illustration of this sober love or its reverse, and always return tothe refrain: The trustiest treasure in earth, as we see, Is man, wife, and children in one to agree; Then friendly, and kindly, let measure be mixed With reason in season, where friendship is fixed. There is some inarticulate feeling for effect in the contrast betweenthe wholesomeness of this orderly family life and the incontinenceof the tyrant who presently seeks to violate it. And the dramaticbent of the author—for it is no more than a bent—appears too in theportraiture of the parties concerned. The mingled perplexity and dreadof Virginius, when in his consciousness of right he is summoned to thecourt, are justly conceived; and there is magnanimity in his answerto Appius’ announcement that he must give judgment “as justice dothrequire”: My lord, and reason good it is: your seruaunt doth request No parciall hand to aide his cause, no parciall minde or brest. If ought I haue offended you, your Courte or eke your Crowne, From lofty top of Turret hie persupetat me downe: If treason none by me be done, or any fault committed, Let my accusers beare the blame, and let me be remitted. Similarly, the subsequent conflict in his heart between fondness forhis daughter and respect for her and himself is clearly expressed. Andher high-spirited demand for death is tempered and humanised by herinstinctive recoil when he “proffers a blow”: The gods forgeue thee, father deare! farewell: thy blow do bend— Yet stay a whyle, O father deare, for fleash to death is fraile. Let first my wimple bind my eyes, and then thy blow assaile, Nowe, father, worke thy will on me, that life I may injoy. But the most ambitious and perhaps the most successful delineation isthat of Appius. At the outset he is represented as overwhelmed by hissudden yearning. Apelles, he thinks, was a “prattling fool” to boast ofhis statue; Pygmalion was fond “with raving fits” to run mad for thebeauty of his work, for he could make none like Virginia. Will not theGods treat him as they treated Salmacis, when Hermophroditus, bathingin the Carian fountain near the Lycian Marches, denied her suit? Oh Gods aboue, bend downe to heare my crie As once ye[7] did to Salmasis, in Pond hard Lyzia by: Oh that Virginia were in case as somtime Salmasis, And in Hermofroditus stede my selfe might seeke my blisse! Ah Gods! would I unfold her armes complecting of my necke? Or would I hurt her nimble hand, or yeelde her such a checke? Would I gainsay hir tender skinne to baath where I do washe? Or els refuse her soft sweete lippes to touch my naked fleshe? Nay! Oh the Gods do know my minde, I rather would requier To sue, to serue, to crouch, to kneele, to craue for my desier. But out, ye Gods, ye bend your browes, and frowne to see me fare; Ye do not force[8] my fickle fate, ye do not way my care. Unrighteous and unequall Gods, unjust and eke unsure, Woe worth the time ye made me liue, to see this haplesse houre. This, we may suppose, is intended for a mad outbreak of voluptuouspassion, “the nympholepsy of some fond despair”; and, as such, itis not very much worse than some that have won the applause of morecritical ages. It may suggest the style of the Interlude in the_Midsummer-Night’s Dream_, or more forcibly, the “_King Cambyses’_vein” that was then in vogue (for Preston’s play of that name,published about a couple of years later than the probable date whenthis was performed, is in every way the nearest analogue to _Appiusand Virginia_ that the history of our stage has to offer). But incomparison with the normal flow of the Moralities, the lines haveundoubtedly a certain urgency and glow. And there are other touchesthat betray the incipient playwright. Appius is not exhibited as amere monster; through all his life his walk has been blameless, andhe is well aware of his “grounded years,” his reputation as judge,and the value of good report. He is not at ease in the course he nowadopts; there is a division in his nature, and he does not yield to histemptation without forebodings and remorse. Consience he pricketh me contempnèd, And Justice saith, Judgement wold haue me condemned: Consience saith, crueltye sure will detest me;[9] And Justice saith, death in thend will molest me: And both in one sodden, me thinkes they do crie That fier eternall my soule shall destroy. [7] In original, _he_. [8] Heed. [9] Make me detestable. But he always comes back to the supreme fact of his longing forVirginia: By hir I liue, by hir I die, for hir I joy or woe, For hir my soule doth sinke or swimme, for her, I swere, I goe. And there are the potentialities of a really powerful effect in thetransition from his jubilant outburst when he thinks his waiting is atan end: O lucky light! lo, present heere hir father doth appeare,to his misgivings when he sees the old man is unaccompanied: O, how I joy! Yet bragge thou not. Dame Beuty bides behinde. And immediately thereafter the severed head is displayed to his view. Nor was R. B. , whether or not he was Richard Bower, Master of theChapel children, quite without equipment for the treatment of aclassical theme, though in this respect as in others his procedure isuncertain and fumbling in the highest degree. The typical personages ofthe under-plot have no relish of Latinity save in the termination ofthe labels that serve them as names, and they swear by God’s Mother,and talk glibly of church and pews and prayer books, and a “pair ofnew cards. ” Even in the better accredited Romans of Livy’s story thereare anachronisms and incongruities. Appius, though ordinarily a judge,speaks of himself as prince, king or kaiser; and references are madeto his crown and realm. Nevertheless the author is not without thevelleities of Humanism. He ushers in his prologue with some atrociousLatin Elegiacs, which the opening lines of the English are obligingenough to paraphrase: Qui cupis aethereas et summas scandere sedes, Vim simul ac fraudem discute, care, tibi. Fraus hic nulla juvat, non fortia facta juvabunt: Sola Dei tua te trahet tersa fides. Cui placet in terris, intactae paludis[10] instar, Vivere Virginiam nitere, Virgo, sequi: Quos tulit et luctus, discas et gaudia magna, Vitae dum parcae scindere fila parant. Huc ades, O Virgo pariter moritura, sepulchro; Sic ait, et facies pallida morte mutat. Who doth desire the trump of fame to sound unto the skies, Or els who seekes the holy place where mighty Joue he lies, He must not by deceitfull mind, nor yet by puissant strength, But by the faith and sacred lyfe he must it win at length; And what[11] she be that virgins lyfe on earth wold gladly leade, The fluds that Virginia did fall[12] I wish her reade, Her doller and hir doleful losse and yet her joyes at death: “Come, Virgins pure, to graue with me,” quoth she with latest breath. [10] Professor Butler, to whom I am indebted for other emendationsof the passage, which is very corrupt in the printed text, suggests_Palladis_, which gives a meaning, _the Virgin goddess_, and saves themetre. But I am not sure that R. B. had any bigoted objection to falsequantities. [11] _I. e. _ “whoever. ”[12] Fall, causative; “the tears she copiously shed. ”In the same way there is throughout a lavish display of cheap boyisherudition. Thus Virginius, reckoning up his services to Appius,soliloquises: In Mars his games, in marshall feates, thou wast his only aide, The huge Carrebd his[13] hazards thou for him hast[14] ofte assaied. Was Sillas force by thee oft shunde or yet Lady Circe’s[15] lande, Pasiphae’s[16] childe, that Minnotaur, did cause thee euer stande? [13] Charybdis. [14] Original, _was_. [15] So Hazlitt; in the original _Adrice_. [16] In the original, _Lacefaer_. We are here indeed on the threshold of a very different kind of art, ofwhich, in its application to Roman history, a sample had been submittedto the English public two years previously in the _Octavia_ ascribed toSeneca. The Latin Tragedy, merely because it was Latin, and for that reasonwithin the reach of a far greater number of readers, was much betterknown than the Greek at the period of the Renaissance. But apart fromits advantage in accessibility, it attracted men of that age notonly by its many brilliant qualities but by its very defects, itstendency to heightened yet abstract portraiture, its declamation, itssententiousness, its violence, its unrestfulness. It had both forgood and bad a more modern bearing than the masterpieces of Hellenicantiquity, and in some ways it corresponded more closely with theculture of the sixteenth century than with our own. It was thereforebound to have a very decisive influence in shaping the traditions ofthe later stage; and the collection of ten plays ascribed to Seneca,the poor remainder of a numerous tribe that may be traced back tothe third century before Christ, furnished the pattern which criticsprescribed for imitation to all who would achieve the tragic crown. And if this was true of the series as a whole, it was also true of theplay, which, whatever may be said of the other nine, is certainly notby Seneca himself, the poorest of them all, with most of the faults andfew of the virtues of the rest, _Octavia_, the sole surviving exampleof the _Fabula Praetexta_, or the Tragedy that dealt with native Romanthemes. The _Octavia_, however, was not less popular and influentialthan its companions, and has even a claim to especial attentioninasmuch as it may be considered the remote ancestress of the ModernHistoric Play in general and of the Modern Roman Play in particular. It inspired Mussato about 1300 to write in Latin his _Eccerinis_,which deals with an almost contemporary national subject, the fateof Ezzelino: it inspired the young Muretus about 1544 to write his_Julius Caesar_, which in turn showed his countrymen the way to treatsuch themes in French. Before eight years were over they had begunto do so, and many were the Roman plays composed by the School ofRonsard. Certainly Seneca’s method would suit the historical dramatistwho was not quite at home in his history, for of local colour andvisual detail it made small account, and indeed was hardly compatiblewith them. And it would commend itself no less to men of letters who,without much dramatic sympathy or aptitude, with no knowledge of stagerequirements, and little prospect of getting their pieces performed,felt called upon _honoris causâ_ to write dramas, which one of the mostdistinguished and successful among them was candid enough to entitlenot plays but treatises. It is worth while to have a clear idea ofthe _Octavia_ from which in right line this illustrious and forgottenprogeny proceeded. The date of the action is supposed to be 62 A. D. when Nero, who had forsome time wished to wed his mistress, Poppaea Sabina, and had murderedhis mother, partly on account of her opposition, divorced his virtuouswife, his step-sister Octavia, and exiled her to Pandataria, whereshortly afterwards he had her put to death. The fact that Seneca is oneof the persons in the piece, and that there are anticipatory referencesto Nero’s death, which followed Seneca’s compulsory suicide only afteran interval of three years, sufficiently disposes of the theory thatthe philosopher himself was the author. The text accepted in the sixteenth century suffered much, not only fromthe corruption of individual expressions, but from the displacementof entire passages. Greatly to its advantage it has been rearrangedby later editors, but in the following account, their conjectures,generally happy and sometimes convincing, have been disregarded, asthey were unknown to Thomas Nuce, who rendered it into English in1561. In his hands, therefore, it is more loosely connected than itoriginally was, or than once more it has become for us; and somethingof regularity it forfeits as well, for the dislocated framework ledhim to regard it as a drama in only four acts. Despite these flaws inhis work he is a cleverer craftsman than many of his colleagues inSenecan translation, whose versions of the ten tragedies, most of themalready published separately, were collected in a neat little volume in1851. [17][17] It is from this that I quote. I have not been able to see eitherthe first edition or the reprint for the Spenser Society. An original “argument” summarises the story with sufficient clearness. Octauia, daughter to prince Claudius grace, To Nero espousd, whom Claudius did adopt, (Although Syllanus first in husbandes place Shee had receiu’d, whom she for Nero chopt[18]), Her parentes both, her Make that should have bene, Her husbandes present Tiranny much more, Her owne estate, her case that she was in, Her brother’s death, (pore wretch), lamenteth sore. Him Seneca doth persuade, his latter loue, Dame Poppie, Crispyne’s wife that sometime was, And eake Octauias maide, for to remoue. For Senecks counsel he doth lightly passe[19] But Poppie ioynes to him in marriage rites. The people wood[20] unto his pallace runne, His golden fourmed shapes[21]; which them sore spytes, They pull to ground: this uprore, now begunne, To quench, he some to griesly death doth send. But her close cased up in dreadful barge, With her unto Compania coast to wend A band of armed men, he gave in charge. This programme the play proceeds to fill in. In the first act Octavia, unbosoming herself to her nurse, relieves herheart of its woe and horror. She recounts the misfortunes of her house,the atrocities of her lord, his infidelities to her, her detestationof him. The nurse is full of sympathy, but admonishes her to patience,consoling her with assurances of the people’s love, and reminding herof the truancies that the Empress of Heaven had also to excuse in herown husband and brother: Now, madam, sith on earth your powre is pight And haue on earth Queene Junos princely place, And sister are and wyfe to Neroes grace, Your wondrous restles dolours great appease. [22][18] Exchanged. [19] Has small consideration. [20] Mad. [21] Statues. [22] Tu quoque terris altera Juno Soror Augusti coniunxque graves vince dolores. (Line 224, ed. Peiper & Richter). This is now assigned to the chorus. The chorus closes the act with a variation on the same themes, passingfrom praises of Octavia’s purity and regrets for the ancient Romanintolerance of wrong, to the contrasted picture of Nero’s unchallengedmalignity. The second act commences with a monologue by Seneca on the growingcorruption of the age, which is interrupted by the approach of hismaster in talk with the Prefect. His words, as he enters, are: Dispatch with speede that we commaunded haue: Go, send forthwith some one or other slaue, That Plautius cropped scalpe, and Sillas eke, May bring before our face: goe some man seeke. [23]Seneca remonstrates, but his remonstrances are of no avail; and ina long discussion in which he advocates a policy of righteousnessand goodwill and the sacredness of Octavia’s claims, he is equallyunsuccessful. The act, to which there is no chorus, concludes withNero’s determination to flout the wishes of the people and persist inthe promotion of Poppaea: Why do we not appoynt the morrow next When as our mariage pompe may be context? [24]The third act is ushered in with one of those boding apparitions ofwhich the Senecan Tragedy is so fond. The shade of Agrippina rises, thebridal torch of Nero and Poppaea in her hand: Through paunch of riuened earth, from Plutoes raigne With ghostly steps I am returnd agayne, In writhled wristes, that bloud do most desyre, Forguyding[25] wedlocke vyle with Stygian fire. [26][23] Perage imperata: mitte qui Plauti mihi Sillaeque caesi referat abscissum caput. (Line 449. )[24] Quin destinamus proximum thalamis diem? (Line 604. )[25] Guiding to ruin. [26] Tellure rupta Tartaro gressum extuli stygiam cruenta praeferens dextra facem thalamis scelestis. (Line 605. )She bewails her crimes on her son’s behalf and his parricidalingratitude, but vengeance will fall on him at last. Although that Tyrant proude and scornful wight His court with marble stone do strongly dyght, And princelike garnish it with glistering golde: Though troupes of soldiours, shielded sure, upholde Their chieftaynes princely porch: and though yet still The world drawne drye with taskes even to his will Great heapes of riches yeeld, themselues to saue; Although his bloudy helpe the Parthians craue, And Kingdomes bring, and goods al that they haue; The tyme and day shall come, when as he shall, Forlorne, and quite undone, and wanting all, Unto his cursed deedes his life, and more, Unto his foes his bared throate restore. [27]As she disappears, Octavia enters in conversation with the chorus, whomshe dissuades from the expression of sympathy for her distress lestthey should incur the wrath of the tyrant. On this suggestion theydenounce the supineness of the degenerate Romans in the vindication ofright, and exhort each other to an outbreak. [27] Licet extruat marmoribus atque auro tegat superbus aulam, limen armatae ducis servent cohortes, mittat immensas opes exhaustus orbis, supplices dextram petant Parthi cruentam, regna divitias ferant: veniet dies tempusque quo reddat suis animam nocentem sceleribus jugulum hostibus desertus ac destructus et cunctis egens. (Line 636. )In the fourth act, Poppaea, terrified by an ominous dream of Nerostabbing her first husband, and of Agrippina, a firebrand in her grasp,leading her down through the earth, rushes across the stage, but isstayed by her nurse, who soothes and encourages her, and bids herreturn to her bridal chamber. Yet it seems as though her worst fearswere at once to be realised. The chorus, acknowledging the charms ofthe new Empress, is interrupted by the hurried arrival of a messenger. He announces that the people are in uproar, overthrowing the statues ofPoppaea, and demanding the restitution of Octavia. But to what purpose? The chorus sings that it is vain to oppose the resistless arms of love. It is at least vain to oppose the arms of Nero’s soldiers. Confident intheir strength he enters, breathing forth threatenings and slaughter,and expectant of a time when he will exact a full penalty from thecitizens: Then shall their houses fall by force of fire; What burning both, and buildings fayre decay,[28] What beggarly want, and wayling hunger may, Those villaines shall be sure to have ech day. [29]Dreaming of the future conflagration, he is dissatisfied with theprefect, who tells him that the insurrection has been easily quelledwith the death of one or two, and meanwhile turns all his wrath againstthe innocent cause of the riot. The play does not, however, end withthe murder of Octavia. She informs the chorus that she is to bedispatched in Agrippina’s death-ship to her place of exile, But now no helpe of death I feele, Alas I see my Brothers boate: This is the same, whose vaulted keele His Mother once did set a flote. And now his piteous Sister I, Excluded cleane from spousall place Shall be so caried by and by;[30] No force hath virtue in this case. [31][28] Destruction of fair buildings. [29] Mox tecta flammis concidant urbis meis, ignes ruinae noxium populum premant turpisque egestas saeva cum luctu fames. (Line 847. )[30] At once. [31] Sed iam spes est nulla salutis: fratris cerno miseranda ratem, hac en cuius vecta carina quondam genetrix nunc et thalamis expulsa soror miseranda vehar. (Line 926. )And the final song of the chorus, with a touch of dramatic irony,wishes her a prosperous voyage, and congratulates her on her removalfrom the cruel city of Rome: O pippling puffe of western wynde, Which sacrifice didst once withstand, Of Iphigen to death assignde: And close in Cloude congealed clad Did cary hir from smoking aares[32] Which angry, cruell Virgin had; This Prince also opprest with cares Saue from this paynefull punishment To Dian’s temple safely borne: The barbarous Moores, to rudenesse bent, Then[33] Princes Courtes in Rome forlorne Haue farre more Cyuile curtesie: For there doth straungers death appease The angry Gods in heauens on hie, But Romayne bloude our Rome must please. [34][32] Altars. [33] Than. [34] Lenes aurae zephyrique leves tectam quondam nube aetheria qui vixistis raptam saevae virginis aris Iphigeniam, hanc quoque tristi procul a poena portate precor templa ad Triviae. Urbe est nostra mitior Aulis et Maurorum {note} barbara tellus; hospitis illic caede litatur numen superum, civis gaudet Roma cruore. (Line 1002. ) {note} Better reading, Taurorum. There could be no greater contrast than between _Appius and Virginia_,with its exits and entrances, its changefulness and bustle, its mixtureof the pompous and the farcical; and the monotonous declamation,the dismissal of all action, the meagreness of the material in the_Octavia_. And yet they are more akin than they at first sight appear. Disregard the buffoonery which the mongrel “tragicall comedie”inherited from the native stock, and you perceive traits that suggestanother filiation. The similarity with the Latin Play in its Englishversion is, of course, misleading, except in so far as it shows howthe Senecan drama must present itself to an early Elizabethan inthe light of his own crude art. The devices of the rhetorician weretravestied by those who knew no difference between rhetoric and rant,and whose very rant, whether they tried to invent or to translate, wasclumsy and strained. Hence the “tenne tragedies” of Seneca and thenearly contemporary Mixed Plays have a strong family resemblance instyle. In all of them save the _Octavia_ the resemblance extends fromdiction to verse, for in dialogue and harangue they employ the trailingfourteen-syllable measure of the popular play, while in the _Octavia_this is discarded for the more artistic heroic couplet. In this andother respects, T. N. , as Nuce signs himself, is undoubtedly more athis ease in the literary element than others of the group; neverthelesshe is often content to fly the ordinary pitch of R. B. This is mostobvious when their performances are read and compared as a whole, butit is evident enough in single passages. The Nurse, for example, saysof Nero to Octavia: Eft steppèd into servile Pallace stroke, To filthy vices lore one easly broke, Of Divelish wicked wit this Princocks proude, By stepdames wyle prince Claudius Sonne auoude; Whome deadly damme did bloudy match ylight, And thee, against thy will, for feare did plight. [35][35] The original author has a right to complain: Intravit hostis hei mihi captam domum dolisque novercae principis factus gener idemque natus iuvenis infandi ingeni scelerum capacis dira cui genetrix facem accendit et te iunxit invitam metu. (Line 155. )These words might almost suit the mouths of Appius and his victims. But leaving aside the affinities due to the common use of Englishby writers on much the same plane of art, the London medley is notimmeasurably different from or inferior to the Roman _Praetexta_,even when confronted with the latter in its native dress. In both thecharacterisation is in the same rudimentary and obvious style, andshows the same predilection for easily classified types. There is evenless genuine theatrical tact in the Latin than in the English drama. The chief persons are under careful supervision and are kept rigidlyapart. Nero never meets Octavia or Poppaea, Poppaea and Octavia nevermeet each other. No doubt there are some successful touches: the firstentrance of Nero is not ineffective; the equivocal hopefulness of thelast chorus is a thing one remembers: the insertion of Agrippina’sprophecy and Poppaea’s dream does something to keep in view the futurerequital and so to alleviate the thickening gloom. Except for these,however, and a few other felicities natural to a writer with longdramatic traditions behind him, the _Octavia_ strikes us as a seriesof disquisitions and discussions, well-arranged, well-managed, ofteneffective, sometimes brilliant, that have been suggested by a singleimpressive historical situation. 2. THE FRENCH SENECANSThese salient features are transmitted to the Senecan dramas of France,except that the characterisation is even vaguer, the declamationampler, and the whole treatment less truly dramatic and more obviouslyrhetorical; of which there is an indication in the greater relativeprominence of monologue as compared with dialogue, and in the excessivepredilection for general reflections,[36] many of them derived fromSeneca and Horace, but many of them too of modern origin. [36] “Jodelle’s und Garnier’s Dramen sind reicher an Sentenzen als dieSeneca’s, Jodelle hat mehr als doppelt so viel. ” _Gedankenkreis . . . in Jodelle’s und Garnier’s Tragödien_, by Paul Kahnt, who gives theresults of his calculations in an interesting table. At the head of the list stands the _Julius Caesar_ of Muretus, a playwhich, even if of far less intrinsic worth than can be claimed forit, would always be interesting for the associations with which it issurrounded. Montaigne, after mentioning among his other tutors “Marc AntoineMuret,” que le France et l’Italie recognoist pour le meilleur orateurdu temps, goes on to tell us: “J’ay soustenu les premiers personnagesez tragedies latines de Buchanan, de Guerente et de Muret, qui serepresenterent en nostre college de Guienne avecques dignité: en cela,Andreas Goveanus, nostre principal, comme en toutes aultres parties desa charge, feut sans comparaison le plus grand principal de France; etm’en tenoit on maistre ouvrier. ”The _Julius Caesar_ written in 1544 belongs to the year beforeMontaigne left Bordeaux at the age of thirteen, so he may have takenone of the chief parts in it, Caesar, or M. Brutus, or Calpurnia. This would always give us a kind of personal concern in Muret’s shortboyish composition of barely 600 lines, which he wrote at the age ofeighteen and afterwards published only among his _Juvenilia_. But ithas an importance of its own. Of course it is at the best an academicexperiment, though from Montaigne’s statement that these plays werepresented “avecques dignité,” and from the interest the principal tookin the matter, we may suppose that the performance would be exemplaryin its kind. Of course, too, even as an academic experiment it doesnot, to modern taste, seem on the level of the more elaborate tragedieswhich George Buchanan, “ce grand poëte ecossois,” as Montaignereverently styles his old preceptor, had produced at the comparativelymature age of from thirty-three to thirty-six, ere leaving Bordeaux twoyears before. It is inferior to the _Baptistes_ and far inferior tothe _Jephthes_ in precision of portraiture and pathos of appeal. Butin the sixteenth century, partly, no doubt, because the subject wasof such secular importance and the treatment so congenial to learnedtheory, but also, no doubt, because the eloquence was sometimes sogenuinely eloquent, and the Latin, despite a few licenses in metre andgrammar, so racy of the classic soil, it obtained extraordinary fameand exercised extraordinary influence. For these reasons, as well asthe additional one that it is now less widely known than it ought tobe, a brief account of it may not be out of place. The first act is entirely occupied with a soliloquy by Caesar, in whichhe represents himself as having attained the summit of earthly glory. Let others at their pleasure count their triumphs, and name themselves from vanquished provinces. It is more to be called Caesar: whoso seeks fresh titles elsewhere, takes something away thereby. Would you have me reckon the regions conquered under my command? Enumerate all there are. [37]Even Rome has yielded to him, even his great son-in-law admitted hispower, and whom he would not have as an equal, he has borne as a superior. [38][37] Numerent triumphos, cum volent, alii suos, Seque {note} subactis nominent provinciis. Plus est vocari Caesarem; quisquis novos Aliunde titulos quaerit, is jam detrahit: Numerare ductu vis meo victas plagas? Percurrito omnes. {note} Insert _ex_. [38] quemque noluerat parem, Tulit priorem. What more is to be done? My quest must be heaven, earth is become base to me. . . . Now long enough have I lived whether for myself or for my country. . . . The destruction of foes, the gift of laws to the people, the ordering of the year, the restoration of splendour to worship, the settlement of the world,—than these, greater things can be conceived by none, nor pettier be performed by me. . . . When life has played the part assigned to it, death never comes in haste and sometimes too late. [39][39] Coelum petendum est: terra jam vilet mihi. . . . Jam vel mihi, vel patriae vixi satis. . . . Hostes perempti, civibus leges datae, Digestus annus, redditus sacris nitor, Compostus orbis, cogitari nec queunt Majora cuiquam, nec minora a me geri. . . . Cum vita partes muneris functa est sui, Mors propera nunquam, sera nonnunquam venit. The chorus sings of the immutability of fortune. In the second act Brutus, in a long monologue, upbraids himself withhis delay. Does the virtue of thy house move thee nought, and nought the name of Brutus? Nought, the hard lot of thy groaning country, crushed by the tyrant and calling for thine aid? Nought the petitions in which the people lament that Brutus comes not to champion the state? If these things fail to touch thee, thy wife now gives thee rede enough that thou be a man; who has pledged her faith to thee in blood, thus avouching herself the offspring of thine uncle. [40][40] Nihilne te virtus tuorum commovet, Nomenque Bruti? nihil {note} gementis patriae, Pressae a tyranno, opemque poscentis tuam Conditio dura? nil libelli supplices, Queis Brutum abesse civitatis vindicem Cives queruntur? Haec parum si te movent, Tua jam, vir ut sis, te satis conjux monet, Fidem cruore quae tibi obstrinxit suam. Testata sic se avunculi prolem tui. {note} Certainly read _nil_. He raises and meets the objections which his understanding offers: Say you he is not king but dictator? If the thing be the same, what boots a different name? Say you he shuns that name, and rejects the crowns they proffer him: this is pretence and mockery, for why then did he remove the tribunes? True, he gave me dignities and once my life; with me my country outweighs them all. Whoso shows gratitude to a tyrant against his country’s interest, is ingrate while he seeks to be stupidly grateful. [41]And his conclusion is The sun reawakening to life saw the people under the yoke, and slaves: at his setting may he see them free. [42]To him enters Cassius exultant that the day has arrived, impatient forthe decisive moment, scarce able to restrain his eagerness. Only onescruple remains to him; should Antony be slain along with his master? Brutus answers: Often already have I said that my purpose is this, to destroy tyranny but save the citizens. _Cass. _ Then let it be destroyed from its deepest roots, lest if only cut down, it sprout again at some time hereafter. _Brut. _ The whole root lurks under a single trunk. _Cass. _ Think’st thou so? I shall say no more. Thy will be done: we all follow thy guidance. [43][41] At vero non rex iste, sed dictator est. Dum res sit una, quid aliud nomen juvat? At nomen illud refugit, et oblatas sibi Rejicit coronas. Fingere hoc et ludere est. Nam cur Tribunos igitur amovit loco? At mihi et honores et semel vitam dedit. Plus patria illis omnibus apud me potest. Qui se tyranno in patriam gratum exhibet, Dum vult inepte gratus esse, ingratus est. [42] Phoebus renascens subditos cives jugo, Servosque vidit: liberos videat cadens. [43] Jam saepe dixi, id esse consilium mihi, Salvis perimere civibus tyrannida. _Cass. _ Perimatur ergo ab infimis radicibus, Ne quando posthac caesa rursum pullulet. _Bru. _ Latet sub uno tota radix corpore. _Cass. _ Itan’ videtur? amplius nil proloquar. Tibi pareatur; te sequimur omnes ducem. The chorus sings the glories of those who, like Harmodius with his“amiculus,” destroy the tyrants, and the risks these tyrants run. In the third act Calpurnia, flying in panic to her chamber, is met byher nurse, to whom she discloses the cause of her distress. She hasdreamed that Caesar lies dead in her arms covered with blood, andstabbed with many wounds. The nurse points out the vanity of dreams andthe unlikelihood of any attempt against one so great and beneficent,whose clemency has changed even foes to friends. Calpurnia, only halfcomforted, rejoins that she will at least beseech him to remain at homethat day, and the chorus prays that misfortune may be averted. In the fourth act Calpurnia tries her powers of persuasion. To herpassionate appeal, her husband answers: What? Dost thou ask me to trust thy dreams? _Cal. _ No; but to concede something to my fear. _Caes. _ But that fear of thine rests on dreams alone. _Cal. _ Assume it to be vain; grant something to thy wife. [44]She goes on to enumerate the warning portents, and at length Caesarassents to her prayers since she cannot repress her terrors. But hereDecimus Brutus strikes in: High-hearted Caesar, what word has slipped from thee? [45]He bids him remember his glory: O most shameful plight if the world is ruled by Caesar and Caesar by a woman. . . . What, Caesar, dost thou suppose the Fathers will think if thou bidst them, summoned at thy command, to depart now and to return when better dreams present themselves to Calpurnia. Go rather resolutely and assume a name the Parthians must dread: or if this please thee not, at least go forth, and thyself dismiss the Fathers; let them not think they are slighted and had in derision. [46][44] Quid? Somniis me credere tuis postulas? _Cal. _ Non: sed timori ut non nihil tribuas meo. _Caes. _ At iste solis nititur somniis timor. _Cal. _ Finge esse vanum: tribuito aliquid conjugi. [45] Magnanime Caesar, quod tibi verbum excidit? [46] O statum deterrimum, Si Caesar orbem, Caesarem mulier regit! . . . Quid, Caesar, animi patribus credis fore, Si te jubente convocatos jusseris Abire nunc, redire, cum Calpurniae Meliora sese objecerint insomnia? Vade potius constanter, et nomen cape Parthis timendum; aut, hoc minus si te juvat, Prodito saltem, atque ipse patres mittito: Ne negligi se, aut ludibrio haberi putent. Caesar is bent one way by pity for his wife, another by fear of thesetaunts; but, at last, leaving Calpurnia to her misgivings, he exclaims: But yet, since even to fall, so it be but once, is better than to be laden with lasting fear; not if three hundred prophet-voices call me back, not if with his own voice the present Deity himself warn me of the peril and urge my staying here, shall I refrain. [47]The chorus cites the predictions of Cassandra to show that it wouldsometimes be wise to follow the counsel of women. In the fifth act Brutus and Cassius appear in triumph. _Brut. _ Breathe, citizens; Caesar is slain! . . . In the Senate which he erewhile overbore, he lies overborne. _Cass. _ Behold, Rome, the sword yet warm with blood, behold the hand that hath championed thine honour. That loathsome one who in impious frenzy and blind rage had troubled thee and thine, sore wounded by this same hand, by this same sword which thou beholdest, and gashed in every limb, hath spewed forth his life in a flood of gore. [48][47] Sed tamen quando semel Vel cadere praestat, quam metu longo premi; Non si tracentis vocibus vatum avocer, Non si ipse voce propria praesens Deus Moneat pericli, atque hic manendum suadeat, Me continebo. [48] _Brut. _ Spirate cives! Caesar interfectus est. . . . In curia, quam oppresserat, oppressus jacet. _Cass. _ En, Roma, gladium adhuc tepentem sanguine; En dignitatis vindicem dextram tuae. Impurus ille, qui furore nefario, Rabieque caeca, te et tuos vexaverat, Hac, hac manu, atque hoc, hocce gladio, quem vides, Consauciatus, et omnibus membris lacer Undam cruoris, et animum evomuit simul. As they leave, Calpurnia enters bewailing the truth of her dream, andinviting to share in her laments the chorus, which denounces vengeanceon the criminals. Then the voice of Caesar is heard in rebuke of theirtears and in comfort of their distress. Only his shadow fell, but hehimself is joined to the immortals. Weep no more: it is the wretched that tears befit. Those who assailed me with frantic mind—a god am I, and true is my prophecy—shall not escape vengeance for their deed. My sister’s grandson, heir of my virtue as of my sceptre, will require the penalty as seems good to him. [49][49] Desinite flere: lacrymae miseros decent. Qui me furenti, (vera praemoneo Indiges) Sunt animo adorti, non inultum illud ferent. Heres meae virtutis, ut sceptri mei, Nepos sororis, arbitratu pro suo Poenos reposcet. Calpurnia recognises the voice, and the chorus celebrates the bliss ofthe “somewhat” that is released from the prison house of the body. It is interesting to note that Muretus already employs a number of the_motifs_ that reappear in Shakespeare. Thus he gives prominence to theself-conscious magnanimity of Caesar: to the temporary hesitation ofBrutus, with his appeal to his name and the letters that are placed inhis way; to his admiration for the courage and constancy of Portia; tohis final whole-heartedness and disregard of Caesar’s love for him; tohis prohibition of Mark Antony’s death; to Cassius’ vindictive zeal andeager solicitation of his friend; to Calpurnia’s dream, and the contestbetween her and Decimus Brutus and in Caesar’s own mind; to Caesar’sfatal decision in view of his honour, and his rejection of the fear ofdeath; to the exultation of Brutus and Cassius as they enter with theirblood-stained swords after the deed is done. And more noticeable thanany of these details, are the divided admiration and divided sympathythe author bestows both on Brutus and Caesar—which are obvious evenin the wavering utterances of the chorus. We are far removed from thetimes when Dante saw Lucifer devouring Brutus and Cassius in two ofhis mouths with Judas between them; or when Chaucer, making a compositemonster of the pair, tells how “false Brutus-Cassius,” “That ever hadde of his hye state envye,”“stikede” Julius with “boydekins. ” But we are equally far from thetimes when Marie-Joseph Chénier was to write his tragedy of _Brutus etCassius, Les Derniers Romains_. At the renaissance the characteristicfeeling was enthusiasm for Caesar and his assassin alike, though it wasShakespeare alone who knew how to reconcile the two points of view. [50]Of the admiration which Muret’s little drama excited there isdocumentary proof. Prefixed to it are a number of congratulatoryverses, and among the eulogists are not only scholars, likeBuchanan,[51] but literary men, members of the Pléiade—Dorât, Baïf,and especially Jodelle, who has his complimentary conceits on theappropriateness of the author’s name, Mark Antony, to the feat he hasaccomplished. [50] I am quite unable to agree with Herr Collischonn’s view thatMuret’s play is more republican in sentiment than that of Grévin. In both there is some discrepancy and contradiction, but withMuret, Caesar is a more prominent figure than Brutus, taking partin three scenes, if we include his intervention after death, whileBrutus appears only in two, and to my mind Caesar makes fully assympathetic an impression. On the other hand, the alleged monarchicbias of Grévin’s work cannot be considered very pronounced, when,as M. Faguet mentions in his _Tragédie française au XVIͤ Siècle_,“it was reprinted in the time of Ravaillac with a preface violentlyhostile to the principle of monarchy. ” But see Herr Collischonn’sexcellent introduction to his _Grevin’s Tragödie “Caesar,” Ausgaben undAbhandlungen, etc. , LII_. [51] See Ruhnken’s edition of Muretus. For the text I have generallybut not always used Collischonn’s reprint. But this last testimony leads us to the less explicit but not lessobvious indications of the influence exercised by Muret’s tragedy whichappear in the subsequent story of literary production. This influencewas both indirect and direct. The example of this modern Latin playcould not but count for something when Jodelle took the further stepof treating another Roman theme in the vernacular. In the vernacular,too, Grévin was inspired to rehandle the same theme as Muretus,obtaining from his predecessor most of his material and his apparatus. These experiments again were not without effect on the later dramas ofGarnier, two of which were to leave a mark on English literature. The first regular tragedy as well as the first Roman history in theFrench language was the _Cléopatre Captive_ of Jodelle, acted withgreat success in 1552 before Henry II. by Jodelle’s friends, who atthe subsequent banquet presented to him, in semi-pagan wise, a goatdecked with flowers and ivy. The prologue[52] to the King describes thecontents. “C’est une tragedie Qui d’une voix plaintive et hardie Te represente un Romain, Marc Antoine, Et Cleopatre, Egyptienne royne, Laquelle après qu’Antoine, son amy, Estant desjà vaincu par l’ennemy, Se fust tué, ja se sentant captive, Et qu’on vouloit la porter toute vive En un triomphe avecques ses deux femmes, S’occit. Icy les desirs et les flammes De deux amants: d’Octavian aussi L’orgueil, l’audace et le journel soucy De son trophée emprains tu sonderas.

”But this programme conveys an impression of greater variety andabundance than is justified by the piece. In point of fact it beginsonly after the death of Antony, who does not intervene save as a ghostin the opening scene, to bewail his offences and announce that in adream he has bid Cleopatra join him before the day is out. [53] Nor dowe hear anything of “desirs et flammes” on his part; rather he resentsher seductions, and has summoned her to share his torments:[52] _Ancien Théatre François_, Tome IV. ed Viollet Le Duc. [53] As he puts it, rather comically to modern ears: ‘Avant que ce soleil qui vient ores de naistre, Ayant tracé son jour, _chez sa tante se plonge_. ’ Or se faisant compagne en ma peine et tristesse Qui s’est faite longtemps compagne en ma liesse. The sequel does little more than describe how his command is carriedout. Cleopatra enters into conversation with Eras and Charmium, anddespite their remonstrances resolves to obey. The chorus sings of thefickleness of fortune: (Act I. ). Octavianus, after a passing regretfor Antony, arranges with Proculeius and Agrippa to make sure of herpresence at his triumph. The chorus sings of the perils of pride:(Act II. ). Octavianus visits the Queen, dismisses her excuses, butgrants mercy to her and her children, and pardons her deceit when herretention of her jewellery is exposed by Seleucus. But Seleucus isinconsolable for his offence as well as his castigation, and exclaims: Lors que la royne, et triste et courageuse, Devant Cesar aux chevaux m’a tiré, Et de son poing mon visage empiré, S’elle m’eust fait mort en terre gesir, Elle eust preveu à mon present desir, Veu que la mort n’eust point esté tant dure Que l’eternelle et mordante pointure Qui jà desjà jusques au fond me blesse D’avoir blessé ma royne et ma maistresse. The chorus oddly enough discovers in her maltreatment of thetale-bearer a proof of her indomitable spirit, and an indication thatshe will never let herself be led to Rome: (Act III. ). Cleopatra nowexplains that her submission was only feigned to secure the livesof her children, and that she herself has no thought of followingthe conqueror’s car. Eras and Charmium approve, and all three departto Antony’s tomb to offer there a last sacrifice, which the chorusdescribes in full detail: (Act IV. ). Proculeius in consternationannounces the sequel: “J’ay veu (ô rare et miserable chose! ) Ma Cleopatre en son royal habit Et sa couronne, au long d’un riche lict Peint et doré, blesme et morte couchée, Sans qu’elle fust d’aucun glaive touchée, Avecq Eras, sa femme, à ses pieds morte, Et Charmium vive, qu’en telle sorte J’ay lors blasmée: ‘A a! Charmium, est-ce Noblement faict? ’ ‘Ouy, ouy, c’est de noblesse De tant de rois Egyptiens venuë Un tesmoignage. ’ Et lors, peu soustenuë En chancelant et s’accrochant en vain, Tombe a l’envers, restans un tronc humain. ”The chorus celebrates the pitifulness and glory of her end, and thesupremacy of Caesar: (Act _V. _). Thus, despite the promises of the prologue, the play resolves itself toa single _motif_, the determination of Cleopatra to follow Antony indefiance of Octavianus’ efforts to prevent her. Nevertheless, simple asit is, it fails in real unity. The ghost of Antony, speaking, one mustsuppose, the final verdict, pronounces condemnation on her as well ashimself; yet in the rest of the play, even in the undignified episodewith Seleucus, Jodelle bespeaks for her not only our sympathy but ouradmiration. It is just another aspect of this that Antony treats herdeath as the beginning of her punishment, but to her and her attendantsand the women of Alexandria it is a desirable release. The recurrenttheme of the chorus, varied to suit the complexion of the differentacts, is always the same: Joye, qui dueil enfante Se meurdrist; puis la mort, Par la joye plaisante, Fait au deuil mesme tort. Half a dozen years later, in 1558, the _Confrères de la Passion_ wereacting a play which Muretus had more immediately prompted, and whichdid him greater credit. This was the _Cesar_ of Jacques Grévin, a youngHuguenot gentlemen who, at the age of twenty, recast in French theeven more juvenile effort of the famous scholar, expanding it to twicethe size, introducing new personages, giving the old ones more to do,and while borrowing largely in language and construction, shaping itto his own ends and making it much more dramatic. Indeed, his tragedystrikes one as fitter for the popular stage than almost any other ofits class, and this seems to have been felt at the time, for besidesrunning through two editions in 1561 and 1562, it was reproduced bythe _Confrères_ with great success in the former year. Of course itstheatrical merit is only relative, and it does not escape the faultsof the Senecan school. Grévin styles his _dramatis personae_ ratherominously and very correctly “entre-parleurs”; for they talk ratherthan act. They talk, moreover, in long, set harangues even when theyare conversing, and Grévin so likes to hear them that he sometimes letsthe story wait. Nor do they possess much individuality or concretelife. But the young author has passion; he has fire; and he knows thedramatic secret of contrasting different moods and points of view. He follows his exemplar most closely, and often literally, in thefirst three acts, though even in them he often goes his own way. Thus,after Caesar’s opening soliloquy, which is by no means so Olympianas in Muret, he introduces Mark Antony, who encourages his masterwith reminders of his greatness and assurances of his devotion. Inthe second act, after Marcus Brutus’ monologue, not only Cassius butDecimus has something to say, and there is a quicker interchange ofstatement and rejoinder than is usual in such a play. In the thirdact, the third and fourth of Muretus are combined, and after theconversation of Calpurnia with the Nurse, there follow her attemptsto dissuade her husband from visiting the senate house, the hesitationof Caesar, the counter-arguments of Decimus; and in conclusion, whenDecimus has prevailed, the Nurse resumes her endeavours at consolation. The fourth act is entirely new, and gives an account of theassassination by the mouth of a Messenger, who is also a new person, tothe distracted Calpurnia and her sympathetic Nurse. In the fifth Grévinbegins by returning to his authority in the jubilant speeches of Brutusand Cassius, but one by Decimus is added; and rejecting the expedientof the ghostly intervention, he substitutes, much more effectively,that of Mark Antony, who addresses the chorus of soldiers, rouses themto vengeance, and having made sure of them, departs to stir up thepeople. Altogether a creditable performance, and a distinct improvement on themore famous play that supplied the groundwork. One must not be misledby the almost literal discipleship of Grévin in particular passages, tosuppose that even in language he is a mere imitator. The discipleshipis of course undeniable. Take Brutus’ outburst: Rome effroy de ce monde, exemple des provinces, Laisse la tyrannie entre les mains des Princes Du Barbare estranger, qui honneur luy fera, Non pas Rome, pendant que Brute vivera. And compare: Reges adorent barbarae gentes suos, Non Roma mundi terror, et mundi stupor. Vivente Bruto, Roma reges nesciet. So, too, after the murder Brutus denounces his victim: Ce Tyran, ce Cesar, ennemi du Senat. . . . Ce bourreau d’innocens, ruine de nos loix, La terreur des Romains, et le poison des droicts. The lines whence this extract is taken merely enlarge Muretus’ conciserstatement: Ille, ille, Caesar, patriae terror suae, Hostis senatus, innocentium carnifex, Legum ruina, publici jures lues. But generally Grévin is more abundant and more fervid even when hereproduces most obviously, and among the best of his purple patches aresome that are quite his own. He indeed thought differently. He modestlyconfesses: Je ne veux pourtant nier que s’il se trouve quelque traict digne estre loué, qu’il ne soit de Muret, lequel a esté mon precepteur quelque temps es lettres humaines, et auquel je donne le meilleur comme l’ayant appris de luy. All the same there is nothing in Muretus like the passage in whichBrutus promises himself an immortality of fame: Et quand on parlera de Cesar et de Romme, Qu’on se souvienne aussi qu’il a esté un homme, Un Brute, le vangeur de toute cruauté, Qui aura d’un seul coup gaigné la liberté. Quand on dira, Cesar fut maistre de l’empire, Qu’on die quant-et-quant, Brute le sceut occire. Quand on dira, Cesar fut premier Empereur, Qu’on die quant-et-quant, Brute en fut le vangeur. Ainsi puisse a jamais sa gloire estre suyvie De celle qui sera sa mortelle ennemie. Grévin’s tragedy had great vogue, was preferred even to those ofJodelle, and was praised by Ronsard, though Ronsard afterwardsretracted his praises when Grévin broke with him on religious grounds. His protestantism, however, would be a recommendation rather thanotherwise in England, and one would like to know whether some ofthe lost English pieces on the same subject owed anything to theFrench drama. The suggestion has even been made that Shakespeare wasacquainted with it. There are some vague resemblances in particularthoughts and phrases,[54] the closest of which occurs in Caesar’spronouncement on death: Il vault bien mieux mourir Asseuré de tout poinct, qu’incessament perir Faulsement par la peur. [54] Enumerated by Collischonn in his excellent edition, see above. Hehas, however, overlooked the one I give. This suggests: Cowards die many times before their deaths: The valiant never taste of death but once. (II. ii. 32. )Herr Collischonn also draws attention to a coincidence in situationthat is not derived from Plutarch. When the conspirators are discussingthe chances of Caesar’s attending the senate meeting, Cassius says: Encore qu’il demeure Plus long temps à venir, si fault il bien qu’il meure:and Decimus answers: Je m’en vay au devant, sans plus me tormenter, Et trouveray moyen de le faire haster. It is at least curious to find the same sort of addition, in the samecircumstances and with the same speakers in Shakespeare. _Cassius. _ But it is doubtful yet, Whether Caesar will come forth to-day, or no. . . . _Dec. Brut. _ Never fear that: if he be so resolved, I can o’ersway him. . . . For I can give his humour the true bent And I will bring him to the Capitol. (II. i. 194, 202, 210. )Such _minutiae_, however, are far from conclusive, especially since, asin the two instances quoted, which are the most significant, Plutarch,though he did not authorise, may at any rate have suggested them. Thefirst looks like an expansion of Caesar’s remark when his friendswere discussing which death was the best: “Death unlooked for. ” Thesecond follows as a natural dramatic anticipation of the part thatDecimus actually played in inducing Caesar to keep tryst. They mayvery well have occurred independently to both poets; or, if there bea connection, may have been transmitted from the older to the youngerthrough the medium of some forgotten English piece. There is morepresumptive evidence that Grévin influenced the _Julius Caesar_ of SirWilliam Alexander, Earl of Stirling; but Stirling’s paraphrase of hisauthorities is so diffuse that they are not always easy to trace. Hisapparent debts to Grévin may really be due to the later and much morefamous French Senecan Garnier, two of whose works have an undoubtedthough not very conspicuous place in the history of the English Dramagenerally, and especially of the Roman Play in England. _Cornélie_, the earlier and less successful of the pair, written inGarnier’s twenty-eighth year, was performed at the Hôtel de Bourgognein 1573, and was published in 1574. The young author was not altogetherunpractised in his art, for already in 1568 he had written a dramaon the subject of Portia, but he has not yet advanced beyond hispredecessors, and like them, or perhaps more obviously than they, isat the stage of regarding the tragedy “only as an elegy mixed withrhetorical expositions. ” The episode that he selected lent itself tosuch treatment. Cornelia, the daughter of Metellus Scipio, had after the loss of herfirst husband, the younger Cassius, become the wife of Pompey theGreat, of whose murder she was an eye-witness. Meanwhile her fatherstill made head against Caesar in Africa, and the play deals withher regrets and suspense at Rome till she learns the issue of thisfinal struggle. In the first act Cicero soliloquises on the woes ofthe country, which he traces to her lust of conquest; and the chorustakes up the burden at the close. In the second Cornelia bewails herown miseries, which she attributes to her infidelity in marryingagain: Cicero tries to comfort her and she refuses his comfort, bothin very long harangues; and the chorus describes the mutability ofmortal things. In the third act she narrates an ominous dream in whichthe shade of Pompey has visited her. Scarcely has she left the stagewhen Cicero enters to announce the triumph of Caesar and the death ofScipio. Cornelia re-enters to receive the urn with Pompey’s ashes, thesight of which stirs her to new laments for herself and imprecationsagainst Caesar. The chorus dwells on the capriciousness of fortune. Inthe fourth act the resentment against Caesar is emphasised by Cassiusin discourse with Decimus Brutus, and the chorus sings of Harmodios andAristogeiton; but after that Caesar and Antony come in and discuss themeans to be taken for Caesar’s safety, Antony advocating severity andcaution, Caesar leniency and confidence. This act is closed by a chorusof Caesar’s friends, who celebrate his services and virtues. The fifthact is chiefly occupied with the messenger’s account of Scipio’s lastbattle and death, at the end of which Cornelia at some length declaresthat when she has paid due funeral rites to husband and father, shewill surrender her own life. From this analysis it will be seen that _Cornélie_ as a play is aboutas defective as it could be. The subject is essentially undramatic,for the heroine—and there is no hero—has nothing to do but spend hertime in lamentations and forebodings, in eulogies and vituperations. Yet the subject is more suitable than the treatment. There is no traceof conflict, internal or external; for the persons maintain their ownpoint of view throughout, and the issue is a matter of course fromthe first. There is no entanglement or plot; but all the speakers, asthey enter in turn, are affected with a craving to deliver their mindseither in solitude or to some congenial listener: and their prolationslead to nothing. Even the unity of interest, which the classicistsso prized, and over-prized, is lacking here, despite the bareness ofthe theme. Cicero has hardly less to say than Cornelia, and in twoacts she does not so much as appear, while in one of them attentionis diverted from her sorrows to the dangers of Caesar. The heroine nodoubt retains a certain kind of primacy, but save for that, M. Faguet’sdescription would be literally correct: “The piece in the author’sconception might be entitled _Thoughts of various persons concerningRome at the Date of Thapsus_. ”[55] The _Cornélie_ is by no means devoidof merit, but that merit is almost entirely rhetorical, literary, andpoetical. The language is never undignified, the metres are carefullymanipulated; the descriptions and reflections, many of them taken fromLucan, though sometimes stilted, are often elevated and picturesque. But the most dramatic passages are the conversations in the fourthact, where the _inter-locuteurs_, as Garnier calls the characters witheven more reason than Grévin calls those of his play _entre-parleurs_,are respectively Decimus Brutus and Cassius, Caesar and Mark Antony:and this is typical for two reasons. In the first place, these sceneshave least to do with the titular subject, and are, as it were,mere excrescences on the main theme. In the second place, they areborrowed, so far as their general idea is concerned, from Grévin, asGrévin in turn had borrowed them from Muretus; and even details havebeen transmitted to the cadet in the trinity from each and both ofhis predecessors. Thus in the _Cornélie_ Decimus not very suitablyreplaces or absorbs Marcus Brutus, but the whole tone and movement ofthe interview with Cassius are the same in all the three plays, andparticular expressions reappear in Garnier that are peculiar to one orother of his elder colleagues or that the later has adapted from theearlier. For example, Garnier’s Cassius describes Caesar as[55] _Tragédie Française au XVIͤ Siècle. _ un homme effeminé Qui le Roy Nicomede a jeune butiné. [56][56] _Garnier’s Tragédies_, ed. Foerster. There is no express reference to this scandal in Muretus, but itfurnishes Grévin’s Decimus with a vigorous couplet which obviously hasinspired the above quotation: N’endurons plus sur nous regner un Ganimede Et la moitié du lict de son Roy Nicomede. Here, on the other hand, is an instance of Garnier getting a phrasefrom Muretus that Grévin passed over. Decimus says in excuse of hisformer patron: Encor’ n’est il pas Roy portant le diadême:to which Cassius replies: Non, il est Dictateur: et n’est-ce pas de mesme? In the Latin both objection and answer are put in the lips of MarcusBrutus, but that does not affect the resemblance. At vero non rex iste, sed dictator est. Dum res sit una, quid aliud nomen juvat? In other cases the parallelism is threefold. Thus Garnier’s Cassiusexclaims: Les chevaux courageux ne maschent point le mors Sujets au Chevalier qu’avecque grands efforts; Et les toreaux cornus ne se rendent domtables Qu’à force, pour paistrir les plaines labourables. Nous hommes, nous Romains, ayant le coeur plus mol, Sous un joug volontaire irons ployer le col. Grévin’s Marcus Brutus said: Le taureau, le cheval ne prestent le col bas A l’appetit d’un joug, si ce n’est pas contraincte: Fauldra il donc que Rome abbaisse sous la craincte De ce nouveau tyran le chef de sa grandeur? In Muretus the same personage puts it more shortly: Generosiores frena detrectant equi: Nec nisi coacti perferunt tauri jugum: Roma patietur, quod recusant belluae. In the scene between Caesar and Antony the resemblances are less markedin detail, partly owing to the somewhat different role assigned to thesecond speaker, but they are there; and the general tendency, from theself-conscious monologue of Caesar with which it opens, to the dialoguein which he gives expression to his doubts, is practically the same inboth plays. And these episodes are of some importance in view of their subsequentas well as their previous history. Though neither entirely originalnor entirely relevant, they seem, perhaps because of their comparativefitness for the stage, to have made a great impression at the time. It has been suggested that they were not without their influence onShakespeare when he came to write his _Julius Caesar_: a point thediscussion of which may be reserved. It is certain that they suppliedAlexander, though he may also have used Grévin and even Muretus, withthe chief models and materials for certain scenes in his tragedy on thesame subject. Thus, he too presents Caesar and Antony in consultation,and the former prefaces this interchange of views with a high-flowndeclaration of his greatness. Thus, too, the substance of their talkis to a great extent adapted from Garnier and diluted in the process. Compare the similar versions of the apology that Caesar makes for hisaction. In Alexander he exclaims: The highest in the heaven who knows all hearts, Do know my thoughts as pure as are their starres, And that (constrain’d) I came from forraine parts To seeme uncivill in the civill warres. I mov’d that warre which all the world bemoanes, Whil’st urged by force to free my selfe from feares; Still when my hand gave wounds, my heart gave groanes; No Romans bloud was shed, but I shed teares. [57][57] Works of Sir William Alexander, Glasgow, 1872. _Julius Caesar_,II. i. It is very like what Garnier’s Caesar says: J’atteste Jupiter qui sonne sur la terre, Que contraint malgré moy j’ay mené ceste guerre: Et que victoire aucune où j’apperçoy gesir Le corps d’un citoyen, ne me donne plaisir: Mais de mes ennemis l’envie opiniatre, Et le malheur Romain m’a contraint de combattre. So, too, when Antony asserts that some are contriving Caesar’s death,the speakers engage in a dialectical skirmish: _Caesar. _ The best are bound to me by gifts in store. _Antony. _ But to their countrey they are bound farre more. _Caesar. _ Then loathe they me as th’ enemy of the state? _Antony. _ Who freedom love, you (as usurper) hate. _Caesar. _ I by great battells have enlarg’d their bounds. _Antony. _ By that they think your pow’r too much abounds. The filiation with Garnier is surely unmistakable, though it cannot beshown in every line or phrase. _Antoine. _ Aux ennemis domtez il n’y a point de foy. _Cesar. _ En ceux qui vie et biens de ma bonté reçoivent? _Antoine. _ Voire mais beaucoup plus à la Patrie ils doivent. _Cesar. _ Pensent-ils que je sois ennemy du païs? _Antoine. _ Mais cruel ravisseur de ses droits envahis. _Cesar. _ J’ay à Rome soumis tant de riches provinces. _Antoine. _ Rome ne peut souffrir commandement de Princes. The scene with the conspirators Stirling treats very differently andmuch more freely. It had had, as we have seen, a peculiar history. In Muretus it was confined to Marcus Brutus and Cassius, in GrévinDecimus Brutus is added, in Garnier Decimus is retained and Marcusdrops out. Alexander discriminates. He keeps one discussion for Marcusand Cassius, in so far restoring it to the original and more fittingform it had obtained from Muretus, though he transfers to Marcussome of the sentiments that Garnier had assigned to Decimus. But thehalf-apologetic rôle that Decimus plays in Garnier had impressedhim, and he did not choose to forego the spice of variety which thiscontributed. So he invents a new scene for him in which Cicero takesthe place of Cassius and solicits his support. But though the oneepisode is thus cut in two, and each of the halves enlarged far beyondthe dimensions of the original whole, it is unquestionable that theyowe their main suggestion and much of their matter to the _Cornélie_. Since then Garnier, when his powers were still immature, could soeffectively adapt these incidental passages, it is not surprising thathe should by and by be able to stand alone, and produce plays in whichthe central interest was more dramatic. Of these we are concerned only with _Marc Antoine_, which was actedwith success at the Hôtel de Bourgogne in 1578, and was printed in thesame year. In it Garnier has not altogether freed himself from hisformer faults. There are otiose personages who are introduced merelyto supply general reflections: Diomedes, the secretary, on the pathosof Cleopatra’s fall; Philostratus, the philosopher, on the overthrowof the Egyptian monarchy. There is no interaction of character oncharacter, all the protagonists being so carefully excluded from eachother that Octavianus does not meet Antony, Antony does not meetCleopatra, Cleopatra does not meet Octavianus. The speeches are stillover long, and the “sentences” over abundant. Nevertheless there is areal story, there are real characters; and the story and charactersadmit, or rather demand, an effective alternation of passion. The time comprises the interval between Antony’s final reverse and thesuicide of Cleopatra: it is short, but a good deal longer than whatJodelle allowed himself in the companion play. Further, the situationis much more complex and less confined, so that Garnier, whileborrowing many _motifs_ from Jodelle, or from their common authority,Plutarch, is able to avoid the monotony of _Cléopatre Captive_. Nordoes the coherence suffer. It is true that the account of Antony’sdeath, announced by Dercetas, occurs as with Shakespeare in the fourthact; but the play is rightly named after him and not after the Queen. He is the principal and by far the most interesting figure, and itis his tragic fate to which all that precedes leads up, and whichdetermines all that follows. The first act, as so often in these Senecan plays, is entirelyoccupied with a soliloquy, which Antony declaims; but even this hasa certain share of dramatic life, though rather after the fashion ofa dramatic lyric than of a dramatic scene. He rages against what hesupposes to be the crowning perfidy of his mistress, he recalls allthat his infatuation has cost him; the worst of his woes is that theyare caused by her; but he must love her still. The second act has atthe opening and the close respectively the unnecessary monologues ofPhilostratus and Diomedes, but they serve as setting for the animatedand significant conversation between Cleopatra and her women. From itwe learn that of the final treason at least she is innocent, but sheis full of remorse for the mischief that her love and her capriceshave done, and determines, despite the claims of her children, toexpiate it in death. Then, entering the monument she despatchesDiomedes with her excuses to Antony. To him we return in the thirdact, which is central in interest as in position, and we hear himdisburden his soul to his friend Lucilius. His fluctuations of feeling,shame at his undoing, passion for the fair undoer, jealousy lest hisconqueror should supplant him in love as in empire, are delineated withsympathetic power: Ait Cesar la victoire, ait mes biens, ait l’honneur D’estre sans compagnon de la terre seigneur, Ait mes enfans, ma vie au mal opiniâtre, Ce m’est tout un, pourveu qu’il n’ait ma Cleopatre: Je ne puis l’oublier, tant j’affole, combien Que de n’y penser point servoit non plus grand bien. He remembers his past glory and past prowess, and it stings him that heshould now be overcome by an inferior foe: un homme effeminé de corps et de courage Qui du mestier de Mars n’apprist oncque l’usage. But he has only himself to blame, for he has debased his life: N’ayant soing de vertu, ny d’aucune louange; Ains comme un porc ventru touille dedans la fange, A coeur saoul me voitray en maints salles plaisirs, Mettant dessous le pied tous honnestes desirs. Now it only remains for him to die. In the fourth act Octavianusdwells on the arduousness of his triumphs and the enormity of Antony’soffences, in order to justify a ruthless policy; and a discussionfollows between him and Agrippa, like the one between Julius and Antonyin the _Cornélie_, except that here the emperor and his adviser havetheir parts reversed. When his resolution seems fixed Dercetas entersin dismay with tidings that Antony has sought to take his own life,and that mortally wounded he has been drawn up into the monument tobreathe his last in Cleopatra’s arms. For a moment his conqueror’sheart is touched. But only for a moment. He speedily gives ear to thewarning of Agrippa, that to secure her treasures and preserve her life,Cleopatra must be seized. In the fifth act she has all her preparationsmade to follow her lord. In vain Euphron tries to stay her by gatheringher children round and predicting their probable fate: _Eufron. _ Desja me semble voir Cette petite enfance en servitude cheoir, Et portez en trionfe, . . . Et au doigt les monstrer la tourbe citoyenne. _Cleopatre. _ Hé! plutost mille morts. But she persists in her resolve and dismisses them. Her only regret isthat she has delayed so long, Et ja fugitive Ombre avec toy je serois, Errant sous les cyprès des rives escartees. She has waited only to pay the due rites, but now she is free tobreathe her last on her lover’s corpse: Que de mille baisers, et mille et mille encore Pour office dernier ma bouche vous honore. Et qu’en un tel devoir mon corps affoiblissant Defaille dessur vous, mon ame vomissant. 3. ENGLISH FOLLOWERS OF THE FRENCH SCHOOL. “THE WOUNDS OF CIVIL WAR”The _Marc Antoine_ is the best tragedy on a Roman theme, and one ofthe best imitations of Seneca that France in the sixteenth centuryhas to show. It deserved to find admirers on the other side of theChannel, and it did. Among the courtly and cultured circles in whoseeyes the Latin drama was the ideal and criterion to which all poetsshould aspire and by which their achievements should be tested, it wasbound to call forth no little enthusiasm. In England ere this similarattempts had been made and welcomed, but none had been quite so movingand interesting, above all none had conformed so strictly to theformal requirements of the humanist code. In _Gorboduc_, the first ofthese experiments, Sidney, lawgiver of the elect, was pleased to admitthe “honest civility” and “skilful poetry,” but his praises were notwithout qualification: As it is full of stately speeches and well sounding Phrases, clyming to the height of Seneca his stile, and as full of notable moralitie, which it doth most delightfully teach, and so obtayne the very end of Poesie: yet in troth it is very defectious in the circumstaunces: which greeveth mee, because it might not remaine as an exact model of all Tragedies. For it is faulty both in place, and time, the two necessary companions of all corporall actions. For where the stage should alwaies represent but one place, and the uttermost time presupposed in it, should be, both by Aristotles precept, and common reason, but one day: there is both many dayes, and many places, inartificially imagined. [58][58] _Apologie for Poetrie_, Arber’s reprint. Nor in such respects were things much better in the _Misfortunes ofArthur_, by Thomas Hughes, which was composed in 1587, the year afterSidney’s death. But meanwhile France had been blessed with a play atleast the equal of these native products in poetry and pathos, and muchmore observant of the unities that scholars were proclaiming. If thescene was not absolutely unchanged, at least the changes were confinedwithin the area of a single town. If the time was not precisely marked,and in Plutarch’s narrative slightly exceeded the orthodox limits,still Garnier had so managed it that the occurrences set forth mighteasily be conceived to take place in a single day. It seems just themodern play that would have fulfilled the desire of Sidney’s heart;and since it was composed in a foreign tongue, what could be morefitting than that Sidney’s sister, the famous Countess of Pembroke,who shared so largely in Sidney’s literary tastes and literary gifts,should undertake to give it an English form? It may have been on herpart a pious offering to his _manes_, and in 1590, four years after herbrother’s death, her version was complete. [59] She was well fitted forher task, and she has discharged it well. Sometimes she may take herliberties, but generally she is wonderfully faithful, and yet neitherin diction nor versification is she stiffer than many contemporarywriters of original English verse. Here, for instance, is Diomed’seulogy of Cleopatra’s charm: Nought liues so faire. Nature by such a worke Hir selfe, should seeme, in workmanship hath past. She is all heau’nlie: neuer any man But seing hir, was rauish’d with hir sight. The Allablaster couering of hir face, The corall colour hir two lipps engraines, Hir beamie eies, two sunnes of this our world, Of hir faire haire the fine and flaming golde, Hir braue streight stature and her winning partes Are nothing else but fiers, fetters, dartes. Yet this is nothing to th’ enchaunting skilles, Of her coelestiall Sp’rite, hir training speache, Hir grace, hir Maiestie, and forcing voice, Whether she it with fingers speache consorte, Or hearing sceptred kings ambassadors Answer to eache in his owne language make. [59] There is an edition of this by Miss Alice Luce,_Literarhistorische Forschungen_, 1897, but I am told it is out ofprint, and at any rate I have been unable to procure it. The extractsI give are transcripts from the British Museum copy, which is indexedthus: _Discourse of Life and Death written in French by P. Mornay. Antonius a tragedie, written also in French by R. Garnier. Both done inEnglish by the Countesse of Pembroke, 1592_. This edition has generallybeen overlooked by historians of the drama, from Professor Ward toProfessor Schelling (probably because it is associated with Mornay’stract), and, as a rule, the translation of Garnier is said to havebeen first published in 1595. That and the subsequent editions bear adifferent title from the neglected first; the _Tragedie of Antonie_,instead of _Antonius_. This excellently preserves many details as well as the pervading toneof the original: Rien ne vit de si beau, Nature semble avoir Par un ouvrage tel surpassé son pouvoir: Elle est toute celeste, et ne se voit personne La voulant contempler, qu’elle ne passionne. L’albastre qui blanchist sur son visage saint, Et le vermeil coral qui ses deux lévres peint, La clairté de ses yeux, deux soleils de ce monde, Le fin or rayonnant dessur sa tresse blonde, Sa belle taille droitte, et ses frians attraits, Ne sont que feux ardents, que cordes, et que traits. Mais encor ce n’est rien aupres des artifices De son esprit divin, ses mignardes blandices, Sa maiestie, sa grace, et sa forçante voix, Soit qu’ell’ la vueille joindre au parler de ses doigts, Ou que des Rois sceptrez recevant les harangues, Elle vueille respondre à chacun en leurs langues. The most notable privilege of which the translation makes use is tosoften or refine certain expressions that may have seemed too vigorousto the high-bred English lady. This, for example, is her rendering ofthe lines already quoted in which Antony denounces his voluptuous life: Careless of uertue, careless of all praise, Nay, as the fatted swine in filthy mire, With glutted heart I wallow’d in delights, All thoughts of honor troden under foote. Similarly, in Cleopatra’s closing speech, the original expression, “moname vomissant,” yields to a gentler and not less poetical equivalent: A thousand kisses, thousand thousand more Let you my mouth for honor’s farewell give: That, in this office, weake my limmes may growe Fainting on you, and fourth _my soule may flowe_. As the deviations are confined to details, it is not necessary torepeat the account of the tragedy as a whole. These extracts will showthat Garnier’s _Marc Antoine_ was presented to the English public ina worthy dress; and the adequacy of the workmanship, the appeal tocultivated taste, the prestige of the great Countess as “Sidney’ssister, Pembroke’s mother,” her personal reputation among literary men,procured it immediate welcome and lasting acceptance. Fifteen yearsafter its first publication it had passed through five editions, andmust have been a familiar book to Elizabethan readers who cared forsuch wares. Moreover, it directly evoked an original English play thatfollowed in part the same pattern and treated in part the same theme. In 1594 appeared the _Cleopatra_ of Samuel Daniel, dedicated to LadyPembroke with very handsome acknowledgments of the stimulus he hadreceived from her example and with much modest deprecation of thesupplement he offered. His muse, he asserts, would not have digressedfrom the humble task of praising Delia, had not thy well graced Antony (Who all alone, having remained long) Requir’d his Cleopatra’s company. These words suggest that it was not written at once after theCountess’s translation: on the other hand there can have been novery long delay, as it was entered for publication in October, 1593. The first complete and authorised edition of _Delia_ along with the_Complaint of Rosamond_, which Daniel does not mention, had been givento the world in 1592; and we may assume from his own words that the_Cleopatra_ was the next venture of the young author just entering histhirties, and ambitious of a graver kind of fame than he had won bythese amatorious exercises. He had no reason to be dissatisfied withthe result, and perhaps from the outset his self-disparagement was notvery genuine. His play was reprinted seven times before his death, andthese editions show one complete revision and one thorough recast ofthe text. Poets are not wont to spend such pains on works that theydo not value. The truth is that Daniel’s _Cleopatra_ may take itsplace beside his subsequent _Philotas_ among the best original Senecantragedies that Elizabethan England produced. Its claims, of course,are almost exclusively literary and hardly at all theatrical, thoughsome of the changes in the final version of 1607 seem meant to givea little mobility to the slow-paced scenes. But from first to lastit depends on the elegiac and rhetorical qualities that characterisethe whole school, and in its undivided attention to them recallsrather Jodelle’s _Cléopatre Captive_ than Garnier’s _Marc Antoine_. The resemblance to the earlier drama is perhaps not accidental. Thesituation is precisely the same, for the story begins after the deathof Antony, and concludes with the account of Cleopatra’s suicide. Thus,despite Daniel’s statement, his play is not in any true sense a sequelto the one which the Countess had rendered, nor is it the case, ashis words insinuate, that in the _Antonius_ Cleopatra still delayedto join her beloved: on the contrary we take leave of her as she isabout to expire upon his corpse. So though his patroness’s translationmay very well have suggested to him his heroine, it could not possiblyprescribe to him his argument. And surely after Garnier had shown themore excellent way of treating the subject so as to include both thelovers, this truncated section of the history would not spontaneouslyoccur to any dramatist as the material most proper for his needs. Itseems more than likely that Daniel was acquainted with Jodelle’s play,and that the precedent it furnished, determined him in his not veryhappy selection of the final episode to the exclusion of all that wentbefore. A careful comparison of the two _Cleopatras_ supports thisview. No doubt in general treatment they differ widely, and most ofthe coincidences in detail are due to both authors having exploitedPlutarch’s narrative. But this is not true of all. There are sometraits that are not to be accounted for by their common pedigree, butby direct transmission from the one to the other. Thus, to mentionthe most striking, in Jodelle Seleucus is made to express penitencefor exposing the Queen’s misstatement about her treasure. There isno authority for this: yet in Daniel the new _motif_ reappears. Ofcourse it is not merely repeated without modification. In Jodelleit is to the chorus that the culprit unbosoms himself; in Daniel itis to Rodon, the false governor who has betrayed Caesarion, and whosimilarly and no less fictitiously is represented as full of remorsefor his more heinous treason. But imitators frequently try in thisfashion to vary or heighten the effect by duplicating the rôles theyborrow; and Daniel has done so in a second instance, when he happenedto get his suggestion from Garnier. In the _Marc Antoine_, as wesaw, there is the sententious but quite superfluous figure of thephilosopher Philostratus; Daniel retains him without giving him moreto do, but places by his side the figure of the equally sententiousand superfluous philosopher Arius. In Rodon we have just such anotherexample of gemination. It is safe to say that the contrite Seleucuscomes straight from the pages of Jodelle; and his presence, if therewere any doubt, serves to establish Daniel’s connection with the firstFrench Senecan in the vernacular. But the Countess’s protégé differs from her not only in reverting to anelder model: he distinctly improves on her practice by substituting forher blank verse his own quatrains. The author of the _Defence of Ryme_showed a right instinct in this. Blank verse is doubtless the betterdramatic measure, but these pseudo-Senecan pieces were lyric ratherthan dramatic, and it was not the most suitable for them. The justiceof Daniel’s method is proved by its success. He not only carried theexperiment successfully through for himself, which might have beena _tour de force_ on the part of the “well-languaged” poet, but heimposed his metre on successors who were less skilled in managing it,like Sir William Alexander. Such, then, is the _Cleopatra_ of Daniel, a play that, compared evenwith the contemporary classical dramas of France, belongs to a bygonephase of the art; a play that is no play at all, but a series ofharangues interspersed with odds and ends of dialogue and the duechoric songs; but that nevertheless, because it fulfils its own idealso thoroughly, is admirable in its kind, and still has charms for thelover of poetry. The first act is occupied with a soliloquy of Cleopatra,[60] in whichshe laments her past pleasure and glory, and proclaims her purpose ofdeath. Thinke, Caesar, I that liu’d and raign’d a Queene, Do scorne to buy my life at such a rate, That I should underneath my selfe be seene, Basely induring to suruiue my state: That Rome should see my scepter-bearing hands Behind me bound, and glory in my teares; That I should passe whereas Octauia stands, To view my misery, that purchas’d hers. [61][60] That is, in the original version. Subsequently Daniel threw alater narrative passage describing Cleopatra’s parting from Caesarionand Rodon into scenic form, introduced it here, and followed it up witha discussion between Caesar and his advisers. This seems to be one ofhis attempts to impart more dramatic animation to his play, and itdoes so. But as dramatic animation is not what we are looking for, theimprovement is doubtful. [61] Dr. Grosart’s Edition. She has hitherto lived only to temporise with Caesar for the sake ofher children, but to her late-born love for Antony her death is due. She remembers his doting affection, and exclaims: And yet thou cam’st but in my beauties waine, When new appearing wrinckles of declining Wrought with the hand of yeares, seem’d to detaine My graces light, as now but dimly shining . . . Then, and but thus, thou didst loue most sincerely, O Antony, that best deseru’d it better, This autumn of my beauty bought so dearely, For which in more then death, I stand thy debter. In the second act Proculeius gives an account of Cleopatra’s capture,and describes her apparent submission, to Caesar, who suspects that itis pretence. In the first scene of the third act Philostratus and Ariusphilosophise on their own misfortunes, the misfortunes of the land, andthe probable fate of Cleopatra’s children. The next scene presents thefamous interview between Caesar and Cleopatra, with the disclosuresof Seleucus, to which are added Dolabella’s avowal of his admiration,and Caesar’s decision to carry his prisoner to Rome. In the fourth actSeleucus, who has betrayed the confidence of his mistress, bewails hisdisloyalty, to Rodon, who has delivered up Caesarion to death; but theydepart to avoid Cleopatra, whom Dolabella has informed of the victor’sintentions, and who enters, exclaiming: What, hath my face yet powre to win a louer? Can this torn remnant serue to grace me so, That it can Caesar’s secret plots discouer, What he intends with me and mine to do? Why then, poore beauty, thou hast done thy last And best good seruice thou could’st doe unto me: For now the time of death reueal’d thou hast, Which in my life didst serue but to undoe me. In the first scene of the fifth act Titius tells how Cleopatra has senta message to Caesar, and in the second scene we learn the significanceof this from the Nuntius, who himself has taken her the asps. Well, in I went, where brighter then the Sunne, Glittering in all her pompeous rich aray, Great Cleopatra sate, as if sh’ had wonne Caesar, and all the world beside, this day: Euen as she was, when on thy cristall streames, Cleare Cydnos, she did shew what earth could shew: When Asia all amaz’d in wonder, deemes Venus from heauen was come on earth below. Euen as she went at firste to meete her loue, So goes she now againe to finde him. But that first, did her greatnes onely proue, This last her loue, that could not liue behind him. Her words to the asp are not without a quaint pathetic tenderness,as she contrasts the “ugly grimness” and “hideous torments” of otherdeaths with this that it procures: Therefore come thou, of wonders wonder chiefe, That open canst with such an easie key The doore of life: come gentle cunning thiefe That from our selues so steal’st our selues away. And her dallying with the accepted and inevitable end is good: Looke how a mother at her sonnes departing, For some farre voyage bent to get him fame, Doth entertaine him with an ydle parting And still doth speake, and still speakes but the same: Now bids farewell, and now recalles him backe, Tels what was told, and bids againe farewell, And yet againe recalles; for still doth lacke Something that Loue would faine and cannot tell: Pleased he should goe, yet cannot let him goe. So she, although she knew there was no way But this, yet this she could not handle so But she must shew that life desir’d delay. But this is little more than by-play and make-believe. She does thedeed, and when Caesar’s messengers arrive, it is past prevention. For there they found stretcht on a bed of gold, Dead Cleopatra; and that proudly dead, In all the rich attire procure she could; And dying Charmion trimming of her head, And Eras at her feete, dead in like case. “Charmion, is this well done? ” sayd one of them. “Yea, well,” sayd she, “and her that from the race Of so great Kings descends, doth best become. ” And with that word, yields to her faithfull breath To passe th’ assurance of her loue with death. One more example of the influence of the French Senecans remains tobe mentioned, and though, as a translation, it is less importantthan Daniel’s free reproduction, the name of the translator gives ita special interest. The stately rhetoric of the _Cornélie_ caughtthe fancy of Thomas Kyd, who from the outset had found somethingsympathetic in Garnier’s style, and, perhaps in revolt from thesensationalism of his original work, he wrote an English version whichwas published in 1594. When this was so, it need the less surprise usthat the Senecan form should still for years to come be cultivatedby writers who had seen the glories of the Elizabethan stage, aboveall for what would seem the peculiarly appropriate themes of classichistory: that Alexander should employ it for his _Julius Caesar_ andthe rest of his _Monarchic Tragedies_ even after Shakespeare’s _JuliusCaesar_ had appeared, and that Ben Jonson himself should, as it were,cast a wistful, backward glance at it in his _Catiline_, which hesupplies, not only with a chorus, but with a very Senecan expositionby Sylla’s ghost. If this style appealed to the author of _The SpanishTragedy_, it might well appeal to the more fastidious connoisseursin whom the spirit of the Renaissance was strong. It was to themKyd looked for patronage in his new departure, and he dedicates his_Cornelia_ to the Countess of Suffolk, aunt of the more memorable ladywho had translated the _Marc Antoine_. In execution it hardly equals the companion piece: the language is lessflexible and graphic, and the whole effect more wearisome; which,however, may be due in part to the inferior merit of the play Kyd hadto render, as well as to the haste with which the rendering was made. But he aims at preserving the spirit of the French, and does preserveit in no small degree. The various metres of the chorus are managedwith occasional dexterity; the rhyme that is mingled with the blankverse of the declamation relieves the tedium of its somewhat monotonoustramp, and adds point and effectiveness. A fair specimen of his averageprocedure may be found in his version of the metaphorical passage inCassius’ speech, that, as has been pointed out, can be traced back toGrévin and Muretus. The stiff-neckt horses champe not on the bit Nor meekely beare the rider but by force: The sturdie Oxen toyle not at the Plough Nor yeeld unto the yoke, but by constraint. Shall we then that are men and Romains borne, Submit us to unurged slauerie? Shall Rome, that hath so many ouerthrowne Now make herselfe a subject to her owne? [62][62] Kyd, ed. Boas. The _Cornelia_ has also been edited by H. Gassner;but this edition, despite some considerable effort, I have been unableto procure. Kyd was certainly capable of emphasis, both in the good and the badsense, which stands him in good stead when he has to reproduce thepassages adapted from Lucan. These he generally presents in somethingof their native pomp, and indeed throughout he shows a praiseworthyeffort to keep on the level of his author. The result is a grave anddecorous performance, which, if necessarily lacking in distinctivecolour, since the original had so little, is almost equally free frommodern incongruities. It can hardly be reckoned as such that Scipiograsps his “cutlass,” or that in similar cases the equivalent for atechnical Latin term should have a homely sound. Perhaps the mostserious anachronism occurs when Cicero, talking of “this great town” ofRome, exclaims: Neither could the flaxen-haird high Dutch, (A martiall people, madding after Armes), Nor yet the fierce and fiery humord French. . . . Once dare t’assault it. Garnier is not responsible: he writes quite correctly: Ny les blons Germains, peuple enragé de guerre, Ny le Gaulois ardent. This, however, is a very innocent slip. It was different when anotherscholar of the group to which Kyd belonged treated a Roman theme in amore popular way. But before turning to him it may be well to say a word concerning theinfluence which these Senecan pieces are sometimes supposed to have hadon Shakespeare’s Roman plays that dealt with kindred themes. And in the first place it may be taken as extremely probable that hehad read them. They were well known to the Elizabethan public, theleast famous of them, Kyd’s _Cornelia_, reaching a second editionwithin a year of its first issue. They were executed by personswho must have bulked large in Shakespeare’s field of vision. Apartfrom her general social and literary reputation, the Countess ofPembroke was mother of the two young noblemen to whom the first folioof Shakespeare’s plays was afterwards dedicated on the ground thatthey had “prosequutted both them and the author living with so muchfavour. ” Some of Daniel’s works Shakespeare certainly knew, for thereare convincing parallelisms between the _Complaint of Rosamond_ onthe one hand, and the _Rape of Lucrece_ and _Romeo and Juliet_ onthe other; nor can there be much question about the indebtedness ofShakespeare’s _Sonnets_ to Daniel’s _Delia_. Again, with Kyd’s actingdramas Shakespeare was undoubtedly acquainted. He quotes _The SpanishTragedy_ in the _Taming of the Shrew_, _Much Ado About Nothing_, _KingLear_; and the same play, as well as _Solyman and Perseda_, if thatbe Kyd’s, in _King John_: nor is it to be forgotten that many seeKyd’s hand and few would deny Kyd’s influence in _Titus Andronicus_,and that some attribute to him the lost _Hamlet_. All these thingsconsidered, Shakespeare’s ignorance of the English Senecans would bemuch more surprising than his knowledge of them. Further, though hisown method was so dissimilar, he would be quite inclined to appreciatethem, as may be inferred from the approval he puts in Hamlet’s mouthof _Æneas’ tale to Dido_, which reads like a heightened version ofthe narratives that occur so plentifully in their pages. So there isnothing antecedently absurd in the conjecture that they gave him hintswhen he turned to their authorities on his own behalf. Nevertheless satisfactory proof is lacking. The analogies withGarnier’s _Marc Antoine_ not accounted for by the obligation of bothdramatists to Plutarch are very vague, and oddly enough seem vaguer inthe translation than in the original. Of this there is a good examplein Antony’s words when he recalls to his shame how his victor Dealt on lieutenantry, and no practice had In the brave squares of war. (_A. and C. _ III. x. 39. )There is similarity of _motif_, and even the suggestion of somethingmore, in his outburst in Garnier: Un homme effeminé de corps et de courage Qui du mestier de Mars n’apprist oncque l’usage. But only the _motif_ is left in the Countess of Pembroke’s rendering: A man, a woman both in might and minde, In Marses schole who neuer lesson learn’d. The alleged parallels are thus most apparent when Shakespeare iscollated with the French, and of these the chief that do not come fromPlutarch have already been quoted in the description of the _MarcAntoine_. They are neither numerous nor striking. Besides Antony’sdisparagement of his rival’s soldiership there are only three that inany way call for remark. In Garnier, Cleopatra’s picture of her shadewandering beneath the cypress trees of the Underworld may suggest, inShakespeare, her lover’s anticipation of Elysium, “where souls do couchon flowers” (_A. and C. _ IV. xiv. 51); but there is a great differencein the tone of the context. Her dying utterance: Que de mille baisers, et mille et mille encore Pour office dernier ma bouche vous honore:is in the wording not unlike the dying utterance of Antony: Of many thousand kisses the poor last I lay upon thy lips; (_A. and C. _ IV. xv. 20. )but there is more contrast than agreement in the ideas. Above all,Cleopatra’s horror at the thought of her children being led in triumphthrough Rome and pointed at by the herd of citizens is close akin tothe feeling that inspires similar passages in Shakespeare (_A. andC. _ IV. xv. 23, V. ii. 55, V. ii. 207); but even here the resemblanceis a little deceptive, since in Shakespeare she feels this horror forherself. The correspondences between Shakespeare and Daniel are equallyconfined to detail, but they are more definite and more significant. It is Daniel who first represents Cleopatra as scorning to be made aspectacle in Rome; and her resentment at Caesar’s supposing That I should underneath my selfe be seene,might have expressed itself in Shakespeare’s phrase, He words me, girls, he words me, that I should not Be noble to myself. (_A. and C. _ V. ii. 191. )Noteworthy, too, in the same passage, is her reluctance to pass beforethe injured Octavia, for there is no mention of this point in Plutarch,but Shakespeare touches on it twice. Further, her very noticeablereferences to her waning charms, her wrinkles, her declining yearshave their analogies in Shakespeare and in Shakespeare alone; forPlutarch expressly says that she was “at the age when a woman’s beawtieis at the prime. ” The tenderness in tone of her address to the aspis common and peculiar to both English poets; and her adornment inpreparation for death suggests to each of them, but not to Plutarch,her magnificence when she met Antony on the Cydnus. [63][63] The last point is mentioned by Mr. Furness (Variorum Edition), whocites others, of which one occurs in Plutarch and the rest seem to meuntenable or unimportant. These coincidences are interesting, but they are not conclusive. Theyare none of them such as could not occur independently to two writerswho vividly realised the meaning of Plutarch’s _data_; for he, as itwere, gives the premises though he does not draw the inference. Thushe says nothing of Cleopatra’s disdain for the Roman populace, but hedoes make the knowledge that she must go to Rome determine her to die. He says nothing of her recoil from the thought of Octavia seeing herin her humiliation, but he does tell us of her jealousy of Octavia’ssuperior claims. He never hints that Cleopatra was past her bloom,but his praise of her as at her prime belongs to 41 B. C. , and theclosing incident to 30 B. C. , when she was in her thirty-ninth year. Hedoes not attribute to her any kindly greeting of the asp, but he doesreport that she chose it as providing the easiest and gentlest meansof death. And though in describing her suicide he makes no referenceto the meeting on the Cydnus, he dwells on the glorious array on bothoccasions, and the fancy naturally flies from one to the other. Eachof these particulars separately might well suggest itself to more thanone sympathetic reader. The most that can be said is that in theirmass they have a certain cogency. In any case, however, characteristicand far-reaching as some of them are, they bear only on details of theconception. The possible connection of _Julius Caesar_ with the _Cornélie_ is ofa somewhat different kind. It is restricted almost entirely to theconversations between Cassius and Decimus Brutus on the one hand,and between Cassius and Marcus Brutus on the other. It is thought toshow itself partly in particular expressions, partly in the generalsituation. So far as the former are concerned, it is neither precisenor distinctive; and it is rather remarkable that, as in the caseof the _Marc Antoine_, more is to be said for it when Shakespeare’sphraseology is compared with that of the original than when it iscompared with that of the translation. [64] In regard to the latter M. Bernage, the chief advocate of the theory, writes: In the English play (_Julius Caesar_), as in our own, Brutus and Cassius have an interview before the arrival of the Dictator; the subject of their conversation is the same; it is Cassius too who “strikes so much show of fire” (_fait jaillir l’etincelle_) from the soul of Brutus. . . . These characters are painted by Garnier in colours quite similar (to Shakespeare’s), and he is momentarily as vigorous and great. In like manner . . . Caesar crosses the stage after the interview of the two conspirators; he is moreover accompanied by Antony. [65][64] See Appendix A. [65] _Étude sur Garnier_, 1880. In the whole tone and direction of the dialogue, too, Shakespeareresembles Garnier and does not resemble Plutarch. The _Life_ recordsone short sentence as Brutus’ part of the colloquy, while Cassius doesnothing more than explain the importance of the anonymous letters andset forth the expectations that Rome has formed of his friend. There isno denunciation in Plutarch of Caesar either for his overgrown power orfor his “feeble temper”; there is no lament for the degeneracy of theRomans; there is no reference to the expulsion of the kings or appealto Brutus’ ancestry; all of these matters on which both the dramatistsinsist. And at the end the two friends are agreed on their policy anddepart to prosecute their plans, while in Garnier as in ShakespeareBrutus comes to no final decision. It would be curious if this conjecture were correct, and if this famousscene had influenced Shakespeare as it was to influence Alexander. There would be few more interesting cases of literary filiation, for,as we have seen, there is no doubt that here Garnier bases and improveson Grévin, and that Grévin bases and improves on Muretus; so thegenealogy would run Muretus, Grévin, Garnier, Kyd, Shakespeare. Here the matter may rest. The grounds for believing that Shakespearewas influenced by Garnier’s _Marc Antoine_ are very slight; forbelieving that he was influenced by Daniel’s _Cleopatra_ are somewhatstronger; that he was influenced by Garnier’s _Cornélie_ are strongerstill; but they are even at the best precarious. In all three instancesthe evidence brought forward rather suggests the obligation as possiblethan establishes it as certain. But it seems extremely likely thatShakespeare would be acquainted with dramas that were widely read andwere written by persons none of whom can have been strange to him; andin that case their stateliness and propriety may have affected him inother ways than we can trace or than he himself knew. Meanwhile the popular play had been going its own way, and among othersubjects had selected a few from Roman history. We may be certainthat slowly and surely it was absorbing some of the qualities thatcharacterised the imitations of the classics; and this process wasaccelerated when university men, with Marlowe at their head, took aleading share in purveying for the London playhouse. The developmentis clearly marked in the general history of the drama. Of the Romanplay in this transition phase, as treated by a scholar for thedelectation of the vulgar, we have only one specimen, but it is aspecimen that despite its scanty merit is important no less for thename of the author than for the mode of the treatment. That authorwas Thomas Lodge, so well known for his songs, novels, pamphlets, andtranslations. As dramatist he is less conspicuous, and we possessonly two plays from his hand. In one of them, _A Looking Glass forLondon and England_, which gives a description of the corruption andrepentance of Nineveh, and was acted in 1591, he co-operated withRobert Greene. Of the other,[66] _The Wounds of Civill War: Lively setforth in the true Tragedies of Marius and Scilla: As it hath beenepublicquely plaide in London, by the Right Honourable the Lord HighAdmirall his Servants_, he was sole author, and it is with it thatwe are concerned. It was printed in 1594, but was probably composedsome years earlier. [67] In any case it comes after the decisiveappearance of Marlowe; but Lodge was far from rivalling that masteror profiting fully by his example, and indeed is inferior to suchminor performers as Peele or Greene. Moreover, in the present case headds to his general dramatic disabilities, the incapacity to treatclassical history aright. In this respect, indeed, he improves on theSenecan school by borrowing graphic minutiae from Plutarch, such asthe prefiguration of Marius’ future glory in his infancy by the seveneagles, the account of the Gaul’s panic in Minturnae, or the unwillingbetrayal of Antonius by the slave. But on the other hand he astonishesus by his failure to make use of picturesque incidents which he musthave known; like Sulla’s flight for shelter to his rival’s house, therelief of Marius by the woman whom he had sentenced, the responseof the exile from the ruins of Carthage. And even when he utilisesPlutarch’s touches, Lodge is apt to weaken or travesty them in hisadaptation. The incident of the eagles, though it furnishes two of thebest passages in the play, illustrates the enfeeblement. Plutarch hadsaid:[66] I quote from Dodsley’s _Old English Plays_, ed. Hazlitt. [67] Professor Ward calls attention to the stage direction (Act III. ):“Enter Sylla in triumph in his chair triumphant of gold, drawn by fourMoors; before the chariot, his colours, his crest, his captains, hisprisoners; . . . bearing crowns of gold and manacled. ” This, he pointsout, seems a reminiscence of the similar situation in _TamburlaineII. _, Act iv. sc. 3. : “Enter Tamberlaine drawn in his chariot by theKings of Trebizon and Soria, with bits in their mouths, reins in hisleft hand, and in his right hand a whip with which he scourgeth them. ”From this Professor Ward infers that Lodge’s play belongs approximatelyto the same date as Marlowe’s, possibly to 1587. It may be so, butthere are some reasons for placing it later. The mixture of rhyme andprose instead of the exclusive use of blank verse would suggest thatthe influence of _Tamburlaine_ was not very immediate. It has somepoints of contact with the _Looking Glass_ which Lodge wrote along withGreene. It has the same didactic bent, though the purpose is politicalrather than moral, for the _Wounds of Civill War_ enforces on itsvery title page the lesson that Elizabethans had so much at heart,the need of harmony in the State. Like the _Looking Glass_ it dealsrather with an historic transaction than with individual adventures,for it summarises the whole disastrous period of the conflict betweenMarius and Sulla. And like the _Looking Glass_ it visualises this byscenes taken alike from dignified and low life, the latter even moreout of place than the episodes of the Nineveh citizens and peasantsin the joint work. In so far one is tempted to put the two togetherabout 1591. And there is one detail that perhaps favours this view—theintroduction of the Gaul with his bad English and worse French. InGreene’s _James IV. _ (c. 1590) the assassin hired to murder QueenDorothea is also a Frenchman who speaks broken English, and in thatplay such a personage is quite in keeping, violating the probabilitiesneither of time nor of place. It is, therefore, much more probablethat, if he proved popular, Lodge would reproduce the same characterinappropriately to catch the applause of the groundlings, than thatLodge should light on the first invention when that invention was quiteunsuitable, and that Greene should afterwards borrow it and give it afit setting. In the latter case we can only account for the absurdityby supposing that Lodge carried much further the anachronism in_Cornelia_ of “the fierce and fiery-humour’d French. ” When Marius was but very young and dwelling in the contry, he gathered up in the lappe of his gowne the ayrie of an Eagle, in the which were seven young Eagles; whereat his father and mother much wondering, asked the Sooth-sayers, what that ment? They answered, that their sonne one day should be one of the greatest men in the world, and that out of doubt he should obtain seven times in his life the chiefest office of dignity in his contry. Plutarch is not quite sure about the trustworthiness of this story, forthe characteristic reason that “the eagle never getteth but two youngeones,” and his hesitation may have led Lodge to modify the vivid andimprobable detail. Favorinus the Minturnian tells the story thus: Yonder Marius in his infancy Was born to greater fortunes than we deem: For, being scarce from out his cradle crept, And sporting prettily with his compeers, On sudden seven young eagles soar’d amain, And kindly perch’d upon his tender lap. His parents wondering at this strange event, Took counsel of the soothsayers in this: Who told them that these seven-fold eagles’ flight Forefigurèd his seven times consulship. And this version, with only another slight variation, is repeatedrather happily in the invented narrative of the presage of Marius’death: Bright was the day, and on the spreading trees The frolic citizens of forest sung Their lays and merry notes on perching boughs; When suddenly appeared in the east Seven mighty eagles with their talons fierce, Who, waving oft above our consul’s head, At last with hideous cry did soar away: When suddenly old Marius aghast, With reverend smile, determin’d with a sigh The doubtful silence of the standers-by. “Romans,” he said, “old Marius must die: These seven fair eagles, birds of mighty Jove, That at my birthday on my cradle sat, Now at my last day warn me to my death. ”But the other two passages Lodge modernises beyond recognition andbeyond decency. Of the attempt on Marius’ life at Minturnae, Plutarch narrates veryimpressively: Now when they were agreed upon it, they could not finde a man in the citie that durst take upon him to kill him; but a man of armes of the Gaules, or one of the Cimbres (for we finde both the one or the other in wryting) that went thither with his sword drawen in his hande. Now that place of the chamber where Marius lay was very darke, and, as it is reported, the man of armes thought he sawe two burninge flames come out of Marius eyen, and heard a voyce out of that darke corner, saying unto him: “O, fellowe, thou, darest thou come to kill Caius Marius? ” The barbarous Gaule, hearing these words, ranne out of the chamber presently, castinge his sworde in the middest of the flower,[68] and crying out these wordes onely: “I can not kill Caius Marius. ”[68] Floor. Here is Lodge’s burlesque with the Gaul nominated Pedro, whose nameis as unsuitable to his language as is his language to his supposednationality. _Pedro. _ Marius tu es mort. Speak dy preres in dy sleepe, for me sal cut off your head from your epaules, before you wake. Qui es stia? [69] What kinde of a man be dis? _Favorinus. _ Why, what delays are these? Why gaze ye thus? _Pedro. _ Notre dame! Jésu! Estiene! O my siniors, der be a great diable in ce eyes, qui dart de flame, and with de voice d’un bear cries out, “Villain, dare you kill Marius? ” Je tremble; aida me, siniors, autrement I shall be murdered. _Pausanins. _ What sudden madness daunts this stranger thus? _Pedro. _ O, me no can kill Marius; me no dare kill Marius! adieu, messieurs, me be dead, si je touche Marius. Marius est un diable. Jesu Maria, sava moy! _exit fugiens. _[69] Probably: “Qui est lá? ” the misprint of _i_ for _l_ is common. Things are scarcely better in the episode of Antonius’ betrayal. Plutarch has told very simply how the poor man with whom the oratortook refuge, wishing to treat him hospitably, sent a slave for wine,and how the slave, by requiring the best quality for the distinguishedguest, provoked the questions of the drawer. In Lodge the unsuspectingserving man becomes a bibulous clown who blabs the secret in a drunkencatch that he sings as he passes the soldiers: O most surpassing wine, The marrow of the vine! More welcome unto me Than whips to scholars be. Thou art, and ever was, A means to mend an ass; Thou makest some to sleep, And many mo to weep, And some be glad and merry. With heigh down derry, derry. Thou makest some to stumble A many mo to fumble And me have pinky neyne. [70] More brave and jolly wine! What need I praise thee mo, For thou art good, with heigh-ho! . . . (_To the Soldiers_): You would know where Lord Antony is? I perceive you. Shall I say he is in yond farm-house? I deceive you. Shall I tell you this wine is for him? The gods forfend. And so I end. [70] Pink eyes. Lodge is not more fortunate with his additions. Thus, after Sylla’sfinal resignation, two burghers with the very Roman names of Curtalland Poppy are represented as tackling the quondam dictator. _Curtall. _ And are you no more master-dixcator, nor generality of the soldiers? _Sylla. _ My powers do cease, my titles are resign’d. _Curtall. _ Have you signed your titles? O base mind, that being in the Paul’s steeple of honour, hast cast thyself into the sink of simplicity. Fie, beast! Were I a king, I would day by day Suck up white bread and milk, And go a-jetting in a jacket of silk; My meat should be the curds, My drink should be the whey, And I would have a mincing lass to love me every day. _Poppy. _ Nay, goodman Curtall, your discretions are very simple; let me cramp him with a reason. Sirrah, whether is better good ale or small-beer? Alas! see his simplicity that cannot answer me; why, I say ale. _Curtall. _ And so say I, neighbour.

_Poppy. _ Thou hast reason; ergo, say I, ’tis better be a king than a clown. Faith, Master Sylla, I hope a man may now call ye knave by authority. Even more impertinent, because they violate the truth of character andmisrepresent an historical person, are some of the liberties Lodgetakes with Marius. Such is the device with the echo, which he transfersfrom the love scenes of poetical Arcady, where it is quite appropriate,to the mountains of Numidia, where it would hardly be in place even ifwe disregarded the temperament and circumstances of the exile. _Marius. _ Thus Marius lives disdain’d of all the gods, _Echo. _ Gods! _Marius. _ With deep despair late overtaken wholly. _Echo. _ O, lie! _Marius. _ And will the heavens be never well appeased? _Echo. _ Appeased. _Marius. _ What mean have they left me to cure my smart? _Echo. _ Art. _Marius. _ Nought better fits old Marius’ mind then war. _Echo. _ Then, war! _Marius. _ Then full of hope, say, Echo, shall I go? _Echo. _ Go! _Marius. _ Is any better fortune then at hand? _Echo. _ At hand. _Marius. _ Then farewell, Echo, gentle nymph, farewell. _Echo. _ Fare well. _Marius. _ (soliloquises). O pleasing folly to a pensive man! Yet Lodge was a competent scholar who was by and by to translate _TheFamous and Memourable Workes of Josephus, a Man of Much Honour andLearning among the Jewes_, and the _Works both Moral and Natural ofLucius Annaeus Seneca_. And already in this play he makes Sylla’sgenius, invisible to all, summon him in Latin Elegiacs audible onlyto him. If then the popular scenes in Shakespeare’s Roman plays donot make a very Roman impression, it should be remembered that he ispunctilious in comparison with the University gentleman who precededhim. Nor did the fashion of popularising antique themes with vulgarfrippery from the present die out when Shakespeare showed a moreexcellent way. There is something of very much the same kind inHeywood’s _Rape of Lucrece_ which was published in 1608. But these superficial laches are not the most objectionable things inthe play. There is nothing organic in it. Of course its neglect of theunities of time and place is natural and right, but it is carelessof unity in structure or even in portraiture. The canvas is crowdedwith subordinate figures who perplex the action without producing avivid impression of their own characters. A few are made distinct byinsistence on particular traits, like Octavius with his unbending civicvirtue, or Antonius with his ‘honey-dropping’ and rather ineffectualeloquence, or Lepidus with his braggard temporising. The only oneof them who has real individuality is the younger Marius, insolent,fierce, and cruel, but full of energy and filial affection, and tooproud to survive his fortunes. He perhaps is the most consistent andsympathetic person in the piece; which of itself is a criticism, forhe occupies a much less important place than the two principals,expressly announced as the heroes in the title-page. It is difficulteven to guess the intention of the author in this delineation of them,and in any case the result is not pleasing. Marius, despite a certainamount of tough fortitude—which for the rest is not so indomitable asin Plutarch—and a rude magnanimity displayed in the imaginary scenewith Sylla’s daughter and wife, is far from attractive; and it comesas a surprise that after all his violence and vindictiveness he shouldmeet his death “with a reverend smile” in placid resignation. But withSylla matters are worse. He would be altogether repulsive but forhis courage, and Lodge seems to explain him and his career only byappealing to his own adopted epithet of Felix or Fortunate. His lastwords are: Fortune, now I bless thee That both in life and death would’st not oppress me. And when, “to conclude his happiness,” his sumptuous funeral isarranged, Pompey expresses the same idea in the lines that close theplay: Come, bear we hence this trophy of renown Whose life, whose death was far from Fortune’s frown. The problem of his strange story is not so much stated as implied,and far less is there any attempt at a solution. After all hisblood-guiltiness, he too, like Marius, passes away in peace, but withhim the peacefulness rises to the serenity of a saint or sage. To hisfriend he exclaims: My Flaccus, worldly joys and pleasures fade; Inconstant time, like to the fleeting tide With endless course man’s hopes doth overbear: Now nought remains that Sylla fain would have But lasting fame when body lies in grave. To his wife, who soon after asks: How fares my lord? How doth my gentle Sylla? he replies still more devoutly: Free from the world, allied unto the heavens; Not curious of incertain chances now. There is thus no meaning in the story. The rival leaders are equallyresponsible for the Wounds of Civil War, but end as happily as thoughthey had been benefactors of society. And this is by no means presentedas an example of tragic irony, in which case something might be saidfor it, but as the natural, fitting, and satisfactory conclusion. YetPlutarch tells of Marius’ sleeplessness, drunkenness, and perturbation,and of Sylla‘s debaucheries and disease. These were hints, one mighthave thought, that would have suited the temper of an Elizabethandramatist; but Lodge passes them over. It is the same with the public story. If Rome is left in quiet it isonly because Sylla’s ruthlessness has been ‘fortunate’; it is notrepresented as the rational outcome of what went before, nor is thereany suggestion of what was to follow after. The merit of the play, such as it is, lies in its succession ofstirring scenes—but not the most stirring that might have beenselected—from the career of two famous personalities in the historyof a famous State. It is almost incredible that in barely more thanhalf a dozen years after its publication London playgoers werelistening to _Julius Caesar_ with its suggestive episodes, its noblecharacterisation, and full realisation of what the story meant. Yet Lodge’s play is probably as good as any of those based on RomanHistory till Shakespeare turned his attention to such subjects. Thetitles of a number of others have come down to us. Some of these areof early date and may have approximated to the type of _Apius andVirginia_. Others would attempt the style of Seneca, either after thecrude fashion of _Gorboduc_ or subsequently under the better guidanceof the French practitioners; and among these later Senecans weredistinguished men like Lord Brooke, who destroyed a tragedy on _Antonyand Cleopatra_ in 1601, and Brandon, whose _Vertuous Octavia_, writtenin 1598, still survives. [71] In others again there may have been ananticipation or imitation of the more popular manner of Lodge. But thefact that they were never published, or have been lost, or, in one ortwo cases where isolated copies are extant, have not been thought worthreprinting, affords a presumption that their claims are inferior, andthat in them no very characteristic note is struck. It is pretty safeto suppose that they did not contain much instruction for Shakespeare,and that none of them would bridge the gap between Lodge’s medley andShakespeare’s masterpiece. [71] It is in the Dyce Collection in South Kensington and isinaccessible to me. It is described as claiming sympathy for Antony’sneglected wife. The progress made since the middle of the century was, of course,considerable. A pioneer performance, like _Apius and Virginia_, hadthe merit of pushing beyond the landmarks of the old Morality, and ofbringing Roman story within the ken of English playgoers, but it didnothing more. It treated this precisely as it might have treated anyother subject, and looked merely to the lesson, though, no doubt, itsought to make the lesson palatable with such dramatic condiments asthe art of the day supplied. The Senecans, inspired by the _Octavia_,make a disinterested effort to detach and set forth the conception ofold Roman greatness, as it was given that age to understand it, andthese productions show no impropriety and much literary skill, butthe outlines and colours are too vague to admit of reality or life. Lodge is realistic enough in his way, but it is by sacrificing what issignificant and characteristic, and submerging the majesty of ancientRome in the banalities and trivialities of his own time. No dramatisthad been able at once to rise to the grandeur of the theme and keep afoothold on solid earth, to reconcile the claims of the ideal and thereal, the past and the present. That was left for Shakespeare to do. CHAPTER IISHAKESPEARE’S TREATMENT OF HISTORYThe turn of the centuries roughly bisects the dramatic career ofShakespeare. In the first half he had written many comedies and a fewtragedies; in the second he was to write many tragedies with a fewplays which, on account of the happy ending and other traits, maybe assigned to the opposite class. But beyond these recognised andlegitimate subdivisions of the Romantic Drama, he had also before 1600busied himself with that characteristic product of the ElizabethanAge, the Historical Play dealing with the national annals. In thiskind, indeed, he had been hardly less abundant than in comedy, theproportions being nine of the one to eleven of the other. Then suddenlyhe leaves it aside, and returns to it only at the close in _HenryVIII. _, which moreover is but partially his handiwork. Thus, while the tragic note is not inaudible in the earlier period ofhis activity nor the comic note in the later, the third, that soundedso loud in the sixteenth century, utterly or all but utterly dies awayin the seventeenth. Why this should be so it is impossible to say. It may be that thepatriotic self-consciousness stirred by the defeat of the Armada andthe triumph of England waned with the growing sense of internalgrievances and the loss of external prestige, and that the nationalstory no longer inspired such curiosity and delight. It may be thatShakespeare had exhausted the episodes which had a special attractionfor contemporaries and himself. It may be that he found in the recordsof other lands themes that gave his genius freer scope and more fullysatisfied the requirements of his art. Or all these considerations mayhave co-operated. For the last of them there is at any rate this much to say, that,though the play on native history virtually disappears, the HistoricalPlay as such survives and wins new triumphs. The Roman group resemblesthe English group in many ways, and, where they differ, it hasexcellences of its own. What are the main points in which respectively they diverge or coincide? (1) There is no doubt that it was patriotic enthusiasm that called intoexistence the Chronicle Histories so numerous in Elizabeth’s reign,of which the best in Shakespeare’s series are only the consummateflower. The pride in the present and confidence in the future ofEngland found vent, too, in occupation with England’s past, and sincethe general appetite could not be satisfied by the histories of everysort and size that issued from the press, the vigorous young dramaseized the opportunity of extending its operations, and stepped in tosupply the demand. Probably with a more definite theory of its aims,methods, and sphere there might have been less readiness to undertakethe new department. But in the popular conception the play was littleelse than a narrative presented in scenes. The only requirement wasthat it should interest the spectators, and few troubled themselvesabout classic rule and precedent, or even about connected structureand arrangement. And when by and by the Elizabethan Tragedy andComedy became more organic and vertebrate, the Historic Play hadsecured recognition, and was able to persist in what was dramaticallya more rudimentary phase and develop without regard to more exactingstandards. Shakespeare’s later Histories, precisely the superlativespecimens of the whole species, illustrate this with conspicuousforce. The subject of _Henry IV. _, if presented in summary, mustseem comparatively commonplace; the ‘argument’ of both parts, ifanalysed, is loose and straggling; the second part to a great extentrepeats at a lower pitch the _motifs_ of the first; yet it is hardlyif at all less excellent than its predecessor, and together theyrepresent Shakespeare’s grand achievement in this kind. In _HenryV. _, which has merits that make it at least one of the most popularpieces that Shakespeare ever wrote, the distinctively narrative winsthe day against the distinctively dramatic. Not only are some of theessential links supplied only in the story of the chorus, but thereis no dramatic collision of ideas, no conflict in the soul of thehero, except in the scenes preliminary to Agincourt, not even much ofthe excitement of suspense. It is a plain straightforward history,admirably conveyed in scene and speech, all the episodes significantand picturesque, all the persons vividly characterised, bound to stirand inspire by its sane and healthy patriotism; but in the notes thatare considered to make up the _differentia_ of a drama, whether ancientor modern, it is undoubtedly defective. In proportion then as Shakespeare realised the requirements of theChronicle History, and succeeded in producing his masterpieces in thisdomain, he deviated from the course that he pursued in his other plays. And this necessarily followed from the end he had in view. He wishedto give, and his audience wished to get, passages from the history oftheir country set forth on the stage as pregnantly and attractively aspossible; but the history was the first and chief thing, and in it thewhole species had its _raison d’être_. History delivered the materialand prescribed the treatment, and even the selection of the episodestreated was determined less perhaps by their natural fitness fordramatic form, than by the influence of certain contemporary historicinterests. For the points which the average Elizabethan had most atheart were—(1) The unity of the country under the strong and orderlygovernment of securely succeeding sovereigns, who should preserve itfrom the long remembered evils of Civil War; (2) Its rejection ofPapal domination, with which there might be, but more frequently amongthe play-going classes, there was not associated the desire for amore radical reconstruction of the Church; (3) The power, safety andprestige of England, which Englishmen believed to be the inevitableconsequence of her unity and independence. So whatever in bygone timesbore on these matters and could be made to illustrate them, whether byparallel or contrast, was sure of a sympathetic hearing. And in thisas in other points Shakespeare seems to have felt with his fellow-menand shared their presuppositions. At least all the ten plays on Englishhistory in which he is known to have had a hand deal with rivalry forthe throne, the struggle with Rome, the success or failure in Franceaccordingly as the prescribed postulates are fulfilled or violated. It may have been his engrossment in these concerns that sometimes ledhim to choose subjects which the mere artist would have rejected as ofsmall dramatic promise. When he turned to the records of antiquity, the conditions were verydifferent. Doubtless to a man of the Renaissance classical history inits appeal came only second, if even second, to the history of his ownland; doubtless also to the man who was not a technical scholar, thehistory of Rome had far more familiar charm than the history of Greece. When, therefore, Shakespeare went outside his own England in searchfor historical themes, he was still addressing the general heart,and showed himself in closer accord with popular taste than, _e. g. _Chapman, whose French plays are perhaps next to his own among the bestElizabethan examples of the historical drama. But we may be sure thatAmbois and Biron and Chabot were much less interesting persons to theordinary Londoner than Caesar and Antony and Coriolanus. Not merelyin treatment, but in selection of the material—which cannot fail toinfluence the treatment—Shakespeare was in touch with common feelingand popular taste. All the same a great deal more was now required than in the case ofthe English series. In that the story of a reign or the section ofa reign, the chronicle of a flimsy conspiracy or a foreign campaignmight furnish the framework for a production that would delight theaudience. It was otherwise when dramatist and spectators alike knew thehistory only in its mass, and were impressed only by the outstandingfeatures. Just as with individuals so with nations, many things becomesignificant and important in those of our familiar circle that wouldseem trivial in mere strangers and acquaintances. If the Roman playswere to be popular as the English ones had been, Shakespeare was boundto select episodes of more salient interest and more catholic appealthan such as had hitherto sometimes served his turn. In the best ofthe English plays we constantly wonder that Shakespeare could getsuch results from stories that we should have thought in advance tobe quite unfit for the stage. But the fall of Caesar and the fate ofthose who sought to strangle the infant empire, the shock of opposingforces in Augustus and Antony and the loss of the world for Cleopatra’slove, the triumph and destruction of the glorious renegade from whosewrath the young republic escaped as by fire—that there are tragicpossibilities in themes like these is patent to a casual glance. Itis significant that, while of the subjects handled in the Englishhistories only the episode of Joan of Arc and the story of RichardIII. have attracted the attention of foreign dramatists, all the Romanplays have European congeners. One of the reasons may be, that thoughthe events described in the national series are dramatic enough fornational purposes, they do not like the others satisfy the severerinternational test. And to a difference in the character of the material corresponds adifference in the character of the treatment. The best of the Englishplays, as we have seen, are precisely those that it would be hardest todescribe in terms of the ordinary drama. The juvenile _Richard III. _is the only one that could nowadays without objection be included in alist of Shakespeare’s tragedies. But with the Roman plays it is quitethe reverse. In the main lines of construction they are of tragicbuild; there is invariably a tragic problem in the hero’s career; andit reaches a tragic solution in his self-caused ruin. So they arealways ranked with the Tragedies, and though here and there they mayshow a variation from Shakespeare’s usual tragic technique, it wouldoccur to no one to alter the arrangement. (2) Yet these little variations may remind us that after all theywere not produced under quite the same presuppositions as plays like_Hamlet_ and _Othello_, or even _King Lear_ and _Macbeth_. In a sensethey remain _Histories_, as truly histories as any of their Englishanalogues. The political vicissitudes and public catastrophes do notindeed contribute the chief elements of interest. Here as everywhereShakespeare is above all occupied with the career of individuals,with the interaction of persons and persons, and of persons andcircumstances. Nevertheless in these plays the characters are alwaysexhibited in relation to the great mutations in the State. Not merelythe background but the environment and atmosphere are supplied by thelarge life of affairs. It is not so in _Lear_, where the legend offeredno tangible history on which the imagination could take hold; it isonly partially so in _Macbeth_, where Shakespeare knew practicallynothing of the actual local conditions; nor, had it been otherwise, wasthere anything in these traditions of prerogative importance for latertimes. But in the Roman plays the main facts were accredited and known,and of infinite significance for the history of the world. They couldnot be overlooked, they had to be taken into account. For the same reason they must no more be tampered with than theaccepted facts of English History. The two historical series are againalike in this, that they treat their sources with much more reverencethan either the Comedies or the other Tragedies show for theirs. Evenin _Lear_ the dramatist has no scruple about altering the traditionalclose; even in _Macbeth_ he has no scruple about blending the storiesof two reigns. But in dealing with the professedly authentic recordswhether of England or Rome, Shakespeare felt that he had to do with theactual, with what definitely had been; and he did not conceive himselffree to give invention the rein, as when with a light heart he reshapedthe caprices of a novel or the perversions of a legend. As historicaldramatist he was subordinated to his subject much in the same way asthe portrait painter. He could choose his point of view, and managethe lights and shades, and determine the pose. He could emphasizedetails, or slur them over, or even leave them out. He could interpretand reveal, so far as in him lay, the meaning and spirit of history. But he had his marching orders and could no more depart from them totake a more attractive way of his own, than the portrait painter cancorrect the defects of his sitter to make him an Apollo. It cannotalways have been easy to keep true to this self-denying ordinance. Despite the suitability of the subject in general suggestion and evenin many particular incidents there must have been a recalcitrance totreatment here and there; and traces of this may be detected, if theRoman plays are compared with the tragedies in which the genius ofShakespeare had quite unimpeded sway. To some of the chief of thesetraces Mr. Bradley has called attention. Thus there is in the middle of_Antony and Cleopatra_, owing to the undramatic nature of the historicmaterial, an excessive number of brief scenes “in which the _dramatispersonae_ are frequently changed, as though a novelist were to tell hisstory in a succession of short chapters, in which he flitted from onegroup of his characters to another. ” In _Coriolanus_, “if Shakespearehad made the hero persist and we had seen him amid the flaming ruins ofRome, awaking suddenly to the enormity of his deed and taking vengeanceon himself . . . that would merely have been an ending more strictlytragic[72] than the close of Shakespeare’s play. ” In _Julius Caesar_the “famous and wonderful” quarrel scene between Brutus and Cassius is“an episode the removal of which would not affect the actual sequenceof events (unless we may hold that but for the emotion caused by thequarrel and reconciliation Cassius would not have allowed Brutusto overcome his objection to the fatal policy of offering battle atPhilippi). ” Mr. Bradley discusses this in another connection, and here,as we shall see, Shakespeare only partially adheres to his authority. In the same play, however, we have the episode of the poet Cinna’smurder which, however useful in illustrating the temper of the moband suggestive in other respects, is nevertheless a somewhat crudeintrusion of history, for it leads to nothing and in no way helps onthe action. But Shakespeare will put up with an occasional awkwardnessin the mechanism rather than fail to give what he considers a faithfulpicture. As in the best English Histories he omits, he compresses, heeven regroups; but he never consciously alters the sense, and to bringout the sense he utilises material that puts a little strain on his art. [72] _I. e. _ more tragic in the technical sense. Of course Mr. Bradleyis quite aware that as it stands _Coriolanus_ is “a much nobler play. ”It is right to add that he expresses no opinion whether the actualclose of Shakespeare’s play “was due simply to his unwillingness tocontradict his historical authority on a point of such magnitude. ” Atany rate, I am convinced that in his eyes that was a sufficient ground. Yet of course this does not mean that in the Roman any more thanin the English plays he attempts an accurate reconstruction of thepast. It may even be doubted whether such an attempt would have beenintelligible to him or to any save one or two of his contemporaries. To the average Elizabethan (and in this respect Shakespeare was anaverage Elizabethan, with infinitely clearer vision certainly, butwith the same outlook and horizon) the past differed from the presentchiefly by its distance and dimness; and distinctive contrasts inmanners and customs were but scantily recognised. A generation laterFrench audiences could view the perruques and patches of Corneille’sRomans without any sense of incongruity, and the assimilation of theancient to the modern was in some respects much more thorough-going inShakespeare’s England. In all his classical pieces the impression ofhistoric actuality and the genuine antique _cachet_ is only producedwhen there is a kind of inner kinship between the circumstances tobe represented and the English life that he knew. There was a gooddeal of such correspondence between Elizabethan life and Roman life,so the Roman Tragedies have a breath of historic verisimilitude andeven a faint suggestion of local colour. There was much less betweenElizabethan life and Greek life, so _Timon_ and _Troilus and Cressida_,though true as human documents, have almost nothing Hellenic aboutthem. But even in the Roman plays, so soon as there is anything thatinvolves a distinctive difference between Rome and London Shakespeareis sure to miss it. Anachronisms in detail are of course abundantlyunimportant, though a formidable list of them could be computed. In_Julius Caesar_ there are clocks that strike, and the crowd throw uptheir sweaty nightcaps. The arrangements of the Elizabethan stagefurnish Cleopatra and Comminius with similes. Menenius is familiar withfuneral knells and batteries and Galen’s prescriptions. These are _minutiae_ on which students like Bacon or Ben Jonson mightset store, but in regard to which Shakespeare was quite untroubledand careless. Perhaps they deserve notice only because they add onelittle item to the mass of proof that the plays were written by aman of merely ordinary information, not by a trained scholar. Butfor themselves they may be disregarded. It is not such trifles thatinterfere with fidelity to antiquity. But in weightier matters,too, Shakespeare shows an inevitable limitation in reproducing acivilisation that was in some aspects very different from his own,and for which he had no parallel in his own experience. He shows aprecisely analogous limitation when he deals with themes from EnglishHistory that were partly alien to the spirit of the time. Of this _KingJohn_ furnishes the grand example. We all know why that troublesomereign is memorable now, not merely to the constitutional historian,but to the man in the street and the child on the school bench. YetShakespeare makes no mention of Runnymede or the Great Charter; andwe may assume that he, like most Elizabethans, if interested in suchmatters at all, would have been unsympathetic to a movement thatextorted liberties by civil strife. To him the significant pointsare the disputed succession, the struggle with the Pope, the initialinvasion of France by England when the Kingdom is of one accord, andthe subsequent invasion of England by France, when it is dividedagainst itself. So _King John_, though very true to human nature andeven to certain aspects of the period, pays no heed to the aspect whichother generations have considered the most important of all, and onewhich on any estimate is not to be overlooked. But if Shakespeare thusmisses a conspicuous feature in a set of occurrences that took placeamong his own people less than four hundred years before, we need notwonder if he failed to detect the peculiar features of ancient Romeas it existed at a further distance of twelve or sixteen centuries. His approximation to the actual or alleged conditions varies indeedin the different plays. It is closest in _Antony and Cleopatra_. Inthat there is hardly a personage or circumstance for which he had notsome sort of a clue. He knew about soldiers of fortune like Enobarbusand pirate-adventurers like Menas; a ruler like Henry VII. had in hima touch of Octavius, there were not a few notabilities in Europe whocarried a suggestion of Mark Antony, the orgies of Cleopatra’s courtin Egypt were analogous to those of many an Italian or French court atthe Renaissance. It is all native ground to Shakespeare and he wouldfeel himself at home. On the other hand, he is least capable of seeingeye to eye the primitive republican life which on Plutarch’s evidencehe has to depict in _Coriolanus_. The shrewd, resolute, law-abidingCommons, whom some of the traditions that Plutarch worked up seem meantto exalt; the plebs that might secede to the Holy Mount, but would notrise in armed revolt; that secured the tribunate as its constitutionallever with which it was by and by to shift the political centre ofgravity, this was like nothing that he knew or that anybody else knewabout till half a century had elapsed. He could only represent it interms of a contemporary city mob; and the consequence is that thoughhe has given a splendid picture that satisfies the imagination andeven realises some of Plutarch’s hints, it is not true to the wholesituation as envisaged by Plutarch. [73] _Julius Caesar_ occupies a kindof intermediate position, and for that reason illustrates his methodmost completely. He could understand a good deal of the politicalcrisis in Rome on which that story turns, from the existing conditionsor recent memories of his own country. In both a period of civilturmoil had ended in the establishment of a strong government. In boththere were nobles who from principle or interest were opposed to thechange, so he could enter into the feelings of the conspirators. Inboth the centralisation of authority was the urgent need, so he couldappreciate the indispensableness of the Empire, the ‘spirit of Caesar. ’But of zeal for the republican theory as such he knows nothing, andtherefore his Brutus is only in part the Brutus of Plutarch. [73] Of course Shakespeare could not be expected to anticipate thelater theories and researches that go to prove that the political powerof plebs and tribunate has been considerably antedated. Thus Shakespeare in his picture of Rome and Romans, does not give thenotes that mark off Roman from every other civilisation, but ratherthose that it possessed in common with the rest, and especially withhis own. He even puts into it, without any consciousness of thediscrepancy, qualities that are characteristic of Elizabethan ratherthan of Roman life. And the whole result, the quickening of the antiquematerial with modern feeling in so far as that is also antique, andoccasionally when it is not quite antique, is due to the thoroughrealisation of the subject in Shakespeare’s own mind from his ownpoint of view, with all the powers not only of his reason, but of hisimagination, emotion, passion, and experience. Hence his delineationsare in point of fact more truly antique than those of many much morescholarly poets, who can reproduce the minute peculiarities, but not,what is more central and essential, the living energy and principle ofit all. This was felt by contemporaries. We have the express testimonyof the erudite Leonard Digges, who after graduating as Bachelor inOxford, continued his studies for many years in several foreignuniversities, and consequently was promoted on his return to thehonorary degree of Master, a man who, with his academic training andacademic status, would not be apt to undervalue literal accuracy. Buthe writes: So have I seen when Caesar would appear, And on the stage at half-sword parley were Brutus and Cassius: oh! how the audience Were ravish’d, with what wonder went they thence; When some new day they would not brook a line Of tedious though well-labour’d _Catiline_,— Sejanus too was irksome. Ben Jonson in _Sejanus_ and _Catiline_ tried to restore antiquity inits exclusive and exceptional traits. Shakespeare approached it onits more catholic and human side, interpreted it by those qualitiesin modern life that face towards the classical ideal, and even wentthe length of using at unawares some that were more typical of hisnew world. And Jonson’s Roman plays were felt to be well-laboured andirksome, while his filled the spectators with ravishment and wonder. In both series then, English and Roman alike, Shakespeare on the onehand loyally accepted his authorities and never deviated from them ontheir main route, but on the other he treated them unquestioninglyfrom his own point of view, and probably never even suspected thattheir own might be different. This is the double characteristic of hisattitude to his documents, and it combines pious regard for the assumedfacts of History with complete indifference to critical research. Heis as far as possible from submitting to the dead hand of the past,but he is also as far as possible from allowing himself a free handin its manipulation. His method, in short, implies and includes twoprinciples, which, if separated, may easily become antagonistic, andwhich, in point of fact, have led later schools of the historic dramain quite opposite directions. A short examination of these contrastedtendencies may perhaps help to throw a clearer light on Shakespeare’sown position. The one that lays stress on the artist’s right to take counsel withhis own ideas has been explained by Lessing in a famous passage ofthe _Hamburg Dramaturgy_, which is all the more interesting for thepresent purpose, that throughout it tacitly or expressly appeals tothe practice of Shakespeare. Lessing starts with Aristotle’s doctrinethat poetry is more pregnant than history, and asks why, when this isso, the poet does not keep within the kingdom of his imagination, whymore especially the dramatist descends to the lower artistic levelof the historian to trespass on the domain of prosaic fact. And heanswers that it is merely a matter of convenience. There is advantageto be gained from illustrious position and impressive associations;and moreover the playwright finds it helpful that the audience shouldalready have some idea of the story to be told, that they should, asit were, meet him half way, and bring to the understanding of hispiece some general knowledge of the persons. He gains his purpose ifhe employs famous names which appear in a nimbus of associations, andsaves time in describing their characters and circumstances; and thusthey attune our minds for what is to come and serve as so many labelsby means of which, when we see a new play, we may inform ourselveswhat it is all about. The initial familiarity and the prestige itimplies are fulcra for moving the interest of the beholders. Thehistorical dramatist, therefore, must be careful not to alter thecurrent conceptions of character; but, with that proviso, he has almostunlimited powers, and may omit or recast or invent incidents, or forgean entirely new story, just as he pleases, so long, that is, as heleaves the character intact and does not interfere with our idea of thehero. In that case the historic label would be more of a hindrance thana help to our enjoyment. Lessing’s view of the Historic Drama (and there is no doubt that hethought he was describing the method of Shakespeare) is thereforethat it is a free work of fiction woven around characters that arefairly well known. He was certainly wrong about Shakespeare, and histheory strikes us nowadays as strangely inadequate, but it had veryimportant results. It directly influenced the dramatic art of Germany,and it would be hard to overestimate the share it had in determiningSchiller’s methods of composition. It was in the air at the time ofthe Romantic Movement in France, and is really the principle on whichHugo constructs his more important plays in this kind. Schiller’streatment of history is very free; he invents scenes that have noshadow of foundation in fact, and yet are of crucial importance in hisidealised narrative; he invents subordinate persons who are hardly lessconspicuous than the authentic principals, and who vitally affect theplot and action. All his plays contain these licenses. Such episodes asthe interview between Mary and Elizabeth, of Jeanne Darc’s indulgenceof her pity illustrate the first, such figures as Mortimer or Max andThekla illustrate the second; but what would _Mary Stuart_ or the _Maidof Orleans_ or _Wallenstein_ be without them? And with Victor Hugo thisemancipation from authority is pushed to even greater lengths. Playslike _Le Roi s’amuse_ or _Marion de Lorme_ might recall the vagaries ofearly Elizabethan experiments like Greene’s _James IV. _, were it notthat they are works of incomparably higher genius. Hugo has acceptedthe traditional view of a French king and a French court, but all therest is sheer romance on which just here and there we detect the trailof an old _mémoire_. Now, some of the extreme examples suggest a two-fold objection toLessing’s account as a quite satisfactory explanation of the species. In the first place, when the poet carries his privilege of independenceso far, why should he not go a step further and invent his entiredrama, names and all? As it is, we either know something of the realhistory or we do not. If we do not, what is the advantage of appealingto it? If we do, will not such lordly disregard of facts stir up thesame recalcitrance as disregard of traditional character, and shallwe not be rather perplexed than aided by the conflict between ourreminiscences and the statements of the play? And, in the second place, is the portrayer of human nature to takehis historical persons as once for all given and fixed, so that hemust leave the accepted estimate of them intact without attemptingto modify it? Surely that would be to deprive the dramatist of hisgreater privilege and the drama of its greatest opportunity. For thenwe should only see a well-known character illustrated or describedanew, displaying its various traits in this or that set of novelsurroundings. But there would be little room for the sort of work thatthe historic drama is specially fitted to do, viz. the expositionof ambiguous or problematic natures, which will give us a differentconception of them from the one we have hitherto had. Hence there arose in Germany a view directly opposed to that ofLessing, and Lotze does not hesitate to recommend the most painstakinginvestigation and observance of the real facts. The poet, he thinks,will find scope enough in giving a new interpretation of the careerand individuality of the hero, after he has used all the means in hispower to bring home to his imagination the actual circumstances fromwhich they emerged. Probably little was known in England of this theoryof Lotze’s, though utterances to the same effect occur in Carlyle,especially in his remarks on Shakespeare’s English Histories; yetit seems to give a correct account of the way in which most Englishhistorical dramas were constructed in the nineteenth century. Sir HenryTaylor, while calling _Philip van Artevelde_ “a dramatic romance,” iscareful to state that “historic truth is preserved in it, as far as thematerial events are concerned. ” Mr. Swinburne, in his trilogy on MaryStuart, versifies whole pages of contemporary writers (_e. g. _ in theinterview of Mary and Knox taken almost verbatim from Knox’s _Historyof the Reformation_), and in his prose essay seems specially to valuehimself on his exact delineation of her career, and his solution ofthe problem of her strange nature. But the prerogative instance isfurnished by Tennyson. In his dedication of _Harold_, he writes toLord Lytton: “After old-world records like the Bayeux Tapestry and theRoman de Rou, Edward Freeman’s _History of the Norman Conquest_ andyour father’s historical romance treating of the same theme have beenmainly helpful to me in writing this drama. ” He puts his antiquarianresearches first, his use of the best modern critical authoritiessecond, and only in the third place an historical romance, to which forthe rest Freeman has said that he owes something himself. Nor would itbe difficult to show that in _Queen Mary_ and _Becket_ he has followedthe same lines. And on such lines it is clear that the historicaldramatist’s only aim must be to present in accurate though artisticform a selection of the incidents and circumstances of the hero’s lifeand times, and place them in such mutual relation that they throw newlight on the nature and destiny of the man. But from this point of view the functions of the poet and the historianwill tend to coalesce, and it is just this that at first sight rousessuspicion. After all can we so reproduce the past as to give it realimmediate truth? It is hardly possible by antiquarian knowledgequickened by ever so much poetic power to galvanise into life a stateof things that once for all is dead and gone. And meanwhile the mereeffort to do so is apt to make the drama a little frigid, as Tennyson’sdramas are. We are seldom carried away on a spontaneous stream ofpassion; for after all the methods of the historian and the poet areradically different, and the painful mosaic work of the one is almostdirectly opposed to the complete vision, the creation in one jet, whichmay be rightly expected of the other. But it is noteworthy that though the two schools which we have justdiscussed, make appeal to Shakespeare, his own procedure does notprecisely agree with that of one or other. He is too much of theheaven-born poet for the latter; he has too genuine a delight in factsfor the former. He has points of contact with both, but in a way heis more _naïf_ and simple-minded than either. He at the same timeaccepts the current conception of character with Lessing, and respectsthe allegations of history with Carlyle. But though he begins withthe ordinary impression produced by his hero, he does not stop there. Such an impression is bound to be incoherent and vague. Shakespeareprobes and defines it; he tests it in relation to the assumed facts onwhich it is based; he discovers the latent difficulties, faces them,and solves them, and, starting with a conventional type, leaves uswith an individual man. In doing this he treats the facts as a means,not as an end, but he does not sophisticate them. We hardly ever findfictitious persons and scenes in Schiller’s style, and when we do theexception proves the rule, for they have not the same function as inSchiller’s theatre. Falstaff plays his part aside, as it were, fromthe official history, he belongs to the private life of Prince Hal,and is impotent to affect the march of public events. People likeLucius in _Julius Caesar_, or Nicanor in _Coriolanus_, or Silius in_Antony and Cleopatra_ do not interfere in the political story; theyare present to make or to hear comments, or at most to assist theinward interpretation. No unhistorical person has historical work todo, and no unhistorical episode affects the historical action. [74] Yethe quite escapes from the chill and closeness of the book-room. Heengages in no critical investigations to sift out the genuine facts. Hedoes not study old tapestry or early texts. Unhampered by the learnedapparatus of the scholar, undistracted by the need of pausing to verifyor correct, he speeds along on the flood-tide of his own inspiration,which takes the same course with the interests of the nation. For it isthe reward of the intimate sympathy which exists between him and hiscountrymen, that he goes to work, his personal genius fortified andenlarged by the popular enthusiasms, patriotic or cosmopolitan. Andnothing can withstand the speed and volume of the current. There is agreat contrast between the broad free sweep of his Histories, Englishor Roman, that lift us from our feet and carry us away, and the littleartificial channels of the antiquarian dramas, on the margin of whichwe stand at ease to criticise the purity of the distilled water. Yetnone the less he is in a sense more obedient to his authorities thanany writer of the antiquarian school. Just because, while desiring togive the truth as he knows it, he is careless to examine the accuracyor estimate the value of the documents he consults; and just because,while determined to give a faithful narrative, he spares himself alllabour of comparison and research and takes a statement of Holinshedor Plutarch as guaranteeing itself, he is far more in the hands ofthe guide he follows than a later dramatist would be. He takes thetext of his author, and often he has not more than one: he accepts itimplicitly and will not willingly distort it: he reads it in the lightof his own insight and the spirit of the age, and tries to recreate theagents and the story from the more or less adequate hints that he finds. [74] Even the intervention of the Bastard in _King John_ was guaranteedby the old play and was doubtless considered authentic by Shakespeare. Now, proceeding in this way it is clear that while in every caseShakespeare’s indebtedness to his historical sources must be great,it will vary greatly in quality and degree according to the materialdelivered to him. The situations may be more or less dramatic, thenarrative more or less firmly conceived. And among his sourcesPlutarch occupies quite an exceptional place. From no one else hashe ‘conveyed’ so much, and no one else has he altered so little. And the reason is, that save Chaucer and Homer, on whom he drew for_Troilus and Cressida_, but from whom he could assimilate little thatsuited his own different ideas, no other writer contained so muchthat was of final and permanent excellence. To put it shortly, inPlutarch’s _Lives_ Shakespeare for the first and almost the only timewas rehandling the masterpieces of a genius who stood at the summit ofhis art. It was not so in the English Histories. One does not like tosay a word in disparagement of the Elizabethan chronicles, especiallyHolinshed’s, on which the maturer plays are based. They are goodreading and deserve to be read independently of the dramatist’s use ofthem. But they are not works of phenomenal ability, and they betray theinfancy of historical writing, not only in scientific method, which inthe present connection would hardly matter, but in narrative art aswell. Cowley in _his_ Chronicle, _i. e. _ the imaginary record of hislove affairs, breaks off with a simile and jest at their expense. If,he says, I were to give the details, I more voluminous should grow— (Chiefly if I like them should tell All change of weathers that befell) Than Holinshed and Stowe. Their intention is good, and they often realise it so as to interestand impress, but the introduction of such-like trifles as Cowleymentions, without much relevance or significance, may give us themeasure of their technical skill. Again, though in the second andthird part of _Henry VI. _ Shakespeare was dealing with the work ofMarlowe, we have to remember, first, that his originals were compositepieces not by Marlowe alone, and, further, that even Marlowe could notaltogether escape the disabilities of a pioneer. In Plutarch, however, Shakespeare levied toll on no petty vassallike the compilers of the Chronicles, or innovating conqueror likethe author of _Tamburlaine_, but on the king by right divine of along-established realm. And the result is that he appropriates more,and that more of greater value, than from any other tributary. CHAPTER IIIANCESTRY OF SHAKESPEARE’S ROMAN PLAYS1. PLUTARCH[75]Plutarch, born at Chaeronea in Boeotia, about 45 or 50 A. D. , flourishedin the last quarter of the first and the earliest quarter of thesecond century. He came of good stock, which he is not reluctant totalk about. Indeed, his habit of introducing or quoting his father,his grandfather, and even his great grandfather, gives us glimpsesof a home in which the prescribed pieties of family life werewarmly cherished; and some of the references imply an atmosphere ofsimplicity, urbanity, and culture. [75] See Plutarch’s works _passim_, especially North’s version ofthe _Lives_ reprinted in the _Tudor Translations_, and the _Morals_translated by Philemon Holland (1603). See also Archbishop Trench’s_Lectures on Plutarch_. The lad was sent to Athens to complete his education under Ammonius,an eminent philosopher of that generation, though in Carlyle’s phrase,‘now dim to us,’ who also took part in what little administrativework was still intrusted to provincials, and more than once held thedistinguished position of strategos. Thus, as in childhood Plutarch wastrained in the best domestic traditions of elder Greece, so now he hadbefore his eyes an example of such active citizenship as survived inthe changed condition of things. The same spirit of reverence for the past presided over his routine ofstudy. His works afterwards show a wide familiarity with the earlierliterature and philosophy of his country, and the foundations of thismust have been laid in his student days. It was still in accordancewith accepted precedents and his own reminiscent tastes, that when heset out on his travels, he should first, as so many of his predecessorswere reported to have done, betake himself to the storied land ofEgypt. We know that this must have been after 66 A. D. , for in thatyear, when Nero made his progress through Greece, Plutarch tells usthat he was still the pupil of Ammonius. We know, further, that he musthave visited Alexandria, for he mentions that in his grandfather’sopinion his father gave too large a banquet to celebrate theirhomecoming from that city. But he does not inform us how much of Egypthe saw, or how long was his stay, or in what way he employed himself. It is only a probable conjecture at most that his treatise on _Isis andOsiris_ may be one of the fruits of this expedition. Of another and later journey that took him to Italy, there is more tobe said. Plutarch at an early age, whether before or after the Egyptiantour, had already been employed in public affairs. He tells us: I remember my selfe, that when I was but of yoong yeres I was sent with another in embassage to the Proconsul: and in that my companion staid about I wot not what behind, I went alone and did that which we had in commission to do together. After my returne when I was to give an account unto the State, and to report the effect of my charge and message back again, my father arose, and taking me apart, willed me in no wise to speak in the singular number and say, _I departed or went_, but, _We departed_; item not _I said_ (or _quoth I_) but _We said_; and in the whole narration of the rest to joine alwaies my companion as if he had been associated and at one hand with me in that which I did alone. [76][76] _Instructions for them, etc. _Such courtesy conciliates good will, and he was subsequently sent ‘onpublic business’ to Rome. This must have been before 90 A. D. , whenRusticus, whom Plutarch mentions that he met, was condemned to death,and when the philosophers were expelled from the city; and was probablysome time after 74 A. D. , the date of their previous expulsion, when,moreover, Plutarch was too young to be charged with matters so weightyas to need settlement in the capital. But it is not certain whetherthis was his only visit to Italy, and whether he made it in the reignof Vespasian or of Domitian. His story of a performing dog that tookpart in an exhibition in presence of Vespasian, has been thought tohave the verisimilitude of a witnessed scene, and has been used tosupport the former supposition: his description of the sumptuousnessof Domitian’s buildings makes a similar impression, and has been usedto support the latter. All this must remain doubtful, but some thingsare certain: that his business was so engrossing, and those who cameto him for instruction were so numerous, that he had little time forthe study of the Latin language; that he delivered lectures, some ofwhich were the first drafts of essays subsequently included in the_Moralia_; that he had as his acquaintances or auditors several of themost distinguished men in Rome, among them Mestrius Florus, a tablecompanion of Vespasian, Sosius Senecio, the correspondent of Pliny,and that Arulenus Rusticus afterwards put to death by Domitian, whoon one occasion would not interrupt a lecture of Plutarch’s to reada letter from the Emperor; that he traversed Italy as far north asRavenna, where he saw the bust of Marius, and even as Bedriacum, wherehe inspected the battlefields of 69 A. D. But though Plutarch loved travel and sight-seeing, and though he wasfully alive to the advantages of a great city, with its instructivesociety and its collections of books, his heart was in his nativeplace, and he returned to settle there. “I my selfe,” he says, “dwellein a poore little towne, and yet doe remayne there willingly, least itshould become lesse. ”[77] And in point of fact he seems henceforth onlyto have left it for short excursions to various parts of Greece. One ofthese exhibits him in a characteristic and amiable light. Apparentlysoon after his marriage a dispute had broken out between the parents ofthe newly wedded pair, and Plutarch in his conciliatory way took hiswife, as we should say, ‘on a pilgrimage,’ to the shrine at Thespiaeon Mount Helicon to offer a sacrifice to Love. [78] This is in keepingwith all the express utterances and all the unconscious revelations hemakes of his feeling for the sacredness of the family tie. He was oneof those whose soul rings true to the claims of kith and kin. He thanksFortune as a chief favour for the comradeship of his brother Timon,and delights to show off the idiosyncrasies of his brother Lamprias. We do not know when his marriage took place, but if Plutarch acted onhis avowed principles, it must have been when he was still a youngman, and it was a very happy one. As we should expect; for of all theaffections it is wedded love that he dwells on most fully, and few havespoken more nobly and sincerely of it than he. Again and again he givesthe point of view, which is often said to have been attained by theModern World only by the combined assistance of Germanic character andChristian religion. Thus he says of a virtuous attachment:[77] _Life of Demosthenes. _[78] _Love. _ But looke what person soever love setleth upon in mariage, so as he be inspired once therewith, at the very first, like as it is in Platoes Common-wealth, he will not have these words in his mouth, _Mine_ and _Thine_; for simply all goods are not common among all friends, but only those who being severed apart in body, conjoine and colliquate as it were perforce their soules together, neither willing nor believing that they should be twaine but one: and afterward by true pudicitie and reverence one unto the other, whereof wedlock hath most need. . . . In true love there is so much continency, modesty, loyalty and faithfulnesse, that though otherwhile it touche a wanton and lascivious minde, yet it diverteth it from other lovers, and by cutting off all malapert boldnesse, by taking downe and debasing insolent pride and untaught stubornesse, it placeth in lieu thereof modest bashfulnesse, silence, and taciturnity; it adorneth it with decent gesture and seemly countenance, making it for ever after obedient to one lover onely. . . . For like as at Rome, when there was a Lord Dictatour once chosen, all other officers of state and magistrates valed bonnet, were presently deposed, and laied downe their ensignes of authority; even so those over whom love hath gotten the mastery and rule, incontinently are quit freed and delivered from all other lords and rulers, no otherwise than such as are devoted to the service of some religious place. [79][79] _Love. _His wife bore him at least five children, of whom three died inchildhood, the eldest son, “the lovely Chaeron,” and then their littledaughter, born after her four brothers, and called by her mother’sname, Timoxena. The letter of comfort which Plutarch, who was absentat Tanagra, sent home after the death took place, is good to read. There is perhaps here and there a touch that suggests the professionalmoralist and rhetorician: as when he recounts a fable of Aesop’sto enforce his advice; or bids his wife not to dwell on her griefsrather than her blessings, like “those Criticks who collect and gathertogether all the lame and defective verses of Homer, which are but fewin number; and in the meane time passe over an infinite sort of otherswhich were by him most excellently made”; or warns her to look to herhealth because, if “the bodie be evill entreated and not regarded withgood diet and choice keeping, it becometh dry, rough and hard, in suchsort as from it there breathe no sweet and comfortable exhalationsunto the soule, but all smoakie and bitter vapors of dolour griefeand sadnesse annoy her. ” These were the toll Plutarch paid to his ageand to his training. But the tender feeling for his wife’s grief, andthe confidence in her dignified endurance of it are very beautifuland human. And his descriptions of the child’s sweet nature, whichhe does not leave general, but after his wont lights up with specialreminiscences, and which, he insists, they must not lose from mind orturn to bitterness but cherish as an abiding joy, strike the note thatis still perhaps most comforting to mourners. After telling over herother winsome and gracious ways, he recalls: She was of a wonderfull kinde and gentle nature; loving she was againe to those that loved her, and marvellous desirous to gratifie and pleasure others: in which regards she both delighted me and also yielded no small testimonie of rare debonairetie that nature had endued her withall; for she would make pretie means[80] to her nourse, and seeme (as it were) to intreat her to give the brest or pap, not only to other infants but also to little babies[81] and puppets and such-like gauds as little ones take joy in and wherewith they use to play; as if upon a singular courtesie and humanitie shee could finde in her heart to communicate and distribute from her owne table even the best things that shee had, among them that did her any pleasure. But I see no reason (sweet wife) why these lovely qualities and such like, wherein we took contentment and joy in her life time, should disquiet and trouble us now after her death, when we either think or make relation of them: and I feare againe, lest by our dolour and griefe, we abandon and put cleane away all the remembrance thereof; like as Clymene desired to do when she said “I hate the bow so light of cornel tree: All exercise abroad, farewell for me,” as avoiding alwaies and trembling at the commemoration of her sonne which should do no other good but renew her griefe and dolour; for naturally we seeke to flee all that troubleth and offendeth us. We oughte therefore so to demeane ourselves, that, as whiles she lived, we had nothing in the world more sweet to embrace, more pleasant to see or delectable to heare than our daughter; so the cogitation of her may still abide and live with us all our life time, having by many degrees our joy multiplied more than our heavinesse augmented. [82][80] = Coax. [81] Dolls. [82] _Epistle to Wife. _And then there is the confident expectation of immortality to mitigatethe present pang of severance. But Plutarch and his wife had other consolations as well. Two sons,Aristobulus and a younger Plutarch, lived to be men, and to them hededicated a treatise on the _Timaeus_. We know that one of them atleast married and had a son in his father’s lifetime. Beyond hisdomestic circle Plutarch had a large number of friends in Chaeroneaand elsewhere, including such distinguished names as Favorinus thephilosopher and Serapion the poet; and being, in Dr. Johnson’s phrase,an eminently “clubbable man,” he was often host and guest at banquets,fragments of the talk at which he has preserved in his _Symposiacs_. Almost the only rigorous line in his portrait is contributed by AulusGellius, his later contemporary, and the friend of their common friendFavorinus. Gellius[83] represents the philosopher Taurus as tellingabout “Plutarchus noster”—a phrase that shows the attachment men feltfor him—a story of which Dryden gives the following free and amplifiedbut very racy translation:[83] _Noctes Atticae_, I. xxvi. Plutarch had a certain slave, a saucy stubborn kind of fellow; in a word one of these pragmatical servants who never make a fault but they give a reason for it. His justifications one time would not serve his turn, but his master commanded that he should be stripped and that the law should be laid on his back. He no sooner felt the smart but he muttered that he was unjustly punished, and that he had done nothing to deserve the scourge. At last he began to bawl out louder; and leaving off his groaning, his sighs, and his lamentations, to argue the matter with more show of reason: and, as under such a master he must needs have gained a smattering of learning, he cried out that Plutarch was not the philosopher he pretended himself to be; that he had heard him waging war against all the passions, and maintaining that anger was unbecoming a wise man; nay, that he had written a particular treatise in commendation of clemency; that therefore he contradicted his precepts by his practices, since, abandoning himself over to his choler, he exercised such inhuman cruelty on the body of his fellow-creature. “How is this, Mr. Varlet? ” (answered Plutarch). “By what signs and tokens can you prove that I am in passion? Is it by my countenance, my voice, the colour of my face, by my words or by my gestures that you have discovered this my fury? I am not of opinion that my eyes sparkle, that I foam at the mouth, that I gnash my teeth, or that my voice is more vehement, or that my colour is either more pale or more red than at other times; that I either shake or stamp with madness; that I say or do anything unbecoming a philosopher. These, if you know them not, are the symptoms of a man in rage. In the meantime,” (turning to the officer who scourged him) “while he and I dispute this matter, mind your business on his back. ”This story, as we have seen, comes from one who was in a position toget authentic information about Plutarch, and it may very well betrue; but it should be corrected, or at least supplemented, by his ownutterances in regard to his servants. “Sometimes,” he says, “I use toget angry with my slaves, but at last I saw that it was better to spoilthem by indulgence, than to injure myself by rage in the effort toamend them. ” And more emphatically: As for me I coulde never finde in my hart to sell my drawght Oxe that hadde plowed my lande a longe time, because he coulde plowe no longer for age; and much lesse my slave to sell him for a litle money, out of the contrie where he had dwelt a long time, to plucke him from his olde trade of life wherewith he was best acquainted, and then specially, when he shalbe as unprofitable for the buyer as also for the seller. [84][84] _Cato Major. _Plutarch was thus fully alive to the social and domestic amenitiesof life, and to his responsibilities as householder, but he did notfor them overlook other claims. He became priest of Apollo in Delphi,and for many years fulfilled the priestly functions, taking partin the sacrifices, processions and dances even as an old man; forphilosopher as he was, his very philosophy supplied him with variouscontrivances for conformity with the ancient cult, and he probablyhad no more difficulty about it than a modern Hegelian has with theThirty-nine Articles. His deeper religious needs would be satisfied bythe Mysteries, in which he and his wife were initiated. He was equally assiduous in public duties, which he did not despisefor the pettiness to which under the Roman domination they had shrunk. In his view even the remnants of self-government are to be jealouslyguarded and loyally employed, though they may concern merely parochialand municipal affairs, and for them vigilant training and disciplineare required. Surely impossible it is that they should ever have their part of any great roial and magnificall joy, such as indeed causeth magnanimitie and hautinesse of courage, bringeth glorious honour abroad or tranquillitie of spirit at home, who have made choice of a close and private life within doors, never showing themselves in the world nor medling with publicke affaires of common weale; a life, I say, sequestered from all offices of humanitie, far removed from any instinct of honour or desire to gratifie others, thereby to deserve thankes or winne favour: for the soul, I may tell you, is no base and small thing; it is not vile and illiberal, extending her desires onely to that which is good to be eaten, as doe these poulpes[85] or pour cuttle fishes which stretch their cleies as far as to their meat and no farther: for such appetites as these are most quickly cut off with satietie and filled in a moment. But when the motives and desires of the minde tending to vertue and honestie, to honour and contentment of conscience are once growen to their vigour and perfection, they have not for their limit, the length and tearme onely of one man’s life; but surely the desire of honour and the affection to profit the societie of men, comprehending all aeternitie, striveth still to goe forward in such actions and beneficiall deedes as yield infinite pleasures that cannot be expressed. [86][85] Polypes. [86] _That a man cannot live pleasantly, etc. _He was true to his principles. He not only officiated as Archon ofChaeronea, but, “gracing the lowliest act in doing it,” was willing todischarge the functions of a more subordinate post, which some thoughtbeneath his dignity. Mine answer is to such as reprove me, when they find me in proper person present, at the measuring and counting of bricks and tiles, or to see the stones, sand and lime laid downe, which is brought into the citie: “It is not for myselfe that I builde, but for the citie and commonwealth. ”[87][87] _Instructions for them, etc. _He was thus faithful over a few things; tradition made him ruler overmany things. It is related that Trajan granted him consular rank anddirected the governor of Achaia to avail himself of his advice. Thiswas embellished by the report that he had been Trajan’s preceptor; andin the Middle Ages a letter very magisterial in tone was fabricatedfrom him to his imperial pupil. It was even said that in his old ageHadrian had made him governor of Greece. There is a poetic justification for such legends. The government ofTrajan and Hadrian was felt to be such that the precepts of philosophymight very fittingly have inspired it, and that the philosopher mightvery well have been the administrator of their policy. And indeed itis perhaps no fable that Plutarch had something to do with the better_régime_ that was commencing; for his nephew Sextus of Chaeronea, whomay have inherited something of his uncle’s spirit, was an honouredteacher of Marcus Aurelius, and influenced his pupil by his exampleno less than by his teaching. The social renovation which was then inprogress should be remembered in estimating Plutarch’s career. Gibbonsays: “If a man were called to fix the period in the History of theWorld, during which the condition of the human race was most happy andprosperous, he would, without hesitation, name that which elapsed fromthe death of Domitian to the accession of Commodus. ” Probably thisstatement would need to be, if not greatly qualified, at least greatlyamplified, before it commanded universal assent, but, as it stands,there is a truth in it which anyone can perceive. There was peacethroughout a great portion of the world; there was good governmentwithin the Empire; there was a rejuvenescence of antique culture,literature, and conduct. Indeed, the upward tendency begins withthe reigns of Vespasian and Titus, and even the thwarting influenceof Domitian’s principate would be felt in Rome rather than in theprovinces. It was in this time of “reaction against corruption” thatPlutarch flourished, and his later life especially fell well withinthat Indian summer of classical civilisation that Gibbon celebrates. The tradition that he survived till the accession of Antonine may beincorrect, but he certainly enjoyed eight years of Trajan’s government,and, by Eusebius’ statement, was still alive in the third year ofHadrian’s reign. It is to his latter days that his _Lives_ as a wholeare assigned, partly on account of the casual reference to contemporaryevents that some of them contain. Plutarch’s character, circumstances, and career in a world which wasreaching its close, well fitted him for the work that he did. ThisGreek citizen of the Roman Empire had cultivated his mind by study andtravel, and had assimilated the wisdom of wide experience and pregnantmemories which Antiquity had amassed in earlier times and to whichthis interval of revival was heir. Benevolent and dutiful, temperateand devout, with a deep sense of his public obligations and the ethosof his race, he sympathised with the best principles that had mouldedthe life of olden days, and that were emerging to direct the life ofthe present. And he combined his amplitude of traditional lore andenthusiasm for traditional virtue in a way that made him more thanan antiquary or a moralist. The explorer and practitioner of antiqueideas, in a sense he was their artist as well. His treatment and style already suggest the manifold influences thatwent to form his mind. One of his charms lies in his quotations, whichhe culls, or rather which spring up of their own accord, from hisreading of the most various authors of the most different times. He isat home in Greek literature, and likes to clinch his argument with asaying from the poets, for he seems to find that their words put histhought better than he could himself. But this affects his originalexpression. Dryden writes: Being conversant in so great a variety of authors, and collecting from all of them what he thought most excellent, out of the confusion or rather mixture of their styles he formed his own, which partaking of each was yet none of them, but a compound of them all:—like the Corinthian metal which had in it gold and brass and silver, and yet was a species in itself. There may be a suggestion of the curious mosaic-worker in hisprocedure, something of artifice, or at least of conscious art; andindeed his treatises are not free from a rhetorical and sometimesdeclamatory strain. [88] That in so far is what Courier means when hesays that Plutarch writes in the style of a _sophistes_; but it wasinseparable from his composite culture and academic training, and itdoes not interfere with his sincerity and directness. [88] Even in the narrative passages one is conscious that thedescriptions have been worked up. Take, _e. g. _ the following passagefrom the _Life of Marius_:—Ἐπεὶ δὲ πολλοὺς τῶν Ἀμβρώνων οἰ Ῥωμαῖοι διαφθείραντες ἀνεχώρησαν ὀπίσωκαὶ σκότος ἐπέσχεν, οὐχ ὥσπερ εὐτυχήματι τοσούτῳ τὸν στρατὸν ἐδέξαντοπαιᾶνες ἐπινίκιοι καὶ πότοι κατὰ σκηνὰς καὶ φιλοφροσύναι περὶ δεῖπνα,καὶ, τὸ πάντων ἥδιστον ἀνδράσιν εὐτυχῶς μεμαχημένοις, ὕπνος ἤπιος,ἀλλ’ ἐκείνην μάλιστα τὴν νύκτα φοβερὰν καὶ ταραχώδη διήγαγον. Ἦν μὲνγὰρ αὐτοῖς ἀχαράκωτον τὸ στρατόπεδον καὶ ἀτείχιστον, ἀπελείποντο δὲτῶν βαρβάρων ἔτι πολλαὶ μυριάδες ἀήττητοι καὶ σνμμεμιγμένων τούτοις,ὅσοι διαπεφεύγεσαν, τῶν Ἀμβρώνων ὀδυρμὸς ἦν διὰ νυκτὸς, οὐ κλαυθμοῖςούδὲ στεναγμοῖς ἀνθρώπων ἐοικῶς, ἀλλὰ θηρομιγής τις ὠρυγὴ καὶ βρύχημαμεμιγμένον ἀπειλαῖς καὶ θρήνοις ἀναπεμπόμενον ἐκ πλήθους τοσούτου τάτε πέριξ ὄρη καὶ τὰ κοῖλα τοῦ ποταμοῦ περιεφώνει. Καὶ κατεῖχε φρικώδηςἦχος τὸ πεδίον. (XX. Döhner’s Edition. )Or take this from the _Life of Sulla_:—Τὴν δὲ κραυγὴν καὶ ἀλαλαγμὸν οὐκ ἔστεγεν ὁ ἀὴρ ἐθνῶν τοσούτων ἅμακαθισταμένων εἰς τάξιν. Ἤν δὲ ἅμα καὶ τὸ κομπῶδες καὶ σοβαρὸν αὐτῶντῆς πολυτελείας οὐκ ἀργὸν οὐδὲ ἄχρηστον εἰς ἔκπληξιν, ἀλλ’ αἵ τεμαρμαρυγαὶ τῶν ὅπλων ἠσκημένων χρνσῷ τε καὶ ἀργύρῳ διαπρεπῶς αἵτε βαφαὶ τῶν Μηδικῶν καὶ Σκυθικῶν χιτώνων ἀναμεμιγμέναι χαλκῷ καὶσιδήρῳ λάμποντι πυροειδῆ καὶ φοβερὰν ἐν τῷ σαλεύεσθαι καὶ διαφέρεσθαιπροσέβαλλον ὄψιν, ὤστε τοὺς Ῥωμαίους ὑπὸ τὸν χάρακα συστέλλειν ἑαυτοὺςκαὶ τὸν Σύλλαν μηδενὶ λόγῳ τὸ θάμβος αὐτῶν ἀφελεῖν δυνάμενον βιάζεσθαίτε ἀποδιδράσκοντας οὐ βονλόμενον ἡσυχίαν ἄγειν καὶ φέρειν βαρέωςἐφυβρίζοντας ὁρῶντα κομπασμῷ καὶ γέλωτι τοὺς βαρβάρους. (XVI. Döhner’s Edition. )This is very different from the unstudied charm of Herodotus. Even inNorth’s translation, though something of the cunning has been lost inthe selection and manipulation of the words, it is easy to see that thepictures are elaborate both in their general effect and their details. Now the Romaines, after they had overcome the most parte of theAmbrons, retyring backe by reason the night had overtaken them, didnot (as they were wont after they had geven such an overthrow) singsonges of victory and triumphe, nor make good chere in their tentesone with an other, and least of all sleepe: (which is the best andsweetest refreshing for men that have fought happely), but contrarilythey watched all that night with great feare and trouble, bicause theircampe was not trenched and fortified, and bicause they knewe also thatthere remained almost innumerable thowsandes of barbarous people, thathad not yet fought: besides also that the Ambrons that had fled andscaped from the overthrow, did howle out all night with lowd cries,which were nothing like men’s lamentacions and sighes, but rather likewild beastes bellowing and roaringe. So that the bellowinge of such agreat multitude of beastly people, mingled together with threates andwaylinges, made the mountains thereabouts and the running river torebounde againe of the sounde and ecco of their cries marvellously:by reason whereof, all the valley that lay between both, thundered toheare the horrible and fearfull trembling. The ayer was even cut a sunder as it were with the violence of thenoyse and cries of so many sundry nations, which altogether did putthem selves in battell ray. The sumptuousness of their furnituremoreover, was not altogether superfluous and unprofitable, but servedgreatly to feare the beholders. For the glistering of their harnesse,so richly trimmed and set forth with gold and silver, the cullers oftheir arming coates upon their curaces, after the facion of the Medesand Scythians, mingled with the bright glistering steele and shiningcopper, gave such a showe as they went and removed to and fro, thatmade a light as clere as if all had bene on a very fire, a fearfullthing to looke upon. In so much as the Romaines durst not so much asonce goe out of the trenches of their campe, nor Sylla with all hisperswasion coulde take away this great conceived feare from them:wherefore, (and bicause also he would not compell them to goe forth inthis feare) he was driven not to stirre, but close to abide, (thoughit grieved him greatly) to see the barbarous people so proudly andvillanously laugh him and his men to scorne. His philosophy makes a similar impression. He is an eclectic orsyncretist, and has learned from many of the mighty teachers ofbygone times. Plato is his chief authority, but Plato’s doctrines areconsciously modified in an Aristotelian sense, while nevertheless thoseaspects of them are made prominent which were afterwards elaboratedby Neo-Platonism strictly so-called. But Plutarch, though he has thegood word of Neo-Platonic thinkers, is not himself to be reckonedof their company. He is comparatively untouched by their mysticism,borrowed freely from the Theosophy of the East, and he stands in closerlineal relation to the antique Greek spirit than some, like Philo, whoprecede him in time. He was so indifferent to the Semitic habit ofmind that, despite his almost omnivorous curiosity, he never thoughtit worth while to instruct himself in the exact nature of Judaism orits difference from the Syrian cult, far less to spend on Christianityso much as a passing glance. He approaches Neo-Platonism most nearlyin certain religious imaginings which, as he himself recognised, haveaffinity with beliefs which prevailed in Persia and Egypt; but evenso, he hardly ceases to be national, for these were the two countrieswith which in days of yore Greece had the most important historicconnections. And moreover, his interest in such surmises is not, inthe first place, a speculative one, but springs from the hope of hisfinding some explanation of and comfort for the trials and difficultiesof actual life. For on the whole he differs from Plato chiefly inhis subordination of theory to practice. This compels him to acceptloans from the very schools that he most criticises, the Stoics, theSceptics, the Epicureans themselves. It is his preoccupation withconduct, rather than eclectic debility, that makes him averse toany one-sided scheme, and inclined to supplement it with manifoldadditions. But as in his style, so in his thought, he blends theheterogeneous elements to his own purpose, and fixes on them the stampof his own mind. It is not without reason that his various treatisesare included under the common title of _Moralia_. He may dilate on theworship of _Isis and Osiris_, or _The Face appearing within the Roundleof the Moone_; he may discuss _Whether creatures be more wise, they ofthe land or those of the water_; _What signifieth this word Ei engravenover the Dore of Appolloes Temple in the City of Delphi_, and variousother recondite matters; but the prevailing impression is ethical,and he is at his best when he is discoursing expressly on some moraltheme, on _Unseemly and Naughty Bashfulnesse_, or _Brotherly Love_,or _Tranquillitie and Contentment of Mind_, or the _Pluralitie ofFriends_, or the question _Whether this common Mot be well said ‘LiveHidden. ’_ There is the background of serious study and philosophicknowledge, but against it is detached the figure of the sagacious andpractical teacher, who wishes to make his readers better men and betterwomen, but never forgets his urbanity and culture in his admonitions,and drives them home with pointed anecdote and apt quotation. And thesubstance of his teaching, though so sane and experimental that itis sometimes described as obvious and trite, has a generous, ideal,and even chivalrous strain, when he touches on such subjects as love,or devotion, or the claims of virtue; and his sympathy goes outspontaneously to noble words or deeds or minds. It is an easy step from the famous _Moralia_ to the still morefamous _Parallel Lives_. “All history,” says Dryden, in referenceto the latter, “is only the precepts of moral philosophy reducedinto examples. ” This, at least, is no bad description of Plutarch’spoint of view; and his methods do not greatly differ in the series ofessays and in the series of biographies. In the essays he did not lethimself be unduly hampered by the etiquette of the Moral Treatise, butexpatiated at will among Collections and Recollections, and embroideredhis abstract argument with the stories that he delights to tell. As historian, on the other hand, he is not tied down to historicalnarration and exposition, but indulges his moralising bent to the full. He is on the lookout for edification, and is seldom at a loss for a pegto hang a lecture on. And these discourses of his, though the materialis sometimes the sober drab of the decent _bourgeois_, are always finein texture, and relieved by the quaintness of the cut and the ingenuityof the garnishing: nor are they the less interesting that they do notbelong to the regulation historical outfit. Such improving digressions,indeed, are among Plutarch’s charms. “I am always pleased,” saysDryden, “when I see him and his imitator Montaigne when they strike alittle out of the common road; for we are sure to be the better fortheir wandering. The best quarry does not always lie on the open field,and who would not be content to follow a good huntsman over hedges andditches, when he knows the game will reward his pains. ”[89][89] There are so many good things, despite all the inevitablemistakes, in Dryden’s _Life of Plutarch_, that one half regrets thatProfessor Ker’s plan did not allow him to include at least part of itin his admirable selection. Thus, in excuse for omitting the catalogueof Plutarch’s lost works, which had been given in full in the Parisedition: “But it is a small comfort to the merchant to pursue his billof freight when he is certain his ship is cast away; moved by the likereason, I have omitted that ungrateful task. ”Proceeding in this way it is not to be expected that Plutarch shouldcompose his _Lives_ with much care for dexterous design. Just as in hisphilosophy he has no rigidly consequent system of doctrine, so in hisbiographies he has no orderly or well-digested plan. The excellencesthat arise from a definite and vigorous conception of the whole arenot those at which he aims. He would proceed very much at haphazard,were it not for the chronological clue; which, for the rest, he is verywilling to abandon if a tempting by-path presents itself, or if hethinks of something for which he must retrace his steps. Yet, no morethan in his metaphysics is he without an instinctive method of his own. The house is finished, and with all its irregularities it is good todwell in; the journey is ended, and there has been no monotony on thedevious track. There is this advantage indeed in his procedure overthat of more systematic biographers, that it offers hospitality to allthe suggestions that crowd for admission. None is rejected because itis out of place and insignificant. Gossip and allotria of every kindthat do not make out their claims at first sight, and that the moreambitious historian would exclude as trivial, find an entry if they canshow a far-off connection with the subject. And, lo and behold, theyoften turn out to be the most instructive of all. But Plutarch welcomes them without scrutinising them very austerely. Hesubmits their credentials to no stringent test. He is no severe criticof their authenticity. He takes them where he finds them, just as hepicks up philosophic ideas from all quarters, even from the detestedEpicureans, without condemning them on account of their suspicioussource: it is enough for him if they adapt themselves to his use. Nor does he educe from them all that they involve. He does not evenconfront them with each other, to examine whether opposite hints abouthis heroes may not lead to fuller and subtler conceptions of them. Thisis the point of the charge brought against him by St. Évremond, thathe might have carried his analysis further and penetrated more deeplyinto human nature. St. Évremond notes how different a man is fromhimself, the same person being just and unjust, merciful and cruel;“which qualities,” proceeds the critic, “seeming to belie each otherin him, [Plutarch] attributes these inconsistencies to foreign causes. He could never . . . reconcile contrarieties in the same subject. ” Henever tried to do so. He collects a number of vivid traits, which,like a number of minute lines, set forth the likeness to his own mind,but he is ordinarily as far from interrogating and combining hisimpressions as he is from subjecting them to any punctilious test. Heexhibits characters in the particular aspects and manifestations whichhistory or hearsay has presented, and is content with the generalsense of verisimilitude that these successive indications, creditedor accredited, have left behind. But he stops there, and does notstudy his manifold data to construct from them a consistent complexindividuality in its oneness and difference. And if this is true of himas biographer, it is still truer of him as historian. He touches on allsorts of historical subjects—war, policy, administration, government;and he has abundance of acute and just remarks on them all. But it isnot in these that his chief interest lies, and it is not over them thathe holds his torch. This does not mean that he fails to perceive themain drift of things or to appreciate the importance of statecraft. Mr. Wyndham, defending him against those who have “denied him anypolitical insight,” very justly shows that, despite “the paucity of hispolitical pronouncements,” he has a “political bent. ” His choice ofheroes, in the final arrangement to which they lent themselves, provesthat he has an eye for the general course of Greek and Roman history,for the impotence into which the city state is sunk by rivalry withneighbours in the one case, for its transmutation into an Empire on theother: “The tragedy of Athens, the drama of Rome,” says Mr. Wyndham,“these are the historic poles of the _Parallel Lives_. ” And Plutarchhas a political ideal: the “need of authority and the obligation ofthe few to maintain it—by a ‘natural grace’ springing on the one handfrom courage combined with forbearance, and leading, on the other, toharmony between the rulers and the ruled—is the text, which, given outin the _Lycurgus_, is illustrated throughout the _Parallel Lives_. ” Somuch indeed we had a right to expect from the thoughtful patriot andexperienced magistrate of Chaeronea. The salient outlines of the storyof Greece and Rome could hardly remain hidden from a clear-sighted manwith Plutarch’s knowledge of the past: the relations of governor andgoverned had not only engaged him practically, but had suggested to himone of his most pithy essays, _Praecepta gerendae Reipublicae_, a titlewhich Philemon Holland paraphrases in stricter accordance with thecontents, _Instructions for them that manage Affaires of State_. Butthis does not carry us very far. Shakespeare in his English Historiesshows at least as much political discernment and political instinct. Hebrings out the general lesson of the wars of Lancaster and York, and in_Henry V. _ gives his conception of the ideal ruler. But no one wouldsay that this series shows a conspicuous genius for political researchor political history. The same thing is true, and in a greater degree,of Plutarch. He is public-spirited, but he is not a publicist. Hehas not much concern or understanding for particular measures andmovements and problems, however critical they may be. It is impossibleto challenge the justice of Archbishop Trench’s verdict, either in itsgeneral scope or in its particular instances, when he says: One who already knows the times of Marius and Sulla will obtain a vast amount of instruction from his several _Lives_ of these, will clothe with flesh and blood what would else, in some parts, have been the mere skeleton of a story; but I am bold to say no one would understand those times from him. The suppression of the Catilinarian Conspiracy was the most notable event in the life of Cicero; but one rises from Plutarch’s _Life_ with only the faintest impression of what that conspiracy, a sort of anticipation of the French Commune, and having objects social rather than political, meant. Or take his _Lives_ of the Gracchi. Admirable in many respects as these are, greatly as we are debtors to him here for important facts, whereof otherwise we should have been totally ignorant, few, I think, would affirm that he at all plants them in a position for understanding that vast revolution effected, with the still vaster revolution attempted by them, and for ever connected with their names. In Plutarch the historian, as well as the biographer, is subordinate tothe ethical teacher who wishes to enforce lessons that may be useful tomen in the management of their lives. He gathers his material for its“fine moral effects,” not for “purposes of research. ”[90][90] De Quincey says: “Nor do I believe Wordsworth would much havelamented on his own account if all books had perished, except theentire body of English poetry and Plutarch’s Lives. . . . I do not mean toinsinuate that Wordsworth was at all in the dark about the inaccuracyor want of authentic weight attaching to Plutarch as historian, buthis business with Plutarch was not for _purposes of research_; he wassatisfied with his _fine moral effects_. ” So too one of Plutarch’slatest editors, Mr. Holden, says in a similar sense: “Plutarch hasno idea of historic criticism. . . . He thought far less of finding outand relating what actually occurred than of edifying his readers andpromoting virtue.

”Plutarch, then, had already composed many disquisitions to commend hishumane and righteous ideas, and it was partly in the same didacticspirit that he seems to have written his _Parallel Lives_. At thebeginning of the _Life of Pericles_ he says: Vertue is of this power, that she allureth a mans minde presently to use her, and maketh him very desirous in his harte to followe her: and doth not frame his manners that beholdeth her by any imitation but by the only understanding and knowledge of vertuous deedes, which sodainely bringeth unto him a resolute desire to doe the like. _And this is the reason why methought I should continew still to write on the lives of noble men. _And similar statements occur again and again. They clearly show theaim that he consciously had in view. The new generation was to beadmonished and renovated by the examples of the leading spirits whohad flourished in former times. And since he was addressing the wholecivilised world, he took his examples both from Roman and from GrecianHistory, and arranged his persons in pairs, each pair supplying thematter for one book. Thus he couples Theseus and Romulus, Alcibiadesand Coriolanus, Alexander and Caesar, Dion and Brutus, Demetrius andAntony. Such parallelism is a little far-fetched, and though some ofthe detailed comparisons with which it is justified, are not fromPlutarch’s hand, and belong to a later time, it of itself betraysa certain fondness for symmetry and antithesis, a leaning towardsartifice and rhetoric which, as we have seen, the author owed to hisenvironment. He wishes in an eloquent way to inculcate his lessons,and is perhaps, for the same reason, somewhat prone to exaggerate thegreatness of the past, and show it in an idealised light. But thisis by no means the pose of the histrionic revivalist. It correspondsto an authentic sentiment in his own nature, which loved to lingeramid the glooms and glories of tradition, and pay vows at the shrineof the Great Departed. “The cradle of war and statecraft,” says Mr. Wyndham, “was become a memory dear to him, and ever evolved by hispersonal contact with the triumphs of Rome. From this contrast flowedhis inspiration for the _Parallel Lives_—his desire as a man to drawthe noble Grecians, long since dead, a little nearer to the noon-day ofthe living; his delight as an artist in setting the noble Romans, whosenames were in every mouth, a little further into the twilight of moreancient Romance. ”But this transfiguration of the recent and resurrection of the remoterpast, in which Mr. Wyndham rightly sees something “romantic,” does notlay Plutarch open to the charge of vagueness or unreality. He was savedfrom such vices by his interest in human nature and suggestive _ana_and picturesque incidents on the one hand, and by his deference forpolitical history and civil society on the other. He loved marked individualities: no two of his heroes are alike, andeach, though in a varying degree, has an unmistakable physiognomy ofhis own. There is no sameness in his gallery of biographies, and eventhe legends of demigods yield figures of firm outline that resist thetouch. This is largely due to his joy in details, and the imperiousdemand his imagination makes for them. In his _Life of Alexander_he uses words which very truly describe his own method, words whichBoswell[91] was afterwards to quote in justification of his own similarprocedure. The noblest deedes doe not alwayes shew men’s vertues and vices, but often times a light occasion, a word, or some sporte, makes men’s natural dispositions and manners appear more plaine, then the famous battells wonne wherein are slaine tenne thousande men, or the great armies, or cities wonne by siege or assault. For like as painters or drawers of pictures, which make no accompt of other parts of the bodie, do take the resemblaunces of the face and favor of the countenance, in the which consisteth the judgement of their maners and disposition; even so they must give us leave to seeke out the signes and tokens of the minde only, and thereby shewe the life of either of them, referring you unto others to wryte the warres, battells and other great thinges they did. [92][91] _Johnson’s Life_, ed. B. Hill, i. 31. [92] _Life of Alexander. _So he likes to give the familiar traits and emphasise the suggestivenothings that best discover character. But his purpose is almostalways to discover character, and, so far as his principal personsare concerned, to discover great character. Though so assiduous insharking up their mannerisms, foibles, and oddities, their tricks ofgait or speech or costume, he is not like the Man with the Muck Rake,and is not piling together the rubbish of tittle-tattle just becausehe has a soul for nothing higher. Still less does he take the valet’sview of the hero, and hold that he is no hero at all because he canbe seen in undress or in relations that show his common human nature. Reverence for greatness is the point from which he starts, reverencefor greatness is the star that guides his course, and his reverenceis so entire, that on the one hand he welcomes all that will help himto restore the great one in his speech and habit as he lived, and onthe other, he assumes that the greatness must pervade the whole life,and that flashes of glory will be refracted from the daily talk andwalk. Like Carlyle, though in a more _naïf_ and simple way, he is ahero-worshipper; like Carlyle he believes that the hero will not losebut gain by the record of his minutest traits, and that these will onlythrow new light on his essential heroism. In the object he proposedto himself he has succeeded well. “Plutarch,” says Rousseau, almostreproducing the biographer’s own words, “has inimitable dexterityin painting great men in little things, and he is so happy in hisselection, that often a phrase, a simile, a gesture suffices him toset forth a hero. That is the true art of portraiture. The physiognomydoes not display itself in the main lines, nor the characters ingreat actions; it is in trifles that the temperament disclosesitself. ” An interesting testimony; for Rousseau, when he sets up ascharacter-painter, belongs to a very different school. It is not otherwise with his narratives of actions or his descriptionsof scenes, if action or scene really interest him; and there is littleof intrinsic value, comic or tragic, vivacious or stately, familiar orweird, that does not interest him. Under his quick successive strokes,some of them so light that at first they evade notice, some of themso simple that at first they seem commonplace, the situation becomesvisible and luminous. He knows how to choose the accessories and whatto do with them. When our attention is awakened, we ask ourselves howhe has produced the effect by means apparently so insignificant; and wecannot answer. Here he may have selected a hint from his authorities,there he may derive another from the mental vision he himself hasevoked, but in either case the result is equally wonderful. Whetherfrom his tact in reporting or his energy in imagining, he contrives tomake us view the occurrence as a fact, and a fact that is like itselfand like nothing else. But again Plutarch was saved from wanton and empty phantasms by hispolitical bias. He was not a politician or a statesman or an historianof politics or institutions, but he was a citizen with a citizen’srespect for the State. “For himself,” to quote Mr. Wyndham once more,“he was painting individual character, and he sought it among menbearing a personal stamp. But he never sought it in a private person,or a comedian, nor even in a poet or a master of the Fine Arts. ” Heconfines himself to public men, as we should call them, and neverfails to recollect that they played their part on the public stage. And this not only gave a robustness of touch and breadth of stroketo his delineations; the connection with well-known and certifiedevents preserved him from the worst licenses to which the romanticand rhetorical temper is liable. Courier, indeed, says of him thathe was “capable of making Pompey win the battle of Pharsalia, if itwould have rounded his sentence ever so little. ” But though he may becredulous of details and manipulate his copy, and with a light heartmake one statement at one time and a different one at another, the sortof liberty Courier attributes to him is precisely the one he does nottake. Facts are stubborn things, and the great outstanding facts he iscareful to observe: they bring a good deal else in their train. 2. AMYOT[93]A book like the _Parallel Lives_ was bound to achieve a greatpopularity at the Renaissance. That it was full of instruction andserved for warning and example commended it to a generation that wasbut too inclined to prize the didactic in literature. Its long list ofworthies included not a few of the names that were being held up asthe greatest in human history, and these celebrities were exhibitednot aloft on their official pedestals, but, however impressive andimposing the _mise-en-scène_ might be, as men among men in theprivate and personal passages of their lives. And yet they were notprivate persons but historical magnates, the founders or leaders ofworld-renowned states: and as such they were particularly congenial toan age in which many of the best minds—More and Buchanan, L’Hôpitaland La Boëtie, Brand and Hutten—were awakening to the antique idea ofcivic and political manhood, and finding few unalloyed examples of itin the feudalised West. It was not enough that Plutarch was made moreaccessible in the Latin form. He deserved a vernacular dress, and aftervarious tentative experiments this was first satisfactorily, in truth,admirably, supplied by Bishop Amyot in France. [93] See De Blignières’ _Essai sur Amyot_, and Amyot’s translations_passim_, with the prefatory epistles. Jacques Amyot was born in October, 1513, in Melun, the little town onthe Seine, some thirty miles to the south-east of Paris. His parentswere very poor, but at any rate from his earliest years he was withinthe sweep of the dialect of the Île de France, and had no _patois_to unlearn when he afterwards appeared as a literary man. Perhapsto this is due some of the purity and correctness which the mostfastidious were afterwards to celebrate in his style. These influenceswould be confirmed when as a lad he proceeded to Paris to pursue hisstudies. His instructors in Greek were—first, Evagrius, in the collegeof Cardinal Lemoine, and afterwards, Thusan and Danès, who, at theinstance of Budaeus, had just been appointed _lecteurs royaux_ inAncient Philosophy and Literature. Stories are told of the privationsthat he endured in the pursuit of scholarship, how his mother sent himevery week a loaf by the watermen of the Seine, how he read his booksby the light of the fire, and the like; but similar circumstances arerelated of others, and, to quote Sainte Beuve, are in some sort “thelegend of the heroic age of erudition. ” It is better authenticatedthat he supported himself by becoming the domestic attendant of richerstudents till he graduated as Master of Arts at the age of nineteen. Then his position began to improve. He became tutor in importanthouseholds, to the nephews of the Royal Reader, and to the children ofthe Royal Secretary. Through such patrons his ability and knowledgewere made known to the King’s sister, Marguérite de Valois, thebeneficent patroness of literature and learning. He had proceeded toBourges, it is said, to study law, but by her influence was appointedto discharge the more congenial functions of Reader in the Greek andLatin Languages, and was soon promoted to the full professorship. TheUniversity of Bourges was at the time the youngest in France save thatof Bordeaux, having been founded less than three-quarters of a centurybefore in 1463, when the Renaissance was advancing from conquest toconquest in Italy, and when Medievalism was moribund even in France. The new institution would have few traditions to oppose to the newspirit, and there was scope for a missionary of the New Learning. Forsome ten or twelve years Amyot remained in his post, lecturing twohours daily, in the morning on Latin, in the afternoon on Greek. Nodoubt such instruction would be elementary in a way; but even so, itwas a laborious life, for in those days the classical teacher had fewof the facilities that his modern colleague enjoys. It was, however, agood preparation for Amyot’s peculiar mission, and he even found timeto make his first experiments in the sphere that was to be his own. By1546 he had completed a translation of the _Aethiopica_ of Heliodorus,the famous Greek romance that deals with the loves and adventuresof Theagenes and Chariclea. Amyot afterwards, on the authority of amanuscript which he discovered in the Vatican, identified the authorwith a Bishop of Tricca who lived in the end of the fourth century, andof whom a late tradition asserted that when commanded by the provincialsynod either to burn his youthful effusion or resign his bishopric,he chose the latter alternative. “Heliodorus,” says Montaigne, whendiscussing parental love, “ayma mieulx perdre la dignité, le proufit,la devotion d’une prelature si venerable, que de perdre sa fille,fille qui dure encores bien gentille, mais à l’aventure pourtant unpeu curieusement et mollement goderonnee pour fille ecclesiastique etsacerdotale, et de trop amoureuse façon. ”[94] In the case of the youngFrench professor it had happier and opposite consequences, for itprocured him from the king the Abbey of Bellozane. This gift, one ofthe last that Francis bestowed for the encouragement of letters, waspartly earned, too, by a version of some of Plutarch’s _Lives_, whichAmyot presented to his royal patron and had executed at his command. [94] II. viii. , _De l’affection des pères aux enfants_. With an income secured Amyot was now in a position to free himself fromthe drudgery of class work, and follow his natural bent. In those daysnot all the printed editions of the classics were very satisfactory,and some works of the authors in whom he was most interested stillexisted only in manuscript or were known only by name. He set out forItaly in the hope of discovering the missing _Lives_ of Plutarch andof obtaining better texts than had hitherto been within his reach, andseems to have remained abroad for some years. For a moment he becomes aconspicuous figure in an uncongenial scene. In May, 1551, the Councilof Trent had been reopened, but Charles delayed the transaction ofbusiness till the following September. The Italian prelates, impatientand indignant, were hoping for French help against the emperor, butinstead of the French Bishops there came only a letter from the “FrenchKing addressed to ‘the Convention’ which he would not dignify withthe name of a council. The King said he had not been consulted abouttheir meeting. He regarded them as a private synod got up for their ownpurposes by the Pope and the Emperor and he would have nothing to dowith them. ”[95] It was Amyot who was commissioned with the delivery andcommunication of the ungracious message. Probably the selection of thesimple Abbé was intended less as an honour to him than as an insult tothe assemblage. At any rate it was no very important part that he hadto play, but it was one which made him very uncomfortable. He writes:“Je filois le plus doux que je pouvois, me sentant si mal et assez pourme faire mettre en prison, si j’eusse un peu trop avant parle. ” He wasnot even named in the letter, and had not so much as seen it beforehe was called to read it aloud, so that he complains he never saw amatter so badly managed, “si mal cousu,” but he delivered the contentswith emphasis and elocution. “Je croy qu’il n’y eust personne en toutela compagnie qui en perdist un seul mot, s’il n’estoit bien sourd, desorte que si ma commission ne gisoit qu’a présenter les lettres duroy, et à faire lecture de la proposition, je pense y avoir amplementsatisfait. ”But his real interests lay elsewhere, and he brought back from Italywhat would indemnify him for his troubles as envoy and please him morethan the honour of such a charge. In his researches he had made someveritable finds, among them a new manuscript of Heliodorus, and BooksXI. to XVII. of Diodorus Siculus’ _Bibliotheca Historica_, only the twolast of which had hitherto been known at all. His treatment of thisdiscovery is characteristic,[96] both of his classical enthusiasm andhis limitations as a classical scholar. He did not, as the specialistof that and perhaps of any age would have done, edit and publish theoriginal text, but contented himself with giving to the world a Frenchtranslation. But the _Historic Library_ has neither the allurement ofa Greek romance nor the edification of Plutarch’s _Lives_; and in thisversion, which for the rest is said to be poor, Amyot for once appealedto the popular interest in vain. [95] Froude, _Council of Trent_, chap. xii. [96] See M. de Job’s remarks in Petit de Julleville’s _LittératureFrançaise_. The Diodorus Siculus appeared in 1554, and in the same year Henry II. appointed Amyot preceptor to his two sons, the Dukes of Orleans andAnjou, who afterwards became respectively Charles IX. and Henry III. Ashis pupils were very young their tuition cannot have occupied a greatdeal of his time, and he was able to pursue his activity as translator. In 1559, besides a revised edition of _Theagenes and Chariclea_, thereappeared anonymously a rendering, probably made at an earlier date,of the _Daphnis and Chloe_, a romance even more “curieusement etmollement goderonnee pour fille ecclesiastique et sacerdotale” than itscompanion. But it is with his own name and a dedication to the Kingthat Amyot published almost at the same date his greatest work, thecomplete translation of Plutarch’s _Parallel Lives_. If his Heliodorusgave him his first step on the ladder of church preferment, hisPlutarch was a stronger claim to higher promotion. Henry II. , indeed,died before the end of the year, but the accession of Amyot’s elderpupil in 1560, after the short intercalary reign of Francis II. , waspropitious to his fortunes, for the new king, besides bestowing on himother substantial favours, almost immediately named him Grand Almonerof France. Amyot was an indefatigable but deliberate worker. Fifteen years hadelapsed between his first appearance as translator and the issue of hismasterpiece. Thirteen more were to elapse before he had new materialready for the press. The interval in both cases was filled up withpreparation, with learned labour, with the leisurely prosecution of hisplan. A revised edition of the _Lives_ appeared in 1565 and a thirdin 1567, and all the time he was pushing on a version of Plutarch’s_Moralia_. Meanwhile in 1570 Charles gave him the bishopric of Auxerre;and without being required to disown the two literary daughters of hisvivacious prime, “somewhat curiously and voluptuously frounced and oftoo amorous fashion” though they might be, he had yet to devote himselfrather more seriously to his profession than he hitherto seems to havedone. He set about it in his usual steady circumspect way. He composedsermons, first, it is said, writing them in Latin and then turningthem into French; he attended faithfully to the administration of hisdiocese; he applied himself to the study of theological doctrine,and is said to have learned the _Summa_ of St. Thomas Aquinas byheart. [97] These occupations have left their trace on his next work,which was ready by 1572. Not only are Plutarch’s moral treatisesperfectly consonant in tone with Amyot’s episcopal office, but thepreface is touched with a breath of religious unction, of which hisprevious performances show no trace. Perhaps the flavour is a littletoo pronounced when in his grateful dedication to his royal master hedeclares: “The Lord has lodged in you singular goodness of nature. ” Thesubstantive needs all the help that can be wrung from the adjective,when used of Charles IX. in the year of St. Bartholomew. But Amyot,though the exhibiter of “Plutarch’s men,” was essentially a privatestudent, and was besides bound by ties of intimacy and obligation tohis former pupil, who had certainly done well by him. Nor was theyounger brother behindhand in his acknowledgments. Charles died beforetwo years were out (for Amyot had a way of dedicating books to kingswho deceased soon after), and was lamented by Amyot in a simple andheartfelt Latin elegy. But his regrets were quite disinterested, forwhen Henry III. succeeded in 1574, he showed himself as kind a master,and in 1578 decreed that the Grand Almoner should also be Commander ofthe Order of the Holy Ghost without being required to give proofs ofnobility. [97] Twelve volumes! Invested with ample revenues and manifold dignities, Amyot for thenext eleven years lived a busy and simple life, varying the routineof his administrative duties with music, of which he was a lover anda practitioner; with translations, never published and now lost, fromthe Greek tragedians, who had attracted him as professor, and fromSt. Athanasius, who appealed to him as bishop; above all, with therevision of his Plutarch, for which he never ceased to collect newreadings. Then came disasters, largely owing to his reputation forpartiality and complaisance. When the Duke and the Cardinal of Guisewere assassinated in 1589, he was accused by the Leaguers of havingapproved the crime and of having granted absolution to the King. Thishe denied; but his Chapter and diocesans rose against him, the populacesacked his residence, and he had to fly from Auxerre. Nor were hiswoes merely personal. On August 3rd the House of Valois, to which hewas so much beholden, became extinct with the murder of Henry III. ;and however worthless the victim may have been, Amyot cannot have beenunaffected by old associations of familiarity and gratitude. Six dayslater he writes that he is “the most afflicted, desolate and destitutepoor priest I suppose, in France. ” His private distress was not of longduration. He made peace with the Leaguers, denounced the “politicians”for supporting Henry IV. , returned to his see, resumed his episcopalduties, though he was divested of his Grand Almonership, and was ableto leave the large fortune of two hundred thousand crowns. But he didnot survive to see the establishment of the new dynasty or the triumphof Catholicism, for he died almost eighty years old in February, 1593,and only in the following June was Henry IV. reconciled to the Church. Perhaps had he foreseen this consummation Amyot would have found somecomfort in the thought that a third pupil, a truer and greater one thanthose who were no more, would reign in their stead, and repair thedamage their vice and folly had caused. “Glory to God! ” writes Henry ofNavarre to his wife, “you could have sent me no more pleasant messagethan the news of the zest for reading which has taken you. Plutarchalways attracts me with a fresh novelty. To love him is to love me, forhe was for long the instructor of my early years. My good mother, towhom I owe everything, and who had so great a desire to watch over myright attitude and was wont to say that she did not wish to see in herson a distinguished dunce, put this book in my hands when I was all butan infant at the breast. It has been, as it were, my conscience, andhas prescribed in my ear many fair virtues and excellent maxims for mybehaviour and for the management of my affairs. ”[98][98] Vive Dieu! vous ne m’auriés sceu rien mander qui me fust plusagréable que la nouvelle du plaisir de lecture qui vous a prins. Plutarque me soubrit toujours d’une fresche nouveauté; l’aymer c’estm’aymer, car il a esté longtemps l’instituteur de mon bas age: ma bonnemère à laquelle je doibs tout, et qui avoit une affection si grandede veiller à mes bons deportmens, et ne vouloit pas (ce disoit-elle)voir en son filz un illustre ignorant, me mist ce livre entre lesmains, encores que je ne feusse à peine plus un enfant de mamelle. Ilm’a esté comme ma conscience et il m’a dicté à l’oreille beaucoup debonnes honestetés et maximes excellentes pour ma conduite, et pour legouvernment de mes affaires. Amyot has exerted a far-reaching influence on the literature of his owncountry and of Europe. Though as a translator he might seem to have nomore than a secondary claim, French historians of letters have dwelt onhis work at a length and with a care that are usually conceded only tothe achievements of creative imagination or intellectual discovery. Andthe reason is that his aptitude for his task amounts to real genius,which he has improved by assiduous research, so that in his treatment,the ancillary craft, as it is usually considered, rises to the rankof a free liberal art. He has the insight to divine what stimulus andinformation the age requires; the knowledge to command the sources thatwill supply them; the skill to manipulate his native idiom for the newdemands, and suit his expression, so far as may be, both to his subjectand to his audience. Among the great masters of translation he occupiesa foremost place. Of spontaneous and initiative power he had but little. He cannotstand alone. For Henry II. he wrote a _Projet de l’Eloquence Royal_,but it was not printed till long after his death; and of this andhis other original prose his biographer, Roulliard, avows that thestyle is strangely cumbersome and laggard (_estrangement pesant ettraisnassier_). Even in his prefaces to Plutarch he is only goodwhen he catches fire from his enthusiasm for his author. Just as hismisgivings at the Council of Trent, his commendations of his royalpatrons, his concessions to his enemies of the League, suggest a defectin independent force of character, so the writings in which he mustrely on himself show a defect in independent force of intellect. Nor is he a specialist in scholarship. Already in 1635, when he hadbeen less than a century in his grave, Bachet de Méziriac, expert inall departments of learning, exposed his shortcomings in a Discourseon Translation, which was delivered before the Academy. His criticdescribes him as “a promising pupil in rhetoric with a mediocreknowledge of Greek, and some slight tincture of Polite Letters”;and asserts that there are more than two thousand passages in whichhe has perverted the sense of his author. Even in 1580-81, duringAmyot’s lifetime, Montaigne was forced to admit in discussion withcertain learned men at Rome that he was less accurate than hisadmirers had imagined. He was certainly as far as possible from beinga _Zunftgelehrter_. His peculiar attitude is exactly indicated byhis treatment of the missing books of Diodorus which it was his goodfortune to light upon. He is not specially interested in his discovery,and has no thought of giving the original documents to the world. Atthe same time he has such a reverence for antiquity that he must dosomething about them. So with an eye to his chosen constituency, hisown countrymen, he executes his vernacular version. For of his own countrymen he always thought first. They are hisaudience, and he has their needs in his mind. And that is why he madePlutarch the study of his life. His romances are mere experiments forhis pastime and equipment:[99] his Diodorus is a task prescribed byaccident and vocation: but his Plutarch is a labour of love and ofpatriotism. It was knowledge of antiquity for which the age clamouredand of which it stood in need; and who else could give such a summaryand encyclopaedia of Classical Life as the polyhistor of Chaeronea,who interested himself in everything, from details of householdmanagement to the government of states, from ancestral superstitionsto the speculations of philosophers, from after-dinner conversation tothe direction of campaigns; but brought them all into vital relationwith human nature and human conduct? Plutarch appealed to the popularinstinct of the time and to the popular instinct in Amyot’s own breast. It is his large applicability “distill’d through all the needfuluses of our lives” and “fit for any conference one can use” that,for example, arouses the enthusiasm of Montaigne. After mentioningthat when he writes he willingly dispenses with the companionship orrecollection of books, he adds:[99] As he himself states in the _Proesme of Théagène et Chariclée_. He has occupied himself with this only, “aux heures extraordinaires,pour adoucir le travail d’autres meilleures et plus fructueusestraductions,” so as to be made “plus vif à la consideration des chosesd’importance. ” But it is with more difficulty that I can get rid of Plutarch: he is so universal and so full that on all occasions and whatever out-of-the-way subject you have taken up, he thrusts himself into your business, and holds out to you a hand lavish and inexhaustible in treasures and ornaments. I am vexed at his being so much exposed to the plunder of those who resort to him. I can’t have the slightest dealings with him myself, but I snatch a leg or a wing. [100]And again: I am above all grateful to [Amyot] for having had the insight to pick out and choose a book so worthy and so seasonable, to make a present of it to his country. We dunces should have been lost, if this book had not raised us out of the mire. Thanks to it we now dare to speak and write. With it the ladies can lecture the school-masters. It is our breviary. [101][100] Je me puis plus malaysement desfaire de Plutarque; il est siuniversel et si plein, qu’à toutes occasions, et quelque subjectextravagant que vous ayez prins, il s’ingère à vostre besongne,et vous tend une main liberale et inespuisable de richesses etd’embellissements. Il m’en faict despit, d’estre si fort exposé aupillage de ceulx qui le hantent: je ne le puis si peu raccointer, queje n’en tire cuisse ou aile (iii. 5). [101] Mais, surtout, je lui sçais bon gré d’avoir sceu trier et choisirun livre si digne et si à propos, pour en faire présent à son pais. Nous aultres ignorants estions perdus, si ce livre ne nous eust relevédu bourbier: sa mercy nous osons à cette heure et parler et escrire;les dames en regentent les maistres d’eschole; c’est notre bresviaire(ii. 4). “In all kinds Plutarch is my man,” he says elsewhere. And indeed itis obvious, even though he had not told us, that Plutarch with Senecasupplies his favourite reading, to which he perpetually recurs. “I havenot,” he writes, “systematically acquainted myself with any solid booksexcept Plutarch and Seneca, from whom I draw like the Danaides, fillingand pouring out continually. ”[102] To the latter he could go forhimself; for the Greek he had to depend on Amyot. For combined profitand pleasure, he says, “the books that serve me are Plutarch, _since heis French_, and Seneca. ”[103] But it is to the former that he seems togive the palm. Seneca is full of smart and witty sayings, Plutarch of things: the former kindles you more and excites you, the latter satisfies you more and requites you better; he guides us while the other drives us. [104][102] Je n’ay dressé commerce avecques aulcun livre solide sinonPlutarque et Senecque, où je puyse comme les Danaïdes remplissant etversant sans cesse (i. 25). [103] Les livres qui m’y servent, c’est Plutarque depuis qu’il estfrançois, et Seneque (ii. iv. ). Of course Montaigne knew some Greekand read it more or less. He has even his own opinion about Plutarch’sstyle (see page 104), and M. Faguet conjectures: “It is quiteconceivable that Montaigne compared the translation with the text, andthat it is a piece of mere affectation when he says he knows nothing ofthe Greek. ” But doubtless he read the French much more habitually andeasily. [104] Seneque est plein de poinctes et saillies, Plutarque de choses;celuy là vous eschauffe plus et vous esmeut, cettuy ci vous contentedavantage et vous paye mieulx; il nous guide, l’aultre nous poulse (ii. 10). It is indeed impossible to imagine Montaigne without Plutarch, to whomhe has a striking resemblance both in his free-and-easy homilies and inhis pregnant touches. It is these things on which he dwells. There are in Plutarch many dissertations at full length well worth knowing, for in my opinion he is the master-craftsman in that trade; but there are a thousand that he has merely indicated; he only points out the track we are to take if we like, and confines himself sometimes to touching the quick of a subject. We must drag (the expositions) thence and put them in the market place. . . . It is a dissertation in itself to see him select a trivial act in the life of a man, or a word that does not seem to have such import. [105][105] Il y a dans Plutarque beaucoup de discours estendus très dignesd’estre sceus, car, à mon gré, c’est le maistre ouvrier de tellebesongne; mais il y en a mille qu’il n’a que touchez simplement; etguigne seulement du doigt par où nous irons, s’il nous plaist; etse contente quelquefois de ne donner qu’une attaincte dans le plusvif d’un propos. Il les fault arracher de la, et mettre en placemarchande. . . . Cela mesme de luy voir trier une legere action en la vied’un homme, ou un mot qui semble ne porter cela, c’est un discours (i. 25). But Montaigne did not stand alone in his admiration. He himself, aswe have seen, bears witness to the widespread popularity of Amyot’sPlutarch and the general practice of rifling its treasures. Indeed,Plutarch was seen to be so congenial to the age, that frequentattempts had been made before Amyot to place him within the reachof a larger circle than the little band of Greek scholars. In 1470,_e. g. _ a number of Italians had co-operated in a Latin version of the_Lives_, published at Rome by Campani, and this was followed by severalpartial translations in French. [106] But the latter were immediatelysuperseded, and even the former had its authority shaken, by Amyot’sachievement. This was due partly to its greater intelligence and faithfulness,partly to its excellent style. In regard to the first, it should be remembered that the criticism ofAmyot’s learning must be very carefully qualified. Scholarship is aprogressive science, and it is always easy for the successor to pointout errors in the precursor, as Méziriac did in Amyot. Of course,however, the popular expositor was not a Budaeus or Scaliger, and thesavants whom Montaigne met in Rome were doubtless justified in theirstrictures. Still the zeal that he showed and the trouble that he tookin searching for good texts, in conferring them with the printed booksand in consulting learned men about his conjectural emendations,[107]would suggest that he had the root of the matter in him, and there isevidence that expert opinion in his own days was favourable to hisclaims. [108][106] There were also translations in Italian, Spanish, and German;but none of them had anything like the literary importance of Amyot’s,and they were made from the Latin, not from the Greek. Of HieronymusBoner, for instance, who published his _Plutarch, Von dem Leben derallerdurchlauchtigsten Griechen und Romern_ (1st edition, Augsburg,1534), it is misleading to say that he “anticipated” Amyot. Merzdorfwrites of Boner’s versions of Greek authors generally (_AllgemeineDeutsche Biographie_) that he “turned them into German not from theoriginal Greek but from Latin translations. Moreover, one must notexpect from him any exact rendering, but rather a kind of paraphrasewhich he accommodates to the circumstances of the time. ”[107] See his preface, towards the close. [108] In later days, too, Mr. Holden, who has busied himself withPlutarch, says “Amyot’s version is more scholarlike and correct thanthose of Langhorne or Dryden and others. ”At the time when he was translating the _Lives_ into French twoscholars of high reputation were, independently of each other,translating them into Latin. Xylander’s versions appeared in 1560,those of Cruserius were ready in the same year, but were not publishedtill 1564. They still hold their place and enjoy consideration. Now,they both make their compliments to Amyot. Xylander, indeed, has onlya second-hand acquaintance with his publication, but even that he hasfound valuable: After I had already finished the greater part of the work, the _Lives of Plutarch_ written by Amyot in the French language made their appearance. And since I heard from those who are skilled in that tongue, a privilege which I do not possess, that he had devoted remarkable pains to the book and used many good MSS. , assisted by the courtesy of friends, I corrected several passages about which I was in doubt, and in not a few my conjecture was established by the concurrence of that translator. [109][109] Cum jam majorem operis partem absolvissem, prodierunt VitaePlutarchi gallicâ linguâ ab Amyoto conscriptae. Quem cum praeclaramei libro operam impendisse ex iis qui linguae ejus sunt periti (quodmihi non datum est) et usum multis ac bonis codicibus audirem; amicorumadjutus . . . officio, nonnullos, de quibus dubitabam, locos correxi; inhaud paucis mea conjectura est illius interpretis suffragio comprobata(Ed. 1560). Xylander’s friends must have given him yeoman’s help, forhe frequently discusses Amyot’s readings, generally adopting them; andfor the whole life of Cato, he even goes so far as to avow: “Amyotiversionem secutus sum, Graecis non satis integris. ”Cruserius, again, in his prefatory _Epistle to the Reader_, warmlycommends the merits of Xylander and Amyot, but refers with scarcelyveiled disparagement to the older Latin rendering, which neverthelessenjoyed general acceptance as the number of editions proves, and wasconsidered the standard authority. If indeed (he writes) I must not here say that I by myself have both more faithfully and more elegantly interpreted _Plutarch’s Lives_, the translation of which into Latin a great number of Italians formerly undertook without much success; this at least I may say positively and justly that I think I have done this. [110]On the other hand “Amiotus” has been a help to him. When he hadalready polished and corrected his own version, he came acrossthis very tasteful rendering in Brussels six months after it hadappeared. “This man’s scholarship and industry gave me some light onseveral passages. ”[111] It is well then to bear in mind, when Amyot’scompetency is questioned, that by their own statement he cleared upthings for specialists like Xylander and Cruserius. And this is allthe more striking, that Cruserius, whom his preface shows to be verygenerous in his acknowledgments, has no word of recognition for hisItalian predecessors even though Filelfo was among their number. [112]But his Epistle proceeds: “To whom (_i. e. _ to Amyot) I will give thistestimony that nowadays it is impossible that anyone should renderPlutarch so elegantly in the Latin tongue, as he renders him in hisown. ”[113] And this praise of Amyot’s style leads us to the next point. [110] Ego quidem si dicere hîc non valeam, vitas me Plutarchi, quasplurimi sumpserunt antehac Itali Latine reddendas parum feliciter, meexplicavisse unum et verius et mundius; hoc certe dicere queo liquideet recte, esse arbitratum me hoc effecisse (_Epistola ad Lectorem_,1561, edition 1599). [111] Interea cum jam polivissem atque emendassem vitas meas Plutarchi,ostendit mihi Bruxellae, ubi agebam illustrissimi principis meilegatus, secretarius regius editas elegantissime ab Amioto linguâgallicâ vitas Plutarchi, quae exierant tamen in publicum sex mensesantequam eas viderem. Hujus viri mihi eruditio et diligentia aliquidlucis nonnullis in locis attulit. Cui ego hoc testimonium dabo: nonposse fieri, ut quisquam hoc tempore Plutarchum tam vertat ornatelinguâ Latina quam vertit ille suâ (_Ib. _). [112] Amyot’s own attitude is very similar. He cites the Latin versionsin proof of the hardness of the original, and challenges a comparisonof them with his own. [113] Interea cum jam polivissem atque emendassem vitas meas Plutarchi,ostendit mihi Bruxellae, ubi agebam illustrissimi principis meilegatus, secretarius regius editas elegantissime ab Amioto linguâgallicâ vitas Plutarchi, quae exierant tamen in publicum sex mensesantequam eas viderem. Hujus viri mihi eruditio et diligentia aliquidlucis nonnullis in locis attulit. Cui ego hoc testimonium dabo: nonposse fieri, ut quisquam hoc tempore Plutarchum tam vertat ornatelinguâ Latina quam vertit ille suâ (_Ib. _). If Amyot claims the thanks of Western Europe for giving it withadequate faithfulness a typical miscellany of ancient life and thought,his services to his country in developing the native language arehardly less important. Before him Rabelais and Calvin were the onlywriters of first-rate ability in modern French. But Rabelais’ prosewas too exuberant, heterogeneous and eccentric to supply a model;and Calvin, besides being suspect on account of his theology, was ofnecessity as a theologian abstract and restricted in his range. The newcandidate had something of the wealth and universal appeal of the one,something of the correctness and purity of the other. Since Plutarch deals with almost all departments of life, Amyot hadneed of the amplest vocabulary, and a supply of the most diverselocutions. Indeed, sometimes the copious resources of his vernacular,with which he had doubtless begun to familiarise himself among thesimple folk of Melun, leave him in the lurch, and he has to make loansfrom Latin or Greek. But he does this sparingly, and only when no othercourse is open to him. Generally his thorough mastery of the dialect ofthe Île de France, the standard language of the kingdom, helps him out. Yet he is far from adopting the popular speech without consciouslymanipulating it. He expressly states that he selects the fittest,sweetest, and most euphonious words, and such as are in the mouthsof those who are accustomed to speak well. The ingenuousness of hisutterance, which is in great measure due to his position of pioneerin a new period, should not mislead us into thinking him a carelesswriter. His habit of first composing his sermons in Latin and thentranslating them into French tells its own story. He evidently realisedthe superiority in precision and orderly arrangement of the speech ofRome, and felt it a benefit to submit to such discipline the artless_bonhomie_ of his mother tongue. But since he is the born interpreter,whose very business it was to mediate between the exotic and theindigenous, and assimilate the former to the latter, he never forgetsthe claims of his fellow Frenchmen and his native French. He does notforce his idiom to imitate a foreign model, but only learns to developits own possibilities of greater clearness, exactitude, and regularity. It is for these excellencies among others, “pour la naifeté et purétédu language en quoi il surpasse touts aultres,”[114] that Montaignegives him the palm, and this purity served him in good stead duringthe classical period of French literature, which was so unjust tomost writers of the sixteenth century, and found fault with Montaignehimself for his “Gasconisms. ” Racine thought that Amyot’s “old style”had a grace which could not be equalled in our modern language. Fénelonregretfully looks back to him for beauties that are fallen into disuse. Nor was it only men of delicate and poetic genius who appreciated hismerits. Vaugelas, the somewhat illiberal grammarian and purist, is themost enthusiastic of the worshippers. What obligation (he exclaims) does our language not owe to him, there never having been anyone who knew its genius and character better than he, or who used words and phrases so genuinely French without admixture of the provincial expressions which daily corrupt the purity of the true French tongue. All stores and treasures are in the works of this great man. And even to-day we have hardly any noble and splendid modes of speech that he has not left us; and though we have cut out a half of his words and phrases, we do not fail to find in the other half almost all the riches of which we boast. [114] ii. 4. It will be seen, however, that in such tributes from the seventeenthcentury (and the same thing is true of others left unquoted), it isimplied that Amyot is already somewhat antiquated and out of fashion. He is honoured as ancestor in the right line of classical French, buthe is its ancestor and not a living representative. Vaugelas admitsthat half his vocabulary is obsolete, Fénelon regrets his charms justbecause their date is past, Racine wonders that such grace should havebeen attained in what is not the modern language. And this may remind us of the very important fact, that Amyot could noton account of his position deliver a facsimile of the Greek. Plutarchlived at the close of an epoch, he at the beginning. The one employeda language full of reminiscences and past its prime; the other, alanguage that was just reaching self-consciousness and that had thefuture before it. Both in a way were artists, but Plutarch shows hisart in setting his stones already cut, while Amyot provides moulds forthe liquid metal. At their worst Plutarch’s style becomes mannered andAmyot’s infantile. By no sleight of hand would it have been possible togive in the French of the sixteenth century an exact reproduction ofthe Greek of the second. Grey-haired antiquity had to learn the accentsof stammering childhood. Sometimes Amyot hardly makes an attempt at literal fidelity. The styleof his original he describes as “plein, serré et philosophistorique. ”With him it retains the fulness, but the condensation, or rather what amodern scholar describes as “the crowding of the sentence,”[115] oftengives place to periphrasis, and of the “philosophistorique” small traceremains. Montaigne praises him because he has contrived “to expoundso thorny and crabbed[116] an author with such fidelity. ” What ismost crabbed and thorny in Plutarch he passes over or replaces witha loose equivalent; single words he expands to phrases; difficultieshe explains with a gloss or illustration that he does not hesitate toinsert in the text; and he is anxious to bring out the sense by addingmore emphatic and often familiar touches. [115] Mr. Holden. [116] Espineux et ferré (ii. iv. ). Perhaps _ferré_ should be rendered_difficult_ rather than _crabbed_. But even _thorny and difficult_ arehardly words that one would apply to Plutarch. Montaigne’s meaning mayperhaps be illustrated by the criticism of Paley: “Plutarch’s Greek isnot like Lucian’s, fluent and easy, nor even clear. ” He uses many wordsnot in the ordinary Greek vocabulary; and he too often constructs longsentences, the thread of which separately as well as the connectioncannot be traced without close attention. Hence he is unattractive as awriter. The result of it all undoubtedly is to lend Plutarch a more popularand less academic bearing than he really has. Some of Amyot’s mostattractive effects either do not exist or are inconspicuous in hisoriginal. The tendency to artifice and rhetoric in the pupil ofAmmonius disappears, and he is apt to get the credit for an innocenceand freshness that are more characteristic of his translator. M. Faguetjustly points out that Amyot in his version makes Plutarch “a simplewriter, while he was elegant, fastidious, and even affected in hisstyle. ” . . . He “emerges from Amyot’s hands as _le bon Plutarque_ of theFrench people, whereas he was certainly not that. ” Thus it is beyonddispute that the impression produced is in some respects misleading. But there is another side to this. Plutarch in his tastes and idealsdid belong to an older, less sophisticated age, though he was bornout of due time and had to adapt his speech to his hyper-civilisedenvironment. Ampère has called attention to the picture, suggestedby the facts at our disposal, of Plutarch living in his littleBoeotian town, obtaining his initiation into the mysteries, punctuallyfulfilling the functions of priest, making antiquities and traditionshis hobby. “There was this man under the rhetorician,” he adds, “andwe must not forget it. For if the rhetorician wrote, it was the otherPlutarch who often dictated. ” Of course in a way the antithesis is anunreal one. Plutarch was after all, as every one must be, the child ofhis own generation, and his aspirations were not confined to himself. The _Sophistes_ is, on the one hand, what the man who makes antiquityand traditions his hobby, is on the other. Still it remains certainthat his love was set on things which pertained to an earlier and lesselaborate phase of society, to “the good old days” when they foundspontaneous acceptance and expression. On him the ends of the worldare come, and he seeks by all the resources of his art and learning torevive what he regards as its glorious prime. His heart is with the men“of heart, head, hand,” but when he seeks to reveal them, he must do soin the chequered light of a vari-coloured culture. Hence there was a kind of discrepancy between his spirit and hisutterance; and Amyot, removing the discrepancy, brings them into anatural harmony. There is truth in the paradox that the form whichthe good bishop supplies is the one that was meant for the matter. “Amyot,” says Demogeot, summing up his discussion of this aspect of thequestion, “has in some sort created Plutarch, and made him truer andmore complete than nature made him. ”But though Plutarch’s ideas seem from one point of view to enterinto their predestined habitation, this does not alter the fact thatthey lose something of their distinctive character in accommodatingthemselves to their new surroundings. It is easy to exaggerate theiraffinity with the vernacular words, as it is easy to exaggerate thecorrespondence between author and translator. Thus Ampère, half injest, pleases himself with drawing on behalf of the two men a parallelsuch as is appended to each particular brace of _Lives_. Both ofthem lovers of virtue, he points out, for example, that both had aveneration for the past, of which the one strove to preserve thememories even then beginning to fade, and the other to rediscover andgather up the shattered fragments. Both experienced sad and troubloustimes without having their tranquillity disturbed, the one by thecrimes of Domitian or the other by the furies of St. Bartholomew’s. Both belonged to the hierarchy, the one as priest of Apollo, the otheras Bishop of Auxerre. But it is not hard to turn such parallels into so many contrasts. Thepast with which Plutarch was busy was in a manner the familiar pastof his native country or at least of his own civilisation; but Amyotloved the past of that remote and alien world in which for ages men hadneglected their heritage and taken small concern. The sequestered lifeof the provincial under the Roman Empire, a privacy whence he emergesto whatever civil offices were within his reach, is very differentfrom the dislike and refusal of public activity that characterisesthe Frenchman in his own land at a time when learning was recognisedas passport to high position in the State. The priest of a heathencult which he could accept only when explained away by a rationalisticidealism, and which was by no means incompatible with his familyinstincts, was very different from the celibate churchman who ended bysubmitting to the terms imposed by the intolerance of the Holy League. The analogies are there, and imply perhaps a strain of intellectualkinship, but the contrasts are not less obvious, and refute the idea ofa perfect unison. Now, it is much the same if we turn from the writers to their writings. All translation is a compromise between the foreign material and thenative intelligence, but in Amyot the latter factor counts most. Classical life is very completely assimilated to the contemporarylife that he knew, but such contemporary life was in some ways quiteunlike that which he was reproducing. There is an illusory samenessin the effects produced as there is an illusion of coincidence inthe characters and careers of the men who produce them, and this mayhave its cause in real contact at certain points. But the gaps thatseparate them are also real, though at the time they were seldomdetected. “Both by the details and the general tone of his version,”says M. Lanson, “[Amyot] modernises the Graeco-Roman world, and by thisinvoluntary travesty he tends to check the awakening of the sense forthe differences, that is, the historic sense. As he invites Shakespeareto recognise the English _Mob_ in the _Plebs Romana_, so he authorisesCorneille and Racine and even Mademoiselle Scudéry to portray underancient names the human nature they saw in France. ”And this tendency was carried further in Amyot’s English translator. 3. NORTHOf Sir Thomas North, the most recent and direct of the authoritieswho transmitted to Shakespeare his classical material, much less isknown than of either of his predecessors. Plutarch, partly becauseas original author he has the opportunity of expressing his ownpersonality, partly because he uses this opportunity to the full infrank advocacy of his views and gossip about himself, may be picturedwith fair vividness and in some detail. Such information fails inregard to Amyot, since he was above all the mouthpiece for other men;but his high dignities placed him in the gaze of contemporaries, andhis reputation as pioneer in classical translation and nursing-fatherof modern French ensured a certain interest in his career. But North,like him a translator, had not equal prominence either from hisposition or from his achievement. Such honours and appointments as heobtained were not of the kind to attract regard. He was a mere unit inthe Elizabethan crowd of literary importers, and belonged to the lowerclass who never steered their course “to the classic coast. ” He had nosuch share as Amyot in shaping the traditions of the language, but wasone writer in an age that produced many others, some of them greatermasters than he. Yet to us, as the immediate interpreter of Plutarch toShakespeare, he is the most important of the three, the most famous andthe most alive. Sainte Beuve, talking of Amyot, quotes a phrase fromLeopardi in reference to the Italians who have associated themselvesforever with the Classics they unveiled: “Oh, how fair a fate! to beexempt from death except in company with an Immortal! ” This fair fateis North’s in double portion. He is linked with a great Immortal bydescent, and with a greater by ancestry. Thomas North, second son of the first Baron North of Kirtling, wasborn about 1535, to live his life, as it would seem, in straitenedcircumstances and unassuming work. Yet we might have anticipated forhim a prosperous and eminent career. He had high connections andpowerful patrons; his father made provision for him, his brother helpedhim once and again, a royal favourite interested himself on his behalf. His ability and industry are evident from his works; his honesty andcourage are vouched for by those in a position to know; the efficiencyof his public services received recognition from his fellow-citizensand his sovereign. But with all these advantages and qualifications hewas even in middle age hampered by lack of means, and he never had muchshare in the pelf and pomp of life. Perhaps his occupation with largerconcerns than personal aggrandisement may have interfered with hismaterial success. At any rate, in his narrower sphere he showed himselfa man of public interest and public spirit, and the authors with whomhe busies himself are all such as commend ideal rather than tangiblepossessions as the real objects of desire. And we know besides that hewas an unaggressive man, inclined to claim less than his due; for inone of his books he professes to get the material only from a Frenchtranslation, when it is proved that he must have had recourse to theSpanish original as well. This was his maiden effort, _The Diall of Princes_, published in 1557,when North was barely of age and had just been entered a student ofLincoln’s Inn; and with this year the vague and scanty data for hishistory really begin. He dedicates his book to Queen Mary, who hadshown favour to his father, pardoning him for his support of Lady JaneGrey, raising him to the peerage, and distinguishing him in otherways. But on the death of Mary, Lord North retained the goodwill ofElizabeth, who twice kept her court at his mansion, and appointed himLord Lieutenant of Cambridgeshire and the Isle of Ely. The family hadthus considerable local influence, and it was not diminished when, onthe old man’s death in 1564, Roger, the first son, succeeded to thetitle. Before long the new Lord North was made successively an aldermanof Cambridge, Lord Lieutenant of the County, and High Steward; whileThomas, who had benefited under his father’s will, was presented to thefreedom of the town. All through, the career of the junior appears as asort of humble pendant to that of the senior, and he picks up his doleof the largesses that Fortune showers on the head of the house. What hehad been doing in the intervening years we do not know, but he cannothave abandoned his literary pursuits, for in 1568, when he receivedthis civic courtesy, he issued a new edition of the _Diall_, correctedand enlarged; and he followed it up in 1570 with a version of Doni’s_Morale Filosofia_. Meanwhile the elder brother was advancing on his brilliant course. Hehad been sent to Vienna to invest the Emperor Maximilian with the Orderof the Garter; he had been commissioned to present the Queen on hisreturn with the portrait of her suitor, the Archduke Charles; he hadheld various offices at home, and in 1574 he was appointed AmbassadorExtraordinary to congratulate Henry III. of France on his accession,and to procure if possible toleration for the Huguenots and a renewalof the Treaty of Blois. On this important legation he was accompaniedby Thomas, who would thus have an opportunity of seeing or hearingsomething of Amyot, the great Bishop and Grand Almoner who was soon tobe recipient of new honours from his royal pupil and patron, and whohad recently been drawing new attention on himself by his third editionof the _Lives_ and his first edition of the _Morals_. [117] It may wellbe that this visit suggested to Thomas North his own masterpiece,which he seems to have set about soon after he came home in the end ofNovember. At least it was to appear in January, 1579, before anotherlustre was out; and a translation even from French of the entire_Lives_, not only unabridged but augmented (for biographies of Hannibaland Scipio are added from the versions of Charles de l’Escluse),[118]is a task of years rather than of months. [117] I do not know what authority Mr. Wyndham has for his statementthat Amyot’s version of the _Morals_ “fell comparatively dead. ” It is,of course, much less read nowadays, but at the time it ran throughthree editions in less than four years (1572, 1574, 1575), and for thenext half century there are frequent reprints. [118] These, translated from the Latin collection of 1470, to whichthey had been contributed by Acciaiuoli, were included in Amyot’s thirdedition. The embassage, despite many difficulties to be overcome, had been asuccess, and Lord North returned to receive the thanks and favourshe deserved. He stood high in the Queen’s regard, and in 1578 shehonoured him with a visit for a night. He was lavish in his welcome,building, we are told, new kitchens for the occasion; filling them withprovisions of all kinds, the oysters alone amounting to one cart loadand two horse loads; rifling the cellars of their stores, seventy-fourhogsheads of beer being reinforced with corresponding supplies ofale, claret, white wine, sack, and hippocras; presenting her at herdeparture with a jewel worth £120 in the money of the time. In suchmagnificent doings he was by no means unmindful of his brother, to whomshortly before he had made over the lease of a house and householdstuff. Yet precisely at this date, when Thomas North was completingor had completed his first edition of the _Lives_, his circumstancesseem to have been specially embarrassed. Soon after the book appearedLeicester writes on his behalf to Burleigh, stating that he “is a veryhonest gentleman and hath many good parts in him which are drowned onlyby poverty. ” There is perhaps a certain incongruity between these wordsand the accounts of the profusion at Kirtling in the preceding year. Meanwhile Lord North, to his reputation as diplomatist and courtiersought to add that of a soldier. In the Low Countries he greatlydistinguished himself by his capacity and courage; but he was calledhome to look after the defences of the eastern coast in view of theexpected Spanish invasion, and this was not the only time that theGovernment resorted to him for military advice. No such important charge was entrusted to Thomas, but he too was readyto do his duty by his country in her hour of need, and in 1588 hadcommand of three hundred men of Ely. In the interval between this andthe distressful time of 1579 his position must have improved; forin 1591, in reward it may be for his patriotic activity, the Queenconferred on him the honour of knighthood, which in those days impliedas necessary qualification the possession of land to the minimum valueof £40 a year. This was followed by other acknowledgments and dignitiesof moderate worth. In 1592 and again in 1597 he sat on the Commissionof Peace for Cambridgeshire. In 1598 he received a grant of £20 fromthe town of Cambridge, and in 1601 a pension of £40 a year from theQueen. These amounts are not munificent, even if we take them at theoutside figure suggested as the equivalent in modern money. [119] Theygive the impression that North was not very well off, that in hiscircumstances some assistance was desirable, and a little assistancewould go a long way. At the same time they show that his conductdeserved and obtained appreciation. Indeed, the pension from the Queenis granted expressly “in consideration of the good and faithful servicedone unto us. ”He also benefited by a substantial bequest from Lord North, who haddied in 1600, but he was now an old man of at least sixty-six, andprobably he did not live long to enjoy his new resources. Of thebrother Lloyd records: “There was none better to represent our Statethan my Lord North, who had been two years in Walsingham’s house,four in Leicester’s service, had seen six courts, twenty battles,nine treaties, and four solemn jousts, whereof he was no mean part. ”In regard to the younger son, even the year of whose death we do notknow, the parallel summary would run: “He served a few months in anambassador’s suite; he commanded a local force, he was a knight, andsat on the Commission of Peace; he made three translations, one ofwhich rendered possible Shakespeare’s Roman Plays. ”[120][119] That is, if we multiply them by eight. [120] Most of the facts of the foregoing sketch are taken from thearticles on the Norths in the _Dictionary of National Biography_,which, however, must not be considered responsible for the inferences. This is his “good and faithful service” unto us, not that he fulfilledduties in which he might have been rivalled by any country justice ormilitia captain. And, “a good and faithful servant,” he had qualifiedhimself for his grand performance by a long apprenticeship in thecraft. Like Amyot, he devotes himself to translation from first tolast, but unlike Amyot he knows from the outset the kind of book thatit is given him to interpret. He is not drawn by the fervour of youthto “vain and amatorious romance,” nor by conventional considerations tothe bric-a-brac of antiquarianism. From the time that he has attainedthe years of discretion and comes within our knowledge, he applies hisheart to study and supply works of solid instruction. Souninge in moral vertu was his speche, And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche. It is characteristic, too, both of his equipment and his style, thatthough he may have known a little Greek and certainly knew some Latin,as is shown by a few trifling instances in which he gives Amyot’sexpressions a more learned turn, he never used an ancient writeras his main authority, but confined himself to the adaptations andtranslations that were current in modern vernaculars. Thus his earliest work is the rendering, mainly from the French, of thenotable and curious forgery of the Spanish Bishop, Antonio de Guevara,alleged by its author to have been derived from an ancient manuscriptwhich he had discovered in Florence. It was originally entitled _ElLibro Aureo de Marco Aurelio, Emperador y eloquentissimo Orator_, butafterwards, when issued in an expanded form, was rechristened, _MarcoAurelio con el Relox de Principes_. It has however little to do withthe real Marcus Aurelius, and the famous _Meditations_ furnish onlya small ingredient to the work. It is in some ways an imitation ofXenophon’s _Cyropaedia_, that is, it is a didactic romance which aimsat giving in narrative form true principles of education, morals,and politics. But the narrative is very slight, and most of the bookis made up of discussions, discourses, and epistles, the substanceof which is in many cases taken with a difference from Plutarch’s_Moralia_. These give the author scope to endite “in high style”;and in his balanced and erudite way of writing, which with all itstastelessness and excess has a far-off resemblance to Plutarch’s morerhetorical effects, as well as in his craze for allusions and similes,he anticipates the mannerisms of the later Euphuists. But despite themoralisings and affectations (or rather, perhaps, on account of them,for the first fell in with the ethical needs of the time, and thesecond with its attempts to organise its prose), the book was a greatfavourite for over a hundred years, and Casaubon says that except theBible, hardly any other has been so frequently translated or printed. Lord Berners had already made his countrymen acquainted with it inshorter form, but North renders the _Diall of Princes_ in full, andeven adds another treatise of Guevara’s, _The Favored Courtier_, asfourth book to his second edition. It is both the contents and the form that attract him. In the titlepage he describes it as “right necessarie and pleasaunt to allgentylmen and others which are louers of vertue”; and in his preface hesays that it is “so full of high doctrine, so adourned with auncienthistories, so authorised with grave sentences, and so beautified withapte similitudes, that I knowe not whose eies in reding it can beweried, nor whose eares in hearing it not satisfied. ”That North’s contemporaries agreed with him in liking such fare isshown by the publication of the new edition eleven years after thefirst, and even more strikingly by the publication of John Lily’simitation eleven years after the second. For Dr. Landmann has provedbeyond dispute that the paedagogic romance of _Euphues_, in purpose, inplan, in its letters and disquisitions, its episodes and persons, islargely based on the _Diall_. He has not been quite so successful intracing the distinctive tricks of the Euphuistic style through North toGuevara. It has to be remembered that North’s main authority was notthe Spanish _Relox de Principes_, but the French _Orloge des princes_;and at the double remove a good many of the peculiarities of Guevarismwere bound to become obliterated: as in point of fact has occurred. Itwould be a mistake to call North a Euphuistic writer, though in the_Diall_, and even in the _Lives_, there are Euphuistic passages. Still,Guevara did no doubt affect him, for Guevara’s was the only elaborateand architectural prose with which he was on intimate terms. He had notthe advantage of Amyot’s daily commerce with the Classics, and constantpractice in the equating of Latin and French. In the circumstances adash of diluted Guevarism was not a bad thing for him, and at any ratewas the only substitute at his disposal. To the end he sometimes usesit when he has to write in a more complex or heightened style. But if the Spanish Bishop were not in all respects a salutary model,North was soon to correct this influence by working under the guidanceof a very different man, the graceless Italian miscellanist, AntonioFrancesco Doni. That copious and audacious conversationalist couldwrite as he talked, on all sorts of themes, including even those inwhich there was no offence, and seldom failed to be entertaining. Heis never more so than in his _Morale Filosofia_, a delightful book towhich and to himself North did honour by his delightful rendering. Thedescriptive title runs: “The Morall Philosophie of Doni: drawne outof the auncient writers. A worke first compiled in the Indian tongue,and afterwards reduced into diuers other languages: and now lastlyEnglished out of Italian by Thomas North. ” This formidable announcementis a little misleading, for the book proves to be a collection of theso-called Fables of Bidpai, and though the lessons are not lacking,the main value as well as the main charm lies in the vigour andpicturesqueness of the little stories. [121][121] A charming reprint was edited by Mr. Joseph Jacobs in 1888. Thus in both his prentice works North betrays the same general bias. They are both concerned with the practical and applied philosophy oflife, and both convey it through the medium of fiction: in so far theyare alike. But they are unlike, in so far as the relative interest ofthe two factors is reversed, and the accent is shifted from the oneto the other. In the _Diall_ the narrative is almost in abeyance, andthe pages are filled with long-drawn arguments and admonitions. In the_Fables_ the sententious purpose is rather implied than obtruded, andin no way interferes with the piquant adventures; which are recountedin a very easy and lively style. North was thus a practised writer and translator, with a good knowledgeof the modern tongues, when he accompanied his brother to France in1574. In his two previous attempts he had shown his bent towardsimproving story and the manly wisdom of the elder world; and in thesecond, had advanced in appreciation of the concrete example and theracy presentment. If he now came across Amyot’s Plutarch, we cansee how well qualified he was for the task of giving it an Englishshape, and how congenial the task would be. Of the _Moral Treatises_he already knew something, if only in the adulterated concoctionsof Guevara, but the _Lives_ would be quite new to him, and wouldexactly tally with his tastes in their blend of ethical reflectionand impressive narrative. There is a hint of this double attractionin the opening phrase of the title page: “The Lives of the NobleGrecians and Romans compared by that grave learned _Philosopher_ and_Historiographer_, Plutarch of Chaeronea. ” The philosophy and thehistory are alike signalised as forming the equipment of the author,and certainly the admixture was such as would appeal to the public aswell as to the translator. The first edition of 1579, imprinted by Thomas Vautrouillier and JohnWight, was followed by a second in 1595, imprinted by Richard Fieldfor Bonham Norton. Field, who was a native of Stratford-on-Avon, andhad been apprenticed to Vautrouillier before setting up for himself,had dealings with Shakespeare, and issued his _Venus and Adonis_ and_Rape of Lucrece_. But whether or no his fellow townsman put himin the way of it, it is certain that Shakespeare was not long indiscovering the new treasure. It seems to leave traces in so early awork as the _Midsummer-Night’s Dream_, which probably borrowed fromthe life of _Theseus_, as well as in the _Merchant of Venice_, withits reference to “Cato’s daughter, Brutus’ Portia”; though it didnot inspire a complete play till _Julius Caesar_. In 1603 appearedthe third edition of North’s Plutarch, enlarged with new Lives whichhad been incorporated in Amyot’s collection in 1583: and this somethink to have been the particular authority for _Antony and Cleopatra_and _Coriolanus_. [122] And again a fourth edition, with a separatesupplement bearing the date of 1610, was published in 1612; and ofthis the famous copy in the Greenock Library has been claimed asthe dramatist’s own book. If by any chance this should be the case,then Shakespeare must have got it for his private delectation, forby this time he had finished his plays on ancient history and almostceased to write for the stage. But apart from that improbable andcrowning honour, there is no doubt about the value of North’s versionto Shakespeare as dramatist, and the four editions in Shakespeare’slifetime sufficiently attest its popularity with the general reader. [122] The whole question about the editions which Shakespeare read isa complicated one. Two things are pretty certain: (1) He must haveused the first edition for _Midsummer-Night’s Dream_, which was in alllikelihood composed before 1595, when the second appeared. (2) He musthave used the first or second for _Julius Caesar_, which was composedbefore 1603, when the third appeared. It is more difficult to speakpositively in regard to _Antony and Cleopatra_ and _Coriolanus_. It hasbeen argued that the former cannot have been derived from the first twoeditions, because in them Menas’ remark to Sextus Pompeius runs: “Shall I cut the gables of the ankers, and make thee Lord not only of Sicile and Sardinia, but of the whole Empire of Rome besides? ”In the third edition this is altered to _cables_, and this is the formthat occurs in Shakespeare: “Let me cut the cable; And, when we are put off, fall to their throats: All there is thine. ” (_A. and C. _ II. vii. 77. )But this change is a very slight one that Shakespeare might easily makefor himself on the same motives that induced the editor of the _Lives_to make it. And though attempts have been made to prove that the fourthedition was used for _Coriolanus_, there are great difficulties inaccepting so late a date for that play, and one phrase rather pointsto one of the first two editions (see Introduction to _Coriolanus_). If this is really so, it affects the case of _Antony and Cleopatra_too, for it would be odd to find Shakespeare using the first or secondedition for the latter play, and the third for the earlier one. Still, such things do occur, and I think there is a tendency in thosewho discuss this point to confine Shakespeare over rigidly to oneedition. In the twentieth century it is possible to find men reading orre-reading a book in the first copy that comes to hand without firstlooking up the date on the title page. Was this practice unknown inShakespeare’s day? This popularity is well deserved. Its permanent excellences weresure of wide appreciation, and the less essential qualities thatfitted Plutarch to meet the needs of the hour in France, were notless opportune in England. North’s prefatory “Address to the Reader”describes not only his own attitude but that of his countrymen ingeneral. There is no prophane studye better than Plutarke. All other learning is private, fitter for Universities then cities, fuller of contemplacion than experience, more commendable in the students them selves, than profitable unto others. Whereas stories, (_i. e. _ histories) are fit for every place, reache to all persons, serve for all tymes, teache the living, revive the dead, so farre excelling all other bookes as it is better to see learning in noble mens lives than to reade it in Philosophers writings. Nowe, for the Author, I will not denye but love may deceive me, for I must needes love him with whome I have taken so much payne, but I bileve I might be bold to affirme that he hath written the profitablest story of all Authors. For all other were fayne to take their matter, as the fortune of the contries where they wrote fell out; But this man, being excellent in wit, in learning, and experience, hath chosen the speciall actes, of the best persons, of the famosest nations of the world. . . . And so I wishe you all the profit of the booke. This passage really sums up one half the secret of Plutarch’sfascination for the Renaissance world. The aim is profit, and profitnot merely of a private kind. The profit is better secured by historythan by precept, just as the living example is more effectual thanthe philosophic treatise. And there is more profit in Plutarchthan in any other historian, not only on account of his personalqualifications, his wit, learning, and experience, but on account ofhis subject-matter, because he had the opportunity and insight tochoose the prerogative instances in the annals of mankind. Only itshould be noted that the profit is conceived in the most liberal andideal sense. It is the profit that comes from contact with great soulsin great surroundings, not the profit of the trite and unmistakablemoral. This Amyot had already clearly perceived and set forth in a finepassage of which North gives a fine translation. The dignity of thehistorian’s office is very high: Forasmuch as his chiefe drift ought to be to serve the common weale, and that he is but as a register to set downe the judgements and definitive sentences of God’s Court, whereof some are geven according to the ordinarie course and capacitie of our weake naturall reason, and other some goe according to God’s infinite power and incomprehensible wisedom, above and against all discourse of man’s understanding. In other words history is not profitable as always illustratinga simple retributive justice. It may do that, but it may also dootherwise. Some of its awards are mysterious or even inscrutable. Theprofit it yields is disinterested and spiritual, and does not lie inthe encouragement of optimistic virtue. And this indicates how it maybe turned to account. The stuff it contains is the true stuff forTragedy. The remaining half of Plutarch’s secret depends on the treatment,which loses nothing in the hands of those who now must manage it; ofwhom the one, in Montaigne’s phrase, showed “the constancy of so longa labour,” and the other, in his own phrase, “took so much pain,” toadapt it aright. But just as the charm of style, though undiminished,is changed when it passes from Plutarch to Amyot, so too this takesplace to some degree when it passes from Amyot to North. North wastranslating from a modern language, without the fear of the ancientsbefore his eyes. Amyot had translated from Greek, and was familiarwith classical models. Not merely does this affect the comparativefidelity of their versions, as it was bound to do, for North, with twointervals between, and without the instincts of an accurate scholar,could not keep so close as even Amyot had done to the first original. Indeed he sometimes, though not often, violates the meaning of theFrench, occasionally misinterpreting a word, as when he translatesCoriolanus’ final words to his mother: “Je m’en revois (i. e. _revais_,_retourne_) vaincu par toy seule,” by “I _see_ myself vanquished by youalone”; more frequently misconstruing an idiom, as when he goes wrongwith the negative in passages like the following: “Ces paroles feirentincontinent penser à Eurybides et craindre que les Atheniens ne s’envoulussent aller et les abandonner”; which he renders: “These wordesmade Eurybides presently thinke and feare that the Athenians would_not_ goe, and that they would forsake them. ”[123][123] Themistocles. But the same circumstance affects North’s mode of utterance as well. It is far from attaining to Amyot’s habitual clearness, coherence, andcorrectness. His words are often clumsily placed, his constructions aresometimes broken and more frequently charged with repetitions, he doesnot always find his way out of a complicated sentence with his grammarunscathed or his meaning unobscured. One of the few Frenchmen who takeexception to Amyot’s prose says that “it trails like the ivy creepingat random, instead of flying like the arrow to its mark. ” This isunfair in regard to Amyot; it would be fairer, though still unfair, inregard to North. Compare the French and English versions of the passagethat deals with Mark Antony’s “piscatory eclogue. ” Nothing could bemore lucid or elegant than the French. Il se meit quelquefois à pescher à la ligne, et voyant qu’il ne pouvoit rien prendre, si en estoit fort despit et marry à cause que Cléopatra estoit présente. Si commanda secrettement à quelques pescheurs, quand il auroit jeté sa ligne, qu’ilz se plongeassent soudain en l’eau, et qu’ilz allassent accrocher à son hameçon quelques poissons de ceulx qu’ilz auroyent eu peschés auparavent; et puis retira aussi deux or trois fois sa ligne avec prise. Cleopatra s’en aperceut incontinent, toutes fois elle feit semblant de n’en rien sçavoir, et de s’esmerveiller comme il peschoit si bien; mais apart, elle compta le tout à ses familiers, et leur dit que le lendemain ilz se trouvassent sur l’eau pour voir l’esbatement. Ilz y vindrent sur le port en grand nombre, et se meirent dedans des bateaux de pescheurs, et Antonius aussi lascha sa ligne, et lors Cleopatra commanda à lun de ses serviteurs qu’il se hastast de plonger devant ceulx d’Antonius, et qu’il allast attacher a l’hameçon de sa ligne quelque vieux poisson sallé comme ceulx que lon apporte du païs de Pont. Cela fait, Antonius qui cuida qu’il y eust un poisson pris, tira incontinent sa ligne, et adonc comme lon peult penser, tous les assistans se prirent bien fort à rire, et Cleopatra, en riant, lui dit: “Laisse-nous, seigneur, à nous autres Ægyptiens, habitans[124] de Pharus et de Canobus, laisse-nous la ligne; ce n’est pas ton mestier. Ta chasse est de prendre et conquerer villes et citez, païs et royaumes. ”[124] Greek Βασιλεῦσιν. Does the _habitans_ come from the 1470 Latinversion? A later emendation is ἁλιεῦσιν.

The flow of the English is not so easy and transparent. On a time he went to angle for fish, and when he could take none, he was as angrie as could be, bicause Cleopatra stoode by. Wherefore he secretly commaunded the fisher men, that when he cast in his line, they should straight dive under the water, and put a fishe on his hooke which they had taken before: and so snatched up his angling rodde and brought up a fish twise or thrise. Cleopatra found it straight, yet she seemed not to see it, but wondred at his excellent fishing: but when she was alone by her self among her owne people, she told them howe it was, and bad them the next morning to be on the water to see the fishing. A number of people came to the haven, and got into the fisher boates to see this fishing. Antonius then threw in his line, and Cleopatra straight commaunded one of her men to dive under water before Antonius men and to put some old salte fish upon his baite, like unto those that are brought out of the contrie of Pont. When he had hong the fish on his hooke, Antonius, thinking he had taken a fishe in deede, snatched up his line presently. Then they all fell a-laughing. Cleopatra laughing also, said unto him: “Leave us, (my lord), Ægyptians (which dwell in the contry of Pharus and Canobus) your angling rodde: this is not thy profession; thou must hunt after conquering realmes and contries. ”This specimen is in so far a favourable one for North, that insimple narrative he is little exposed to his besetting faults, buteven here the superior deftness of the Frenchman is obvious. Weleave out of account little mistranslations, like _on a time_ for_quelquefois_,[125] or _the fishermen_ for _quelques pescheurs_,[126]or _alone by herself_ for _apart_. We even pass over the lack ofconnectedness when _they_ (_i. e. _ the persons informed) _in greatnumber_[127] becomes the quite indefinite _a number of people_, andthe omission of the friendly nudge, so to speak, _as you can imagine_,_comme lon peult penser_. But to miss the point of the phrase _pourvoir l’esbatement_, _to see the sport_, and translate it _see thefishing_, and then clumsily insert the same phrase immediatelyafterwards where it is not wanted and does not occur; to change theorder of the _fishe_ and the _hooke_ and entangle the connectionwhere it was quite clear, to change _s’esmerveiller_ to _wondred_,the infinitive to the indicative past, and thus cloud the sense; tosubstitute the ambiguous and prolix _When he had hong the fish on hishooke_, for the concise and sufficient _cela fait_—to do all this andmuch more of the same kind elsewhere was possible only because Northwas far inferior to Amyot in literary tact. In the English version wehave often to interpret the words by the sense and not the sense by thewords; and this is a demand which is seldom made by the French. [125] Yet in these three cases, where North is certainly behind Amyotas a narrator, he is more faithful to the Greek. This is the sort ofthing that makes one ask whether he was not really in closer contactwith the original than he professes to have been. One remembers hissimilar modesty in regard to the _Diall_, which, nominally from theFrench, really made use of the Spanish as well. [126] Yet in these three cases, where North is certainly behind Amyotas a narrator, he is more faithful to the Greek. This is the sort ofthing that makes one ask whether he was not really in closer contactwith the original than he professes to have been. One remembers hissimilar modesty in regard to the _Diall_, which, nominally from theFrench, really made use of the Spanish as well. [127] Yet in these three cases, where North is certainly behind Amyotas a narrator, he is more faithful to the Greek. This is the sort ofthing that makes one ask whether he was not really in closer contactwith the original than he professes to have been. One remembers hissimilar modesty in regard to the _Diall_, which, nominally from theFrench, really made use of the Spanish as well. But there are compensations. All modern languages have in theiranalytic methods and common stock of ideas a certain familyresemblance, in which those of antiquity do not share; and inparticular French is far closer akin to English than Greek to French. Since North had specialised in the continental literature of his dayand was now dispensing the bounty of France, his allegiance to thenational idiom was virtually undisturbed, even when he made leastchange in his original. He may be more licentious than Amyot in histreatment of grammar, and less perspicuous in the ordering of hisclauses, but he is equal to him or superior in word music, after theEnglish mode; and he is even richer in full-blooded words and inphrases racy of the soil. Not that he ever rejects the guidance ofhis master, but it leads him to the high places and the secret placesof his own language. So while he is quick to detect the rhythm of theFrench and makes it his pattern, he sometimes goes beyond it; though hecan catch and reproduce the cadences of the music-loving Amyot, it issometimes on a sweeter or a graver key. Take, for instance, that scene,the favourite with Chateaubriand, where Philip, the freedman of Pompey,stands watching by the headless body of his murdered master till theEgyptians are sated with gazing on it, till they have “seen it theirbellies full” in North’s words. Amyot proceeds: Puis l’ayant layé de l’eau de la mer, et enveloppé d’une sienne pauvre chemise, pour ce qu’il n’avoit autre chose, il chercha au long de la greve ou il trouva quelque demourant d’un vieil bateau de pescheur, dont les pieces estoyent bien vieilles, mais suffisantes pour brusler un pauvre corps nud, et encore non tout entier. Ainsi comme il les amassoit et assembloit, il survint un Romain homme d’aage, qui en ses jeunes ans avoit esté à la guerre soubs Pompeius: si luy demanda: “Qui est tu, mon amy, qui fais cest apprest pour les funerailles du grand Pompeius? ” Philippus luy respondit qu’il estoit un sien affranchy. “Ha,” dit le Romain, “tu n’auras pas tout seul cest honneur, et te prie vueille moy recevoir pour compagnon en une si saincte et si devote rencontre, à fin que je n’aye point occasion de me plaindre en tout et partout de m’estre habitué en païs estranger, ayant en recompense de plusieurs maulx que j’y ay endurez, rencontré au moins ceste bonne adventure de pouvoir toucher avec mes mains, et aider a ensepvelir le plus grand Capitaine des Romains. ”This is very beautiful, but to English ears, at least, there issomething in North’s version, copy though it be, that is at once morestately and more moving. Then having washed his body with salt water, and wrapped it up in an old shirt of his, because he had no other shift to lay it in,[128] he sought upon the sands and found at the length a peece of an old fishers bote, enough to serve to burne his naked bodie with, but not all fully out. [129] As he was busie gathering the broken peeces of this bote together, thither came unto him an old Romane, who in his youth had served under Pompey, and sayd unto him: “O friend, what art thou that preparest the funeralls of Pompey the Great. ” Philip answered that he was a bondman of his infranchised. “Well,” said he, “thou shalt not have all this honor alone, I pray thee yet let me accompany thee in so devout a deede, that I may not altogether repent me to have dwelt so long in a straunge contrie where I have abidden such miserie and trouble; but that to recompence me withall, I may have this good happe, with mine owne hands to touche Pompey’s bodie, and to helpe to bury the only and most famous Captaine of the Romanes. ”[130][128] Amyot probably and North certainly has mistaken the sense. Afterwashing and shrouding the body “ἄλλο δε oὐδὲν ἔχων ἀλλὰ περισκοπῶν”;but having nothing else to carry out the funeral rites with, such aspine wood, spices, etc. , but looking about on the beach, he found, etc. [129] A misunderstanding on North’s part where Amyot translates theGreek quite adequately. The rendering should be “a poor naked body andmoreover an incomplete one,” _i. e. _ with the head wanting. [130] _Pompeius. _On the other hand, while anything but a purist in the diction heemploys, North’s foreign loans lose their foreign look, and becomemerely the fitting ornament for his native homespun. It is chiefly onthe extraordinary wealth of his vocabulary, his inexhaustible supplyof expressions, vulgar and dignified, picturesque and penetrating,colloquial and literary, but all of them, as he uses them, ofindisputable Anglicity—it is chiefly on this that his excellence asstylist is based, an excellence that makes his version of Plutarch byfar the most attractive that we possess. It is above all through theseresources and the use he makes of them that his book distinguishesitself from the French; for North treats Amyot very much as Amyottreats Plutarch; heightening and amplifying; inserting here an emphaticepithet and there a homely proverb; now substituting a vivid for acolourless term, now pursuing the idea into pleasant side tracks. ThusAmyot describes the distress of the animals that were left behind whenthe Athenians set out for Salamis, with his average faithfulness. Et si y avoit ne sçay quoi de pitoyable qui attendrissoit les cueurs, quand on voyoit les bestes domestiques et privées, qui couroient ça et là avec hurlemens et signifiance de regret après leurs maistres et ceulx qui les avoient nourries, ainsi comme ilz s’embarquoient: entre lesquelles bestes on compte du chien de Xantippus, père de Pericles, que ne pouvant supporter le regret d’estre laissé de son maistre, il se jeta dedans la mer après luy, et nageant au long de la galère où il estoit, passa jusques en l’isle de Salamine, là où si tost qu’il fust arrivé, l’aleine luy faillit, et mourut soudainement. But this account stirs North’s sympathy, and he puts in little touchesthat show his interest and compassion. There was besides, a certain pittie that made mens harts to yerne, when they saw the _poore doggs, beasts and cattell_ ronne up and doune, _bleating, mowing, and howling out aloude_ after their masters in token of sorowe, whan they did imbarke. Amongst them there goeth a _straunge_ tale of Xanthippus dogge, who was Pericles father; which, for sorowe his master had left him behind him, dyd caste him self after into the sea, and swimming still by the galley’s side wherein his master was, he held on to the Ile of Salamina, where so sone as _this poor curre_ landed, his breath fayled him, and dyed instantly. [131][131] _Themistocles. _Similarly, when he recounts the story how the Gauls entered Rome, Northcannot restrain his reverence for Papirius or his delight in his blow,or his indignation at its requital. Amyot had told of the Gaul: qui prit la hardiesse de s’approcher de Marcus Papyrius, et luy passa tout doulcement[132] la main par dessus sa barbe qui estoit longue. Papyrius luy donna de son baston si grand coup sur la teste, qu’il la luy blecea; dequoy le barbare estant irrité, desguaina son espée, et l’occit. North is not content with such reserve. One of them went boldely unto M. Papyrius and layed his hand fayer and softely upon his long beard. But Papyrius gave him such a _rappe on his pate_ with his staffe, that the _bloude ran about his eares_. This _barbarous beaste_ was in _such a rage with the blowe_ that he drue out his sworde and slewe him. [133]Or sometimes the picture suggested is so pleasant to North that hepartly recomposes it and adds some gracious touch to enhance its charm. Thus he found this vignette of the peaceful period that followed Numa: Les peuples hantoient et trafiquoient les uns avec les autres sans crainte ni danger, et s’entrevisitoient en toute cordiale hospitalité, comme si la sapience de Numa eut été une vive source de toutes bonnes et honnestes choses, de laquelle plusieurs fleuves se fussent derivés pour arroser toute l’Italie. This is how North recasts and embellishes the last sentence: The people did trafficke and frequent together, without feare or daunger, and visited one another, making great cheere: _as if out of the springing fountain of Numa’s wisdom many pretie brookes and streames of good and honest life had ronne over all Italie and had watered it_. [134][132] Represents πράως. Amyot leaves out ἤψατο τοῦ γενελου, _caught thechin_: _si grand_, and _estant irrité_, are added. [133] _Furius Camillus. _[134] _Numa Pompilius. _But illustrations might be multiplied through pages. Enough have beengiven to show North’s debts to the French and their limits. Witha few unimportant errors, his rendering is in general wonderfullyfaithful and close, so that he copies even the sequence of thoughtand modulation of rhythm. He sometimes falls short of his authorityin simplicity, neatness, and precision of structure. On the otherhand he sometimes excels it in animation and force, in volume andinwardness. But, and this is the last word on his style, even when hefollows Amyot’s French most scrupulously, he always contrives to writein his own and his native idiom. And hence it came that he once forall naturalised Plutarch among us. His was the epoch-making deed. Hissuccessors, who were never his supersessors, merely entered into hislabours and adapted Plutarch to the requirements of the Restoration, orof the eighteenth or of the nineteenth century. But they were adaptingan author whom North had made a national classic. Plutarch was a Greek, to be sure, and a Greek no doubt he is still. But as when we think of a Devereux . . . we call him an Englishman and not a Norman, so who among the reading public troubles himself to reflect that Plutarch wrote Attic prose of such and such a quality? Scholars know all about it to be sure, as they know that the turkeys of our farm-yards come originally from Mexico. Plutarch however is not a scholar’s author, but is popular everywhere as if he were a native. [135][135] _Quarterly Review_, 1861. But one aspect of this is that North carries further the process whichAmyot had begun of accommodating antiquity to current conceptions. Theatmosphere of North’s diction is so genuinely national that objectsdiscerned through it take on its hue. Under his strenuous welcomethe noble Grecian and Roman immigrants from France are forced tomake themselves at home, but in learning the ways of the Englishmarket-place they forget something of the Agora and the Forum. Perhapsthis was inevitable, since they were come to stay. And the consequence of North’s method is that he meets Shakespearehalf way. His copy may blur some of the lines in the original picture,but they are lines that Shakespeare would not have perceived. He maypresent Antiquity in disguise, but it was in this disguise alonethat Shakespeare was able to recognise it. He has in short suppliedShakespeare with the only Plutarch that Shakespeare could understand. The highest compliment we can pay his style is, that it had a specialrelish for Shakespeare, who retained many of North’s expressions withlittle or no alteration. The highest compliment we can pay the contentsis, that, only a little more modernised, they furnished Shakespearewith his whole conception of antique history. The influence of North’s Plutarch on Shakespeare is thus of a two-foldkind. There is the influence of the diction, there is the influence ofthe subject-matter; and in the first instance it is more specificallythe influence of North, while in the second it is more specifically theinfluence of Plutarch. It would be as absurd as unfair to deny Shakespeare’s indebtednessto North not only in individual turns and phrases, but in continuousdiscourse. Often the borrower does little more than change the proseto poetry. But at the lowest he always does that; and there is perhapsin some quarters a tendency to minimise the marvel of the feat, andso, if not to exaggerate the obligation, at least to set it in a falselight. He has nowhere followed North so closely through so many linesas in Volumnia’s great speech to her son before Rome; and, next tothat, in Coriolanus’ great speech to Aufidius in Antium. In thesepassages the ideas, the arrangement of the ideas, the presentationof the ideas are practically the same in the translator and in thedramatist: yet, with a few almost imperceptible touches, a few changesin the order of construction, a few substitutions in the wording, thelanguage of North, without losing any directness or force, gains amajestic volume and vibration that are only possible in the cadencesof the most perfect verse. These are the cases in which Shakespeareshows most verbal dependence on his author, but his originality assertsitself even in them. North’s admirable appeal is not Shakespeare’s,Shakespeare’s more admirable appeal is not North’s. [136]Similarly there has been a tendency to overestimate the loans of theRoman Plays from Plutarch. From this danger even Archbishop Trench hasnot altogether escaped in an eloquent and well-known passage which inmany ways comes very near to the truth. After dwelling on the freedomwith which Shakespeare generally treats his sources, for instance thenovels of Bandello or Cinthio, deriving from them at most a hint ortwo, cutting and carving, rejecting or expanding their statements atwill, he concludes: But his relations with Plutarch are very different—different enough to justify or almost to justify the words of Jean Paul when in his _Titan_ he calls Plutarch “der biographische Shakespeare der Weltgeschichte. ” What a testimony we have here to the true artistic sense and skill which, with all his occasional childish simplicity[137] the old biographer possesses, in the fact that the mightiest and completest artist of all times, should be content to resign himself into his hands and simply to follow where the other leads. [136] The relations of the various versions—Greek, Latin, French, andEnglish—are illustrated by means of this speech in Appendix B. [137] Childish simplicity does not strike one as a correct descriptionof Plutarch’s method. To this it might be answered in the first place that Shakespeareshows the same sort of fidelity in kind, though not in degree, to thecomparatively inartistic chronicles of his mother country. That is, itis in part, as we have seen, his tribute not to the historical authorbut to the historical subject. Granting, however, the superior claimsof Plutarch, it is yet an overstatement to say that Shakespeare iscontent to resign himself into his hands, and simply to follow wherethe other leads. Delius, after an elaborate comparison of biography anddrama, sums up his results in the protest that “Shakespeare has muchless to thank Plutarch for than one is generally inclined to suppose. ”Indeed, however much Plutarch would appeal to Shakespeare in virtueboth of his subjects and his methods, it is easy to see that even asa “grave learned philosopher and historiographer” he is on the hitherside of perfection. He interrupts the story with moral disquisitions,and is a little apt to preach, and often, through such intrusions andirrelevancies, or the adherence of the commonplace, his most impressivetouches fail of their utmost possible effect: at least he does notalways seem aware of the full value of his details, of their depthand suggestiveness when they are set aright. Yet he is more excellentin details than in the whole: he has little arrangement or artisticconstruction; he is not free from contradictions and discrepancies; hegives the bricks and mortar but not the building, and occasionally someof the bricks are flawed or the mortar is forgotten. And his storieshave this inorganic character, because he is seldom concerned to pierceto the meaning that would give them unity and coherence. He moralises,and only too sententiously, whenever an opportunity offers; but of theprinciples that underlie the conflicts and catastrophes which in hisfree-and-easy way he describes, he has at best but fragmentary glimpses. And in all this the difference between the genial moralist and theinspired tragedian is a vast one—so vast that when once we perceiveit, it is hard to retain a fitting sense of the points of contact. InShakespeare, Plutarch’s weaknesses disappear, or rather are replacedby excellences of precisely the opposite kind. He rejects all thatis otiose or discordant in speech or situation, and adds from otherpassages in his author or from his own imagination, the circumstancesthat are needed to bring out its full poetic significance. He alwayslooks to the whole, removes discrepancies, establishes the innerconnection; and at his touch the loose parts take their places asmembers of one living organism. And in a sense, “he knows what it isall about. ” In a sense he is more of a philosophic historian thanhis teacher. At any rate, while Plutarch takes his responsibilitieslightly in regard both to facts and conclusions, Shakespeare, in sofar as that was possible for an Elizabethan, has a sort of intuitionof the principles that Plutarch’s narrative involves; and while addingsome pigment from his own thought and feeling to give them colour andvisible shape, accepts them as his presuppositions which interpret thestory and which it interprets. Thus the influences of North’s Plutarch, whether of North’s style orof Plutarch’s matter, though no doubt very great, are in the lastresort more in the way of suggestion than of control. But they donot invariably act with equal potency or in the same proportion. Thus _Antony and Cleopatra_ adheres most closely to the narrative ofthe biographer, which is altered mainly by the omission of detailsunsuitable for the purpose of the dramatist; but the words, phrases,constructions, are for the most part conspicuously Shakespeare’sown. Here there is a maximum of Plutarch and a minimum of North. In _Coriolanus_, on the other hand, apart from the unconsciousmodifications that we have noticed, Shakespeare allows himself moreliberty than elsewhere in chopping and changing the substance; butlengthy passages and some of the most impressive ones are incorporatedin the drama without further alteration than is implied in thetransfiguration of prose to verse. Here there is the maximum of Northwith the minimum of Plutarch. _Julius Caesar_, as in the matter of theinevitable and unintentional misunderstandings, so again here, occupiesa middle place. Many phrases, and not a few decisive suggestions forthe most important speeches, have passed from the _Lives_ into theplay: one sentence at least it is hard to interpret without referenceto the context; but here as a rule, even when he borrows most,Shakespeare treats his loans very independently. So, too, though heseldom wittingly departs from Plutarch, he elaborates the new materialthroughout, amplifying and abridging, selecting and rejecting, takingto pieces and recombining, not from one Life but from three. Here wehave the mean influence both of Plutarch and of North. In so far therefore _Julius Caesar_ gives the norm of Shakespeare’sprocedure; and with it, for this as well as on chronological grounds,we begin. _JULIUS CAESAR_CHAPTER I POSITION OF THE PLAY BETWEEN THE HISTORIES AND THE TRAGEDIES. ATTRACTION OF THE SUBJECT FOR SHAKESPEARE AND HIS GENERATION. INDEBTEDNESS TO PLUTARCHAlthough _Julius Caesar_ was first published in the Folio of 1623,seven years after Shakespeare’s death, there is not much doubt aboutits approximate date of composition, which is now placed by almost allscholars near the beginning of the seventeenth century. Some of theevidence for this is partly external in character. (1) In a miscellany of poems on the death of Elizabeth, printed in1603, and entitled _Sorrowes Joy_, the lines occur: They say a _comet_ woonteth to appeare When _Princes_ baleful destinie is neare: So _Julius_ starre was seene with fiery crest, Before his fall to _blaze_ among the rest. It looks as though the suggestion for the idea and many of the wordshad come from Calpurnia’s remonstrance, When beggars die there are no _comets seen_: The heavens themselves _blaze_ forth the death of _princes_. [138] (II. ii. 30. )[138] Pointed out by Mr. Stokes, _Chronological Order, etc. _ Mightnot some of the expressions come, however, from Virgil’s list of theportents that accompanied Caesar’s death? Compare especially “nec diritoties _arsere cometae_” (_G. _ i. 488). Another apparent loan belongs to the same year. In 1603 Drayton rewrotehis poem of _Mortimeriados_ under the title of _The Barons’ Wars_,altering and adding many passages. One of the insertions runs: Such one he was, of him we boldely say, In whose riche soule all soueraigne powres did sute, In _whome in peace th(e) elements all lay_ _So mixt_ as none could soueraignty impute; As all did gouerne, yet all did obey. His liuely temper was so absolute, That ’t seemde when heauen his modell first began, In him it _shewd perfection in a man_. Compare Antony’s verdict on Brutus: His life was gentle, and _the elements_ _So mix’d_ in him, that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, “This _was a man_. ” (V. v. 73. )Some critics have endeavoured to minimise this coincidence on theground that it was a common idea that man was compounded of the fourelements. But that would not account for such close identity of phrase. There must be some connection; and that Drayton, not Shakespeare, wasthe copyist, is rendered probable by the circumstance that Drayton, in1619, _i. e. _ after Shakespeare’s death, makes a still closer approachto Shakespeare’s language. He was a man, then, boldly dare to say, In whose rich soul the virtues well did suit; In whom, _so mix’d the elements all lay_, That none to one could sovereignty impute; As all did govern, yet all did obey: He of a temper was so absolute As that it seem’d, when Nature him began, She meant to show _all that might be in man_. [139][139] Collier’s Shakespeare. (2) Apart, however, from these apparent adaptations in 1603, thereis reason to conjecture that the play had been performed by May inthe previous year. At that date, as we know from Henslowe’s _Diary_,Drayton, Webster and others were engaged on a tragedy on the samesubject called _Caesar’s Fall_. Now it is a well ascertained fact thatwhen a drama was a success at one theatre, something on a similartheme commonly followed at another. The entry therefore, that in theearly summer of 1602 Henslowe had several playwrights working at thismaterial, apparently in a hurry, since so many are sharing in the task,is in so far presumptive evidence that Shakespeare’s _Julius Caesar_had been produced in the same year or shortly before. (3) But these things are chiefly important as confirming theprobability of another allusion, which would throw the date a littlefurther back still. In Weever’s _Mirror of Martyrs_ there is thequatrain: The many headed multitude were drawne By Brutus speech, that Caesar was ambitious, When eloquent Mark Antony had showne His vertues, who but Brutus then was vicious. [140][140] Mr. Halliwell-Phillips’ discovery. Now this has a much more specific reference to the famous scene inthe Play than to anything in Plutarch, who, for instance, even in the_Life of Brutus_, which gives the fullest account of Brutus’ dealingswith the citizens, does not mention the substance of his argument andstill less any insistence on Caesar’s ambition, but only says that he“made an oration unto them to winne the favor of the people, and tojustifie what they had done”; and this passage, which contains thefullest notice of Brutus’ speeches, like the corresponding one in the_Life of Caesar_, attributes only moderate success to his appeal in themarket place, while it goes on to describe the popular disapproval asexploding before the intervention of Antony. [141] Thus it seems fairlycertain that a knowledge of Shakespeare’s play is presupposed by the_Mirror of Martyrs_, which was printed in 1601. [141] “Brutus and his confederates came into the market place to speakeunto the people, who gave them such audience, that it seemed theyneither greatly reproved, nor allowed the fact: for by their greatsilence they showed that they were sorry for Caesar’s death and alsothat they did reverence Brutus. ” _Julius Caesar. _“When the people saw him in the pulpit, although they were a multitudeof rakehells of alle sortes, and had a good will to make some sturre,yet being ashamed to doe it for the reverence they bare unto Brutus,they kept silence to heare what he would say. When Brutus began tospeak they gave him quiet audience; howbeit immediately after, theyshewed that they were not all contented with the murther. For whenanother called Cinna would have spoken and began to accuse Caesar; theyfell into a great uprore among them, and marvelously reviled him. ” _M. Brutus. _On the other hand, it cannot have been much earlier. The absence ofsuch a typical “tragedy” from Meres’ list in 1598 is nearly proofpositive that it was not then in existence. After that the _data_ are less definite. _A Warning for Fair Women_,printed in 1599, contains the lines: I have given him fifteen wounds, Which will be fifteen _mouths_ that do accuse me: In every mouth there is a bloody _tongue_ Which will _speak_, although he holds his peace. It is difficult not to bring these into connection with Antony’s words: Over thy wounds now do I prophesy—— Which like dumb _mouths_ do ope their ruby lips To beg the voice and utterance of my _tongue_. (III. i. 259. )And again: I tell you that which you yourselves do know, Show you sweet Caesar’s wounds, poor, poor dumb _mouths_, And bid them _speak_ for me: but were I Brutus And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits and put a _tongue_ In every _wound_. (III. ii. 228. )But in this Shakespeare may have been the debtor not the creditor:and other coincidences like the “Et tu, Brute,” in _Acolastus hisAfterwit_[142] (1600) may be due to the use of common or currentauthorities. One little detail has been used as an argument that theplay was later than 1600. Cassius says:[142] By S. Nicholson. There was a Brutus once that would have brook’d The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome As easily as a king. (I. ii. 159·)Here obviously the word we should have expected is _infernal_ not_eternal_. It has been conjectured[143] that the milder expressionwas substituted in deference to the increasing disapproval of profanelanguage on the stage; and since three plays published in 1600 use_infernal_, the inference is that _Julius Caesar_ is subsequent tothem. One fails to see, however, why Shakespeare should admit thesubstantive and be squeamish about the adjective: in point of fact,much uglier words than either find free entry into his later plays. And one has likewise to remember that the _Julius Caesar_ we possesswas published only in 1623, and that such a change might very wellhave been made in any of the intervening years, even though it werewritten before 1600. The most then that can be established by this setof inferences, is that it was produced after Meres’ _Palladis Tamia_ in1598 and before Weever’s _Mirror of Martyrs_ in 1601. [143] By Mr. Wright, _Clarendon Press Edition_. The narrowness of the range is fairly satisfactory, and it may befurther reduced. It has been surmised that perhaps Essex’ treasonturned Shakespeare’s thoughts to the story of another conspiracy byanother high-minded man, and that Caesar’s reproach, “Et tu, Brute,”derived not from the Parallel Lives but from floating literarytradition, would suggest to an audience of those days the feeling ofElizabeth in regard to one whom Shakespeare had but recently celebratedas “the general of our gracious Empress. ” At any rate the time seemssuitable. Among Shakespeare’s serious plays _Julius Caesar_ mostresembles in style _Henry V. _, written between March and September1599, as the above allusion to Essex’ expedition shows,[144] and_Hamlet_, entered at Stationers’ Hall in 1602, as “latelie acted. ”But the connection is a good deal closer with the latter than withthe former, and extends to the parallelism and contrast between thechief persons, both of them philosophic students called upon to make adecision for which their temperament and powers do not fit them, andtherefore the one of them deciding wrong and the other hardly decidingat all. Both pieces contain references to the story of Caesar, butthose in _Hamlet_ accord better with the tone of the tragedy. Thus thechorus says of Henry’s triumph:[144] _Henry V. _ V. prologue 30. The mayor and all his brethren in best sort, Like to the senators of the antique Rome, With the plebeians swarming at their heels, Go forth to fetch their conquering Caesar in. (V. prologue 25. )Would this passage have been penned if Shakespeare had alreadydescribed how the acclamations of the plebs were interrupted by thetribunes, and how among the senators there were some eager to make awaywith the Victor? But the two chief references in _Hamlet_ merely abridge what is toldmore at large in the Play. Polonius says: “I did enact Julius Caesar: Iwas killed i’ the Capitol. Brutus killed me” (III. ii. 108), which isonly a bald summary of the central situation. Hamlet says: In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets: As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood, Disasters in the sun; and the moist star Upon whose influence Neptune’s empire stands Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse. (I. i. 113. )This reads like a condensed anthology from the descriptions of Casca,Cassius and Calpurnia, eked out with a few hints from another passagein Plutarch that had not hitherto been utilised. [145][145] Calpùrnia speaks of the appearance of comets at the death ofprinces, but merely in a general way, not as a presage then to beobserved: and there is no mention in the play of disasters in the sunor eclipses of the moon. Near the end of the _Life of Caesar_, Plutarchrecords the first two portents, and his language suggests the idea ofa solar, which, for variety’s sake, might easily be changed to a lunareclipse. “The great comet which seven nightes together was seene verybright after Caesar’s death, the eight night after was never seenemore. Also the _brightnes of the sunne was darkened_, the which allthat yeare through was very pale, and shined not out, whereby it gavebut small heate. ”Even the quatrain: Imperious Caesar, dead and turn’d to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away: O, that that earth which kept the world in awe, Should patch a wall to expel the winter’s flaw! (V. i. 236. )is in some sort the ironical development of Antony’s thought: O mighty Caesar! dost thou lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, Shrunk to this little measure? (III. i. 148. ) But yesterday the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world: now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence. (III. ii. 123. )Owing to Weever’s reference we cannot put _Julius Caesar_ after_Hamlet_, but it seems to have closer relations with _Hamlet_ than with_Henry V. _ It is not rash to place it between the two, in 1600 or 1601. This does not however mean that we necessarily have it quite in itsoriginal form. On the contrary, there are indications that it may havebeen revised some time after the date of composition. Thus Ben Jonson in his _Discoveries_ writes of Shakespeare: “His witwas in his own power: would the rule of it had been so too! Many timeshe fell into those things could not escape laughter, as when he saidin the person of Caesar, one speaking to him, ‘Caesar, thou dost mewrong,’ he replied, ‘Caesar did never wrong but with just cause,’ andsuch like; which were ridiculous. ” Most people would see in this a veryordinary example of the figure called Paradox, and some would explain_wrong_ in such a way that even the paradox disappears: but the alleged_bêtise_ tickled Ben’s fancy, for he recurs to it to make a point inthe Introduction to the _Staple of News_. One of the persons says: “Ican do that too, if I have cause”; to which the reply is made: “Cry youmercy; you never did wrong but with just cause. ”Now in the present play there is no such expression. The nearestanalogue occurs in the conclusion of the speech, in which Caesarrefuses the petition for Publius Cimber’s recall, Know, Caesar doth not wrong, nor without cause Will he be satisfied. (III. i. 47. )It has been suggested[146] that Jonson simply misquoted the passage. But it is not likely that Ben would consciously or unconsciouslypervert the authentic text by introducing an absurdity, still lessby introducing an absurdity that few people find absurd. In hiscriticisms on Shakespeare he does not manufacture the things to whichhe objects, but regards them from an unsympathetic point of view. Itseems probable, therefore, that he has preserved an original reading,that was altered out of deference for strictures like his: and this inso far supports the theory that the play was corrected after its firstappearance. [146] By Mr. Verity, _Julius Caesar_, 198. So, too, with the versification. The consideration of certaintechnicalities, such as the weak ending, would place _Julius Caesar_comparatively early, but there are others that yield a more ambiguousresult. It may have been revived and revised about 1607 when thesubject was again popular. And perhaps it has survived only in an acting edition. It is unusuallyshort: and, that Shakespeare’s plays were probably abridged for thestage, we know from comparison of the Quarto with the Folio _Hamlets_. The same argument has been used in regard to _Macbeth_. Still granting the plausibility up to a certain point of thisconjecture, its importance must not be exaggerated. It does notaffect the fact that _Julius Caesar_ belongs essentially to the verybeginning of the century, and that it is an organic whole as itstands. If abridged, it is still full, compact and unattenuated. Ifrevised, its style, metre and treatment are still all characteristicof Shakespeare’s early prime. The easy flow of the verse, the luminousand pregnant diction, the skilful presentation of the story in a fewsuggestive incidents, all point to a time when Shakespeare had attainedcomplete mastery of his methods and material, and before he was drivenby his daemon to tasks insuperable by another and almost insuperable byhim, Reaching that heaven might so replenish him Above and through his art. It is perhaps another aspect of the perfect and harmonious beauty,which fulfils the whole play and every part of it, that while there isnone of the speeches “that is in the bad sense declamatory, none thatdoes not gain by its context nor can be spared from it without someloss to the dramatic situation,” there are many “which are eminentlyadapted for declamation”;[147] that is, for delivery by themselves. Inthe later plays, on the other hand, it is far more difficult to extractany particular jewel from its setting. [147] The late Mr. H. Sidgwick, “Julius Caesar and Coriolanus,” in_Essays and Addresses_. It is pretty certain then that _Julius Caesar_ is the first not only ofthe Roman Plays, but of the great series of Tragedies. The flame-tippedwelter of _Titus Andronicus_, the poignant radiance of _Romeo andJuliet_ belong to Shakespeare’s pupilage and youth. Their place isapart from each other and the rest in the vestibule and forecourt ofhis art. The nearest approach to real Tragedy he had otherwise made wasin the English History of _Richard III. _ And now when that period ofhis career begins in which he is chiefly occupied with the treatment oftragic themes, it is again to historical material that he has recourse,and he chooses from it the episode which was probably of supremeinterest to the Europe of his day. Since Muretus first showed the way,the fate of Caesar had again and again been dramatised in Latin and inthe vernacular, in French and in English. It was a subject that to agenius of the second rank might have seemed hackneyed, but a genius ofthe highest rank knows that the common is not hackneyed but catholic,and contains richer possibilities than the recondite. Shakespearehad already been drawn to it himself. The frequent references in hisearlier dramas show how he too was fascinated by the glamour of Caesar. In the plays adapted by him, he inserts or retains tributes to Caesar’sgreatness, to the irony or injustice of his fate. Bedford in hisenthusiasm for the spirit of Henry V. , as ordained to prosper the realmand thwart adverse planets, can prefer him to only one rival, A far more glorious star thy soul will make Than Julius Caesar. (_H. VI. _ A. I. i. 155. )Suffolk, in his self-conceit and self-pity, seeks for examples ofother celebrities who have perished by ignoble hands, and comparedwith his victim, even Brutus seems on the level of the meanest and mostunscrupulous. A Roman sworder and banditto slave Murder’d sweet Tully: Brutus’ bastard hand Stabb’d Julius Caesar: savage islanders Pompey the Great: and Suffolk dies by pirates. (_H. VI. _ B. IV. i. 134. )Margaret, when her boy is slaughtered at Tewkesbury, thinks of Caesar’smurder as the one deed which can be placed beside it, and which it eventranscends in horror. They that stabb’d Caesar shed no blood at all, Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame, If this foul deed were by to equal it. (_H. VI. _ C. V. v. 53. )It is the same if we turn to Shakespeare’s indisputably spontaneousutterances. He sees Caesar’s double merit with pen and sword. Says thelittle Prince Edward: That Julius Caesar was a famous man: With what his valour did enrich his wit, His wit set down to make his valour live. Death makes no conquest of this conquerer: For now he lives in fame, though not in life. (_R. III. _ III. i. 84. )Rosalind laughs at the self-consciousness of his prowess as she laughsat the extravagance of love in Troilus and Leander, but evidentlyShakespeare, just as he was impressed by their stories in Chaucer andMarlowe, was impressed in Plutarch with what she calls the “thrasonicalbrag of ‘I came, saw, and overcame. ’” Don Armado is made to quote itin his role of invincible gallant (L. L. L. IV. i. 68); and Falstaffparodies it by applying to himself the boast of “the hooked-nosedfellow of Rome” when Sir John Coleville surrenders (H. IV. B. IV. iii. 45). For to Shakespeare there are no victories like Caesar’s. Thefalse announcement of Hotspur’s success appeals to them for precedent: O, such a day So fought, so follow’d and so fairly won, Came not till now to dignify the times Since Caesar’s fortunes. (_H. IV. _ B. I. i. 20. )We have already noticed the references to his triumphs, his fate, theironical contrast between the _was_ and the _is_ in _Henry V. _ and_Hamlet_, the History and the Tragedy that respectively precede andsucceed the play of which he is titular hero. But Shakespeare keepsrecurring to the theme almost to the end. When in _Measure for Measure_the disreputable Pompey is conveyed to prison, it suggests a ridiculousparallel with that final triumph of Caesar’s when the tribunes saw farother tributaries follow him to Rome To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels. “How now, noble Pompey,” says Lucio as the go-between passes by behindElbow and the officers, “what, at the wheels of Caesar? art thou ledin triumph? ” (III. ii. 46). In _Antony and Cleopatra_, of course theincumbent presence of “broad-fronted Caesar” is always felt. But inCymbeline, too, it haunts us. Now his difficulties in the island, sincethere were difficulties even for him, are used as by Posthumus, toexalt the prowess of the Britons, When Julius Caesar Smiled at their lack of skill, but found their courage Worthy his frowning at: (II. iv. 21. )or by the Queen: A kind of conquest Caesar made here; but made not here his brag Of “came” and “saw” and “overcame. ” (III. i. 22. )But the dominant note is rather of admiration for Julius Caesar, whose remembrance yet Lives in men’s eyes, and will to ears and tongues Be theme and hearing ever. (III. i. 2. )Or if the fault that Brutus enforced is brought to view, the very faultbecomes a grandiose and superhuman thing: Caesar’s ambition, Which swell’d so much, that it did almost stretch The sides o’ the world. (III. i. 49. )The subject then was one of widespread interest and had an abidingfascination for Shakespeare himself. After leaving national historyin _Henry V. _ he seems to have turned to the history of Rome for thefirst Tragedy of his prime in a spirit much like that in which he hadgone to the English Chronicles. And he goes to it much in the sameway. It has been said that in most of the earlier series “Holinshedis hardly ever out of the poet’s hands. ”[148] Substituting Plutarchfor Holinshed the expression is true in this case too. An occasionalphrase like the _Et tu, Brute_, he obtained elsewhere, most probablyfrom familiar literary usage, but conceivably from the lost Latin playof Dr. Eedes or Geddes. Stray hints he may have derived from otherauthorities; for instance, though this is not certain, a suggestionor two from Appian’s _Civil Wars_ for Mark Antony’s Oration. [149] Itis even possible that he may have been directed to the conception andtreatment of a few longer passages by his general reading: thus, as wehave seen, it has been maintained not without plausibility that thefirst conversation between Brutus and Cassius can be traced to thecorresponding scene in the _Cornélie_. [150] But in Plutarch he foundpractically all the stuff and substance for his play, except what wascontributed by his own genius; and any other ingredients are nearlyimperceptible and altogether negligible. Plutarch, however, has givenmuch. All the persons except Lucius come from him, and Shakespeareowes to him a number of their characteristics down to the minutesttraits. Cassius’ leanness and Antony’s sleekness, Brutus’ fondness forhis books and cultivation of an artificial style, Caesar’s liabilityto the falling sickness and vein of arrogance in his later years, areall touches that are taken over from the Biographer. So too with theevents and circumstances, and in the main, the sequence in which theyare presented. Plutarch tells of the disapproval with which the triumphover Pompey’s sons was regarded; of the prophecy of danger on the Idesof March; of the offer of the crown on the Lupercal; of the punishmentof the Tribunes; of Cassius’ conference with Brutus; of the anonymoussolicitations that are sent to the latter; of the respect in which hewas held; of his relations with his wife, and her demand to share hisconfidence; of the enthusiasm of the conspirators, their contempt foran oath, their rejection of Cicero as confederate, their exemption ofAntony at Brutus’ request; of Ligarius’ disregard of his illness; ofthe prodigies and portents that preceded Caesar’s death; of Calpurnia’sdream, her efforts to stay her husband at home and the counterarguments of Decius Brutus; of Artemidorus’ intervention, the secondmeeting with the soothsayer; of Portia’s paroxysm of anxiety; of allthe details of the assassination scene; of the speeches to the peopleby Brutus and Antony; of the effects of Caesar’s funeral; of the murderof the poet Cinna; of the proscription of the Triumvirate; of thedisagreement of Brutus and Cassius on other matters and with referenceto Pella, and the interruption of the intruder; of the apparition ofthe spirit, and the death of Portia; of Brutus’ discussion with Cassiuson suicide; of his imprudence at Philippi; of the double issue andrepetition of the battle; of the death of Cassius and Brutus on theirown swords; of the surrender of Lucilius; of Antony’s eulogy of Brutus. There is thus hardly a link in the action that was not forged onPlutarch’s anvil. [148] Mr. Churton Collins, _Studies in Shakespeare_. See also Mr. Boswell Stone, _Shakespere’s Holinshed_. [149] See Appendix C. [150] See Introduction, pages 60-61, and Appendix A. And even the words of North have in many cases been almost literallytranscribed. Says Lucilius when brought before Antony: I dare assure thee, that no enemie hath taken, nor shall take Marcus Brutus alive; and I beseech God keepe him from that fortune. For wheresoever he be found, alive or dead; he will be found like him selfe. (_Brutus. _)Compare: I dare assure thee that no enemy Shall ever take alive the noble Brutus: The gods defend him from so great a shame! When you do find him, or alive or dead, He will be found like Brutus, like himself. (V. iv. 21. )Or take the passage—considering its length, the exactest reproductionof all—in which Portia claims full share in her husband’s secrets. Thesentiment is what we are accustomed to regard as modern; but Plutarch,who himself viewed marriage as a relation in which there was no Minenor Thine,[151] has painted the situation with heartfelt sympathy. After describing the wound she gives herself to make trial of herfirmness, he proceeds:[151] See page 98. Then perceiving her husband was marvelously out of quiet, and that he coulde take no rest: even in her greatest payne of all, she spake in this sorte unto him: “I being, O Brutus (sayed she), the daughter of Cato, was maried unto thee, not to be thy bedde fellowe and companion at bedde and at borde onelie, like a harlot; but to be partaker also with thee, of thy good and evill fortune. Nowe for thy selfe, I can finde no cause of faulte in thee as touchinge our matche: but for my parte, howe may I showe my duetie towardes thee, and howe muche I woulde doe for thy sake, if I cannot constantlie beare a secret mischaunce or griefe with thee, which requireth secrecy and fidelity? I confesse, that a woman’s wit commonly is too weake to keepe a secret safely: but yet, Brutus, good educacion, and the companie of vertuous men, have some power to reforme the defect of nature. And for my selfe, I have this benefit moreover: that I am the daughter of Cato, and wife of Brutus. This notwithstanding, I did not trust to any of these things before; untill that now I have found by experience, that no paine nor griefe whatsoever can overcome me. ’ With those wordes she shewed him her wounde on her thigh, and told him what she had done to prove her selfe. Brutus was amazed to heare what she sayd unto him, and lifting up his handes to heaven, he besought the goddes to give him grace he might bring his enterprise to so good passe, that he might be founde a husband, worthie of so noble a wife as Porcia. ” (_Marcus Brutus. _)It is hardly necessary to point out how closely Shakespeare follows upthe trail. _Portia. _ Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus, Is it excepted I should know no secrets That appertain to you? Am I yourself But, as it were, in sort or limitation; To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed, And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs of your good pleasure? If it be no more, Portia is Brutus’ harlot, not his wife. _Brutus. _ You are my true and honourable wife, As dear to me as are the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart. _Portia. _ If this were true, then should I know this secret. I grant I am a woman; but withal, A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife; I grant I am a woman; but, withal, A woman well-reputed, Cato’s daughter. Think you I am no stronger than my sex, Being so father’d and so husbanded? Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose ’em: I have made strong proof of my constancy, Giving myself a voluntary wound, Here, in the thigh: can I bear that with patience, And not my husband’s secrets? _Brutus. _ O ye gods, Render me worthy of this noble wife. (II. i, 280. )Here we have “the marriage of true souls”; and though the prelude tothis nuptial hymn, a prelude that heralds and enhances its sweetness,is veriest Shakespeare, when the main theme begins and the climax isreached, he is content to resign himself to the ancient melody, andre-echo, even while he varies, the notes. North’s actual slips or blunders are received into the play. Thus theaccount of the assassination runs: “Caesar was driven . . . againstthe base whereupon Pompey’s image stood, which ranne all of a goareblood. ” The last clause, probably by accident, adds picturesqueness toAmyot’s simple description, “qui en fust toute ensanglantee,” and isimmortalised in Antony’s bravura: Even at the base of Pompey’s statua Which all the while ran blood. (III. ii. 192. )More noticeable is the instance of Brutus’ reply to Cassius’ question,what he will do if he lose the battle at Philippi. Amyot’s translationis straightforward enough. Brutus luy respondit: “Estant encore jeune et non assez experimenté es affaires de ce monde, je feis ne sçay comment un discours de philosophie, par lequel je reprenois et blasmois fort Caton d’estre desfait soymesme” etc. That is: Brutus answered him: “When I was yet young and not much experienced in the affairs of this world, I composed, somehow or other, a philosophic discourse in which I greatly rebuked and censured Cato for having made away with himself! ”North did not notice where the quotation began; connected _feis_ with_fier_ in place of _faire_, probably taking it as present not as past;and interpreted _discours_ as _principle_, which it never meant andnever can mean, instead of _dissertation_. So he translates: Brutus answered him, _being yet but a young man, and not over-greatly experienced in the world_: I _trust_ (I know not how) a certaine rule of Philosophie, by the which I did greatly blame and reprove Cato for killing of him selfe; as being no godly or lawful acte, touching the goddes; nor concerning men, valliant; not to give place and yeld to divine providence, and not constantly and paciently to take whatsoever it pleaseth him to send us, but to drawe backe, and flie: but being nowe in the middest of the daunger, I am of a contrary mind. For if it be not the will of God, that this battell fall out fortunate for us: I will looke no more for hope, neither seeke to make any new supply for warre againe, but will rid me of this miserable world, and content me with my fortune. For, I gave up my life for my country in the Ides of Marche, for the which I shall live in another more glorious worlde. (_Marcus Brutus. _)It is possible that North used _trust_ in the first sentence as apreterite equal to _trusted_, just as he uses _lift_ for _lifted_. ButShakespeare at least took it for a present: so he was struck by thecontradiction which the passage seems to contain. He got over it, andproduced a new effect and one very true to human nature, by makingBrutus’ latter sentiment the sudden response of his heart, in defianceof his philosophy, to Cassius’ anticipation of what they must expect ifdefeated. _Brutus. _ Even by the rule of that philosophy By which I did blame Cato for the death Which he did give himself, I know not how, But I do find it cowardly and vile, For fear of what might fall, so to prevent The time of life: arming myself with patience To stay the providence of some higher powers That govern us below. _Cassius. _ Then if we lose this battle. You are contented to be led in triumph Thorough the streets of Rome? _Brutus. _ No, Cassius, no: think not, thou noble Roman, That ever Brutus will go bound to Rome; He bears too great a mind. But this same day Must end that work the ides of March begun; And whether we shall meet again I know not. Therefore our everlasting farewell take. (V. i. 101. )This last illustration may show us, however, that Shakespeare, evenwhen he seems to copy most literally, always introduces something thatcomes from himself. Despite his wholesale appropriation of territorythat does not in the first instance belong to him, the produce isemphatically his own. It is like the white man’s occupation of Americaand Australasia, and can be justified only on similar grounds. Thelands remain the same under their new as under their old masters, butthey yield undreamed-of wealth to satisfy the needs of man. Never didany one borrow more, yet borrow less, than Shakespeare. He finds theclay ready to his hand, but he shapes it and breathes into it thebreath of life, and it becomes a living soul. CHAPTER IISHAKESPEARE’S TRANSMUTATION OF HIS MATERIALThe examples given in the previous chapter may serve to show thatfrom one point of view it is impossible to exaggerate Shakespeare’sdependence on Plutarch. But this is not the only or the most importantaspect of the case. He alters and adds quite as much as he gets. Noslight modification of the story is implied by its mere reductionto dramatic shape, at least when the dramatiser is so consummate aplaywright as Shakespeare. And it is very interesting to observe theinstinctive skill with which he throws narrated episodes, like that ofthe death of Cassius, into the form of dialogues and scenes. But thedramatisation involves a great deal more than this. Shakespeare has tofix on what he regards as the critical points in the continuous story,to rearrange round them what else he considers of grand importance, andto bridge in some way the gaps between. These were prime essentialsin all his English historical pieces. The pregnant moments have to beselected; and become so many ganglia, in which a number of filamentschronologically distinct are gathered up; yet they have to be exhibitednot in isolation, but as connected with each other, and all belongingto one system. And in _Julius Caesar_ this is the more noticeable, asit makes use of more sources than one. The main authority is the _Lifeof Brutus_, but the _Life of Caesar_ also is employed very freely, andthe _Life of Antony_ to some extent. The scope and need for insight inthis portion of the task are therefore proportionately great. Thus the opening scene refers to Caesar’s defeat of the sons of Pompeyin Spain, for which he celebrated his triumph in October, 45 B. C. ButShakespeare dates it on the 15th February, 44 B. C. , at the LupercalianFestival. [152] Then, in the account of Caesar’s chagrin at hisreception, he mixes up, as Plutarch himself to some extent does, twoquite distinct episodes, one of which does not belong to the Lupercaliaat all. [153] Lastly, it was only later that the Tribunes were silencedand deprived of their offices for stripping the images, not of Caesar’s“trophies,” but of “diadems,”[154] or, more specifically, of the“laurel crown”[155] Antony had offered him. [152] Possibly he may have found a suggestion for this in Plutarch’sexpression that at the Lupercalia, Caesar was “apparelled in atriumphant manner” (_Julius Caesar_); or, more definitely “apparelledin his triumphing robe” (_Marcus Antonius_). [153] In the _Julius Caesar_ it is at an interview with the Senate inthe market place that Caesar, in his vexation, bares his neck to theblow, and afterwards pleads his infirmity in excuse; and nothing ofthe kind is recorded in connection with the offer of the crown at theLupercalia. In the _Marcus Antonius_ the undignified exhibition, asPlutarch regards it, is referred to the Lupercalia, and the previousincident is not mentioned. [154] _Julius Caesar. _[155] _Marcus Antonius. _The next group of events is clustered round the assassination, andthey begin on the eve of the Ides, the 14th March. But at first weare not allowed to feel that a month has passed. By various artificesthe flight of time is kept from obtruding itself. The position of thescene with the storm, which ushers in this part of the story, as thelast of the first act instead of the first of the second, of itselfassociates it in our minds with what has gone before. Then there areseveral little hints that we involuntarily expand in the same sense. Thus Cassius has just said: I will this night, In several hands, in at his windows throw, As if they came from several citizens, Writings all tending to the great opinion That Rome holds of his name; wherein obscurely Caesar’s ambition shall be glanced at. (I. ii. 319. )And now we hear him say: Good Cinna, take this paper, And look you lay it in the praetor’s chair, Where Brutus may but find it: and throw this In at his window; set this up with wax Upon old Brutus’ statue. (I. iii. 142. )We seem to see him carrying out the programme that he has announced forthe night of the Lupercalia. Yet there are other hints,—the frequencywith which Brutus has received these instigations (II. i. 49), hisprotracted uncertainty since Cassius first sounded him (II. i. 61), thefact that he himself has had time to approach Ligarius,—which presentlymake us realise that the opening scenes of the drama are left a longway behind. And in this section, too, Shakespeare has crowded his incidents. Thedecisive arrangements of the conspirators, with their rejection of theoath, are dated the night before the assassination; Plutarch puts themearlier. Then, according to Plutarch, there was a senate meeting themorning after Caesar’s murder; and Antony, having escaped in slave’sapparel, proposed an amnesty for the perpetrators, offered his son ashostage, and persuaded them to leave the Capitol. On the followingday dignities were distributed among the ringleaders and a publicfuneral was decreed to Caesar. Only then did the reading of the will,the speech of Antony, and the _émeute_ of the people follow, and thereading of the will preceded the speech. After a while Octavius comesfrom Apollonia to see about his inheritance. In the play, on the other hand, Antony’s seeming agreement withthe assassins is patched up a few minutes after the assassination. Octavius, summoned by the dead Caesar, is already within seven leaguesof Rome. Antony at once proceeds with the corpse to the market place. He has hardly made his speech and then read the will, when, as thecitizens rush off in fury, he learns that Octavius has arrived. A lengthy interval elapses between the end of Act III. and thebeginning of Act IV. , occupied, so far as Rome and Italy wereconcerned, with the rivalry and intrigues of Antony and Octavius, andthe discomfiture of the former (partly through Cicero’s exertions),till he wins the army of Lepidus and Octavius finds it expedient tojoin forces with him and establish the Triumvirate. But of all this nota word in Shakespeare. He dismisses it as irrelevant, and creates anillusion of speed and continuity, where there is none. The servant whoannounces the arrival of Octavius, tells Antony: He and Lepidus are at Caesar’s house. (III. xi. 269. )“Bring me to Octavius,” says Antony. And the fourth act opens “at ahouse in Rome,” “Antony, Octavius and Lepidus seated at a table,” justfinishing the lists of the proscription. The impression produced isthat their conference is direct sequel to the popular outbreak and theconspirators’ flight. Yet it is November, 43 B. C. , and nineteen ortwenty months have gone by since the Ides of March. And the progress oftime is indicated as well as concealed. Antony announces as a new andalarming piece of news And now, Octavius, Listen great things:—Brutus and Cassius Are levying powers. (IV. i. 40. )This too covers a gap in the history and hurries on the connection. The suggestion is that they are beginning operations at last, and thathitherto they have been inactive. Their various intermediate adventuresand wanderings are passed over. We are carried forward to their grandeffort, and are reintroduced to them only when they meet again atSardis in the beginning of 42 B. C. , just before the final movement toPhilippi, where the battle was fought in October of the same year. And this scene also is “compounded of many simples. ” The dispute whichthe poet[156] interrupts, the difference of opinion about Pella, theappearance of the Spirit, are all located at Sardis by Plutarch, but heseparates them from each other; the news of Portia’s death is undated,the quarrel about money matters took place at Smyrna, and other traitsare derived from various quarters. Here they are all made To join like likes, and kiss like native things. [156] In the _Lives_ Faonius or Phaonius, properly Favonius, a followerof Cato. (_Marcus Brutus. _)Then at Philippi itself, not only are some of the speeches transferredfrom the eve to the day of the engagement; but a whole series ofoperations, and two pitched battles, twenty days apart, after the firstof which Cassius, and after the second of which Brutus, committedsuicide, are pressed into a few hours. It will thus be seen that though the action is spread over a period ofthree years, from the triumphal entry of Caesar in October, 45 B. C. ,till the victory of his avengers in October, 42 B. C. , Shakespeareconcentrates it into the story of five eventful days, which howeverdo not correspond to the five separate acts, but by “overlapping” andother contrivances produce the effect of close sequence, while inpoint of fact, historically, they are not consecutive at all. In the first day there is the exposition, enforcing the predominance ofCaesar and the revulsion against it (Act I. i. and ii. ); assigned tothe 15th February, 44 B. C. In the second day there is the assassination with its immediatepreliminaries and sequels (Act I. iii. , Act II.

, Act III. ) allcompressed within the twenty-four hours allowed to a French tragedy,viz. within the interval between the night before the Ides of March andthe next afternoon or evening. [157][157] Cassius says at the end of the long opening scene of the series:“It is after midnight” (Act I. iii. 163). In the last scene of thegroup, Cinna, on his way to Caesar’s funeral, is murdered by therioters apparently just after they have left Antony. In the third day there is the account of the Proscription in November,43 B. C. (Act IV. i. ). In the fourth day the meeting of Brutus andCassius, which took place early in 42 B. C. , and the apparition of theboding spirit, are described (Act IV. ii. and iii. ). Both these daysare included in one act. The fifth day is devoted to the final battle and its accessories, andmust be placed in October, 42 B. C. (Act V. ). But the selection, assortment and filiation of the _data_ are not moreconspicuous in the construction of the plot than in the execution ofthe details. There will be frequent occasion to touch incidentally onthese and similar processes in the discussion of other matters, buthere it may be well to illustrate them separately, so far as that ispossible when nearly every particular instance shows the influence ofmore than one of them. Thus while Shakespeare’s picture of the very perfect union of Brutusand Portia is taken almost in its entirety from Plutarch, who washimself so keenly alive to the beauty of such a wedlock, the charm ofthe traits he adopts is heightened by the absence of those he rejects. Probably indeed he did not know, for Plutarch does not mention it, thatBrutus had been married before, and had got rid of his first wife bythe simple and regular expedient of sending her home to her father. But he did know that Portia, too, had a first husband, Bibulus, “bywhom she had also a young sonne. ” The ideal beauty of their relation isunbrushed by any hint of their previous alliances. So, too, he attributes the coolness between Brutus and Cassius at thebeginning of the story merely to Brutus’ inward conflicts, and toCassius’ misconstruction of his preoccupation. In point of fact, it hada more definite and less creditable cause. According to Plutarch, theyhad both been strenuous rivals for the position of City Praetor, Brutusrecommended by his “vertue and good name,” Cassius by his “many nobleexploytes” against the Parthians. Caesar, saying “Cassius cause isjuster, but Brutus must be first preferred,” had given Brutus the chiefdignity and Cassius the second: therefore “they grew straunge togetherfor the sute they had for the praetorshippe. ” But it would not answerShakespeare’s purpose to show Brutus as moved by personal ambitions, oreither of them as aspiring for honours that Caesar could grant. There are few better examples of the way in which Shakespearerearranges his material than the employment he makes of Plutarch’senumeration of the portents that preceded the assassination. It isgiven as immediate preface to the catastrophe of the Ides. Certainly, destenie may easier be foreseene then avoyded; considering the straunge and wonderfull signes that were sayd to be seene before Caesars death. For touching the fires in the element, and spirites running up and downe in the night, and also these solitarie birdes to be seene at noone dayes sittinge in the great market place: are not all these signes perhappes worth the noting in such a wonderfull chaunce as happened? But Strabo the Philosopher wryteth, that divers men were seene going up and downe in fire: and furthermore, that there was a slave of the souldiers, that did cast a marvelous burning flame out of his hande, insomuch as they that saw it, thought he had been burnt, but when the fire was out, it was found he had no hurt. Caesar selfe also doing sacrifice unto the Goddes, found that one of the beastes which was sacrificed had no hart: and that was a straunge thing in nature, how a beast could live without a hart. Furthermore, there was a certain soothsayer that had geven Caesar warning long time affore, to take heede of the day of the Ides of Marche (which is the fifteenth of the moneth), for on that day he should be in great daunger. That day being come, Caesar going into the Senate house, and speaking merily to the Soothsayer, tolde him, ‘The Ides of Marche be come’: ‘So be they’, softly aunswered the Soothsayer, ‘but yet are they not past. ’ And the very day before, Caesar supping with Marcus Lepidus, sealed certaine letters as he was wont to do at the bord: so talke falling out amongest them, reasoning what death was best: he preventing their opinions, cried out alowde, ‘Death unlooked for. ’ Then going to bedde the same night as his manner was, and lying with his wife Calpurnia, all the windowes and dores of his chamber flying open, the noyse awooke him, and made him affrayed when he saw such light: but more when he heard his wife Calpurnia, being fast a sleepe weepe and sigh, and put forth many fumbling and lamentable speaches. For she dreamed that Caesar was slaine, and that she had him in her armes. [158][158] _Julius Caesar. _It is interesting to note how Shakespeare takes this passage topieces and assigns those of them for which he has a place to theirfitting and effective position. Plutarch’s reflections on destiny andCaesar’s opinions on death he leaves aside. The first warning of thesoothsayer he refers back to the Lupercalia, and the second he shiftsforward to its natural place. Calpurnia’s outcries in her sleep and herprophetic dream, the apparition of the ghosts mentioned by her amongthe other prodigies, the lack of the heart in the sacrificial beast,are reserved for the scene of her expostulation with Caesar, and aredramatically distributed between the various speakers, Caesar, theservant, Calpurnia herself. Shakespeare relies on the fiery heavensand the fire-girt shapes, the flaming hand and the boding bird for hisgrand effect, and puts them in a setting where they gain unspeakablyin supernatural awe. Of course Shakespeare individualises Plutarch’shints and adds new touches. But the main terror is due to somethingelse. We are made to view these portents in the reflex light of Casca’spanic. He has just witnessed them, or believes that he has done so, andnow breathless, staring, his naked sword in his hand, the storm ragingaround, he gasps out his amazement at Cicero’s composure: Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero, I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds Have rived the knotty oaks, and I have seen The ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam, To be exalted with the threatening clouds: But never till to-night, never till now, Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. Either there is a civil strife in heaven, Or else the world, too saucy with the gods, Incenses them to send destruction. _Cicero. _ Why, saw you anything more wonderful? _Casca. _ A common slave—you know him well by sight— Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn Like twenty torches join’d, and yet his hand, Not sensible of fire, remain’d unscorch’d. Besides,—I ha’ not since put up my sword— Against the Capitol I met a lion, Who glared upon me, and went surly by, Without annoying me: and there were drawn Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women, Transformed with their fear; who swore they saw Men all in fire walk up and down the streets. And yesterday the bird of night did sit Even at noon-day upon the market place Hooting and shrieking. When these prodigies Do so conjointly meet, let not men say, ‘These are their reasons: they are natural’: For, I believe, they are portentous things Unto the climate that they point upon. (I. iii. 3. )Here the superstitious thrill rises to a paroxysm of dread; but theeffect of dispersing the subsidiary presages through so many scenes isto steep the whole play in an atmosphere of weird presentiment, tillCaesar passes up to the very doors of the Capitol. But besides selecting and rearranging the separate details, Shakespeareestablishes an inner connection between them even when in Plutarch theyare quite isolated from each other. This is well exemplified by themanner in which the biography and the drama treat the circumstance thatthe conspirators were not sworn to secrecy. Plutarch says: The onlie name and great calling of Brutus did bring on the most of them to geve consent to this conspiracie. Who having never taken othes together, nor taken or geven any caution or assurance, nor binding them selves one to an other by any religious othes, they all kept the matter so secret to them selves, and could so cunninglie handle it, that notwithstanding the goddes did reveal it by manifeste signes and tokens from above, and by predictions of sacrifices, yet all this would not be believed. (_Marcus Brutus. _)The drama puts it thus: _Brutus. _ Give me your hands all over, one by one. _Cassius. _ And let us swear our resolution. _Brutus. _ No, not an oath: if not the face of men The suffrance of our souls, the time’s abuse, If these be motives weak, break off betimes: (II. i. 112. )and so on through the rest of his magnificent speech that breathes thepure spirit of virtue and conviction. The nobility of Brutus that isreverenced by all, the conspiracy of Romans that is safe-guarded byno vows, move Plutarch’s admiration, but he does not associate them. Shakespeare traces the one to the other and views them as cause andeffect. Shakespeare thus greatly alters the character of Plutarch’s narrativeby his ceaseless activity in sifting it, ordering it afresh, andreading into it an internal nexus that was often lacking in hisauthority. But this last proceeding implies that he also makesadditions, and these are not only numerous and manifold, but frequentlyquite explicit and very far-reaching. It is important to note thatPlutarch has furnished nothing more than stray hints, and oftennot even so much, for all the longer passages that have impressedthemselves on the popular imagination. Cassius’ description of theswimming match and of Caesar’s fever, Brutus’ soliloquy, his speechon the oath, his oration and that of Mark Antony, even, when regardedclosely, his dispute with Cassius, are all virtually the inventionsof Shakespeare. The only exception is the conversation with Portia,and even in it, though the climax, as we have seen, closely reproducesboth Plutarch’s matter and North’s expression, the fine introduction isaltogether Shakespearian. But it is not the purple patches alone of which this is true. The morecarefully one examines the finished fabric, the more clearly one seesthat the dramatist has not merely woven and fashioned and embroideredit, but has provided most of the stuff. Sometimes the new matter is a possible or plausible inference from thepremises he found in his author. Thus Plutarch represents the populace as on the whole favourable toCaesar, but the tribunes as antagonistic. He also records, concerningthe celebration of Caesar’s victory over Pompey’s sons in Spain: The triumph he made into Rome for the same did as much offend the Romanes, and more, then anything he had ever done before; bicause he had not overcome Captaines that were straungers, nor barbarous kinges, but had destroyed the sonnes of the noblest man in Rome, whom fortune had overthrowen. And bicause he had plucked up his race by the rootes men did not thinke it meete for him to triumphe so for the calamaties of his contrie. (_Julius Caesar. _)This is all, but it is enough to give the foundation for the openingscene, which otherwise, both in dialogue and declamation, is anentirely free creation. Sometimes again Shakespeare has realised the situation so vividlythat he puts in some trait from the occurrences as in spirit he haswitnessed them, something of the kind that may very well have happened,though there is no trace of it in the records. Thus he well knowswhat an unreasonable monster a street mob can be, how cruel in itsgambols, how savage in its fun. So in the account of the poet Cinna’send, though the gist of the incident, the mistake in identity, thedisregard of the explanation, are all given in Plutarch, Shakespeare’srioters wrest their victim’s innocent avowal of celibacy to a flout atmarriage, and meet his unanswerable defence, “I am Cinna the poet,”with the equally unanswerable retort, “Tear him for his bad verses. ”(III. iii. 23. )Some of these new touches do more than lend reality to the scene. Though not incompatible with Plutarch’s account, they give it a turnthat he might disclaim and certainly does not warrant, but thatbelongs to Shakespeare’s conception of the case. Thus after describingthe “holy course” of the Lupercal, and the superstition connectedwith it, Plutarch mentions that Caesar sat in state to witness thesport, and that Antony was one of the runners. There is nothing more;and Calpurnia is not even named. Shakespeare’s introduction of heris therefore very curious. Whatever else it means, it shows thathe imagined Caesar as desirous, certainly, of having an heir, and,inferentially, of founding a dynasty. [159][159] Genée, _Shakespeare’s Leben und Werke_. Occasionally, however, the dramatist’s insertions directly contradictthe text of the _Lives_, if a more striking or more significant effectis to be attained, and if no essential fact is falsified. Thus Plutarchtells of Ligarius: [Brutus] went to see him being sicke in his bedde, and sayed unto him: “O Ligarius, in what a time art thou sicke! ” Ligarius risinge uppe in his bedde and taking him by the right hande, sayed unto him: “Brutus,” sayed he, “if thou hast any great enterprise in hande worthie of thy selfe, I am whole. ” (_Marcus Brutus. _)Shakespeare, keeping the phrases quoted almost literally, emphasisesthe effort that Ligarius makes, emphasises too the magnetic influenceof Brutus, by representing the sick man as coming to his friend’shouse, as well as by amplifying his words: _Lucius. _ Here is a sick man that would speak with you. . . . _Brutus. _ O, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius, To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick! _Ligarius. _ I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand Any exploit worthy the name of honour. . . . By all the gods that Romans bow before I here discard my sickness! Soul of Rome! Brave son, derived from honourable loins! Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjured up My mortified spirit. Now bid me run, And I will strive with things impossible; Yea, get the better of them. . . . . . . With a heart new-fired I follow you, To do I know not what: but it sufficeth That Brutus leads me on. (II. i. 310. )So too Plutarch describes the collapse of Portia in her suspense asmore complete than does the play, and makes Brutus hear of it justafter the critical moment when the conspirators fear that Lena hasdiscovered their plot: Nowe in the meane time, there came one of Brutus men post hast unto him, and tolde him his wife was a dying. . . . When Brutus heard these newes, it grieved him, as is to be presupposed: yet he left not of the care of his contrie and common wealth, neither went home to his house for any newes he heard. In Shakespeare not only is this very effective dramatic touch omitted,but Portia sends Brutus an encouraging message. As her weaknessincreases upon her, she collects herself for a final effort and managesto give the command: Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord: _Say, I am merry_: come to me again And bring me word what he doth say to thee. (II. iv. 44. )Shakespeare may perhaps have been unwilling to introduce anything intothe assassination scene that might distract attention from the decisivebusiness on hand, but the alteration is chiefly due to another cause. These, the last words we hear Portia utter, were no doubt intended tobring out her forgetfulness of herself and her thought of Brutus evenin the climax of her physical distress. This, of course, does not affect our general estimate of Portia; butShakespeare has no scruple about creating an entirely new characterfor a minor personage, and, in the process, disregarding the hintsthat he found and asserting quite the reverse. Thus Plutarch has notmuch to say about Casca, so Shakespeare feels free to sketch him afterhis own fancy as rude, blunt, uncultured, with so little educationthat, when Cicero speaks Greek, it is Greek to him. This is a libel onhis up-bringing. Plutarch in one of the few details he spares to him,mentions that, when he stabbed Caesar, “they both cried out, Caesar inLatin, ‘O vile traitor, Casca, what doest thou? ’ and Casca in Greek tohis brother: ‘Brother, helpe me. ’”But some of Shakespeare’s interpolations are, probably unawares tohimself, of a vital and radical kind, and affect the conception of thechief characters and the whole idea of the story. Take, for example,Brutus’ soliloquy, as he rids himself of his hesitations and scruples. This, from beginning to end, is the handiwork of Shakespeare: 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 crown’d: How that might change his nature, that’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 not known when his affections sway’d More than his reason. But ’tis a common proof That lowliness is young ambition’s ladder, Whereto the climber upward 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, hatch’d, would as his kind, grow mischievous, And kill him in the shell. (II. i. 10. )These words are so unlike, or, rather, so opposite to all that weshould have expected, that Coleridge cannot repress his amazement. Hecomments: This speech is singular:—at least, I do not at present see into Shakespeare’s motive, his _rationale_, 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. (_Lectures and Notes of 1818. _)And this in a way is the crucial statement of Brutus’ case. Here he hastried to get rid of the assumptions that move himself and the rest,and seeks to find something that will satisfy his reason. It is thusa more intimate revelation of his deliberate principles, though notnecessarily of his subconscious instincts or his untested opinions,than other utterances in which he lets feeling or circumstance havesway. Of these there are two that do not quite coincide with it. One ofthem is not very important, and in any case would not bring him nearerto the antique conception. In his plea for a pure administration ofaffairs, he asks Cassius: What, shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world But for supporting robbers, shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes? (IV. iii. 21. )But this, one feels, is merely an _argumentum ad hominem_, broughtforward very much in afterthought for a particular purpose. At thetime, neither in Brutus’ speeches to himself or others, nor in thediscussions of the conspirators, is Caesar accused of countenancingpeculation, or is this made a handle against him. And if it were, itwould not be incompatible with acquiescence in a royal government. [160][160] On this passage Coleridge has the note: “This seemingly strangeassertion of Brutus is unhappily verified in the present day. What isan immense army, in which the lust of plunder has quenched all theduties of the citizen, other than a horde of robbers, or differencedonly as fiends from ordinarily reprobate men? Caesar supported, andwas supported by, such as these;—and even so Buonaparte in our days. ”On this interpretation Brutus’ charge would come to nothing more thanthis, that Caesar had employed large armies. I believe there is amore definite reference to one passage or possibly two in the _MarcusAntonius_. “(_a_) Caesar’s friends that governed under him, were cause why they hated Caesar’s government . . . by reason of the great insolencies and outragious parts that were committed: amongst whom Antonius, that was of greatest power, and that also committed greatest faultes, deserved most blame. But Caesar, notwithstanding, when he returned from the warres of Spayne, made no reckoning of the complaints that were put up against him: but contrarily, bicause he found him a hardy man, and a valliant Captaine, he employed him in his chiefest affayres. “(_b_) Now it greved men much, to see that Caesar should be out of Italy following of his enemies, to end this great warre, with such great perill and daunger: and that others in the meane time abusing his name and authoritie, should commit such insolent and outragious parts unto their citizens. This me thinkes was the cause that made the conspiracie against Caesar increase more and more, and layed the reynes of the brydle uppon the souldiers neckes, whereby they durst boldlier commit many extorsions, cruelties, and robberies. ”Plutarch is speaking of Antony in particular, but surely this is thesort of thing that was in Shakespeare’s mind. The other is the exclamation with which he “pieces out” the anonymousletter that Cassius had left unfinished: Shall Rome stand under one man’s awe? What, Rome? (II. i. 52. )This certainly has somewhat of the republican ring. It breathes thesame spirit as Cassius’ own avowal: I had as lief not be, as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself; (I. ii. 95. )except that Cassius feels Caesar’s predominance to be a personalaffront, while Brutus characteristically extends his view to the wholecommunity. But here Brutus is speaking under the excitement of Cassius’“instigation,” and making himself Cassius’ mouthpiece to fill in theblanks. Assuredly the declaration is not on that account the lesspersonal to himself; nevertheless in it Brutus, no longer attempting tosquare his action with his theory, falls back on the blind impulses ofblood that he shares with the other aristocrats of Rome. And in this,the most republican and the only republican sentiment that falls fromhis lips, which for the rest is so little republican that it mightbe echoed by the loyal subject of a limited monarchy, it is only thenegative aspect of the matter and the public _amour propre_ that areconsidered. Of the positive essence of republicanism, of enthusiasm fora state in which all the lawful authority is derived from the wholebody of fully qualified citizens, there is, despite Brutus’ talk offreemen and slaves and Caesar’s ambition, no trace whatever in any ofhis utterances from first to last. It has been said that Plutarch’sBrutus could live nowhere but in a self-governing commonwealth;Shakespeare’s Brutus would be quite at home under a constitutional kingand need not have found life intolerable even in Tudor England. Thisindeed is an exaggeration. True, in his soliloquy he bases his wholecase on the deterioration of Caesar’s nature that kingship might bringabout; and if it were proved, as it easily could be from instances likethat of Numa, which Shakespeare and therefore Shakespeare’s Brutusknew, that no such result need follow, his entire sorites would seemto snap. But though the form of his reflection is hypothetical andthe hypothesis will not hold, the substance is categorical enough. Brutus has such inbred detestation of the royal power that practicallyhe assumes it must beyond question be mischievous in its moraleffects. This, however, is no reasoned conviction, though it is thestarting point for what he means to be a dispassionate argument, buta dogma of traditional passion. And even were it granted it would notmake Brutus a true representative of classic republicanism. Shakespearehas so little comprehension of the antique point of view that to him athoughtful and public-spirited citizen can find a rational apology forviolent measures only by looking at Caesar’s future and not at all bylooking at Caesar’s past. This Elizabethan Brutus sees nothing to blamein Caesar’s previous career. He has not known “when his affections(_i. e. _ passions) sway’d more than his reason,” and implies that he hasnot hitherto disjoined “remorse (_i. e. _ scrupulousness) from power. ”Yet as Coleridge pertinently asks, was there nothing “in Caesar’s pastconduct as a man” to call for Brutus’ censure? “Had he not passedthe Rubicon,” and the like? But such incidents receive no attention. Perhaps Shakespeare thought no more of Caesar’s crossing the Rubiconto suppress Pompey and put an end to the disorders of Rome, than ofRichmond’s crossing the Channel to suppress Richard III. , and put endto the Wars of the Roses. At any rate he makes no mention of these andsimilar grounds of offence, though all or most of them were set down inhis authority. [161][161] Coleridge’s exact words, in continuation of the passage alreadydiscussed may be quoted. “How too could Brutus say that he found nopersonal cause, none in Caesar’s past conduct as a man? Had he notpassed the Rubicon? Had he not entered Rome as a conqueror? Had he notplaced his Gauls in the Senate? —Shakespeare, it may be said, has notbrought these things forward. —True;—and this is just the cause of myperplexity. What character did Shakespeare mean his Brutus to be? ”The verbal answer to this is of course that _personal cause_ refersnot to Caesar but to Brutus, and means that Brutus has no privategrievance; but the substance of Coleridge’s objection remainsunaffected, for Brutus proceeds to take Caesar’s character up to thepresent time under his protection. It may be noted, however, that Plutarch says nothing about the Gauls. If Shakespeare had known of it, it would probably have seemed to himno worse than the presence of the Bretons, “those overweening rags ofFrance,” as Richard III. calls them, in the army of the patriotic andvirtuous Richmond. Shakespeare’s position may be thus described. He read in Plutarch thatBrutus, the virtuous Roman, killed Caesar, the master-spirit of his ownand perhaps of any age, from a disinterested sense of duty. That waseasy to understand, for Shakespeare would know, and if he did not knowit from his own experience his well-conned translation of Montaignewould teach him, that the best of men are determined in their feelingof right by the preconceptions of race, class, education and the like. But he also read that Brutus was a philosophic student who would notaccept or obey the current code without scrutinising it and fitting itinto his theory. Of the political theory, however, which such an onewould have, Shakespeare had no knowledge or appreciation. So wheneverBrutus tries to harmonise his purpose with his idealist doctrine, hehas to be furnished with new reasons instead of the old and obviousones. And these are neither very clear nor very antique. They make oneinclined to quote concerning him the words of Caesar spoken to Ciceroin regard to the historical Brutus: I knowe not what this young man woulde, but what he woulde he willeth it vehemently. (_Marcus Brutus. _)For what is it that he would? The one argument with which he can excuseto his own heart the projected murder, is that the aspirant to royalpower, though hitherto irreproachable, may or must become corrupted andmisuse his high position. This is as different from the attitude of theancient Roman as it well could be. It would never have occurred to thegenuine republican of olden time that any justification was needed fordespatching a man who sought to usurp the sovereign place; and if ithad, this is certainly the last justification that would have enteredhis head. But the introspection, the self-examination, the craving for an inwardmoral sanction that will satisfy the conscience, and the choice of theparticular sanction that does so, are as typical of the modern as theyare alien to the classical mind. It is clear that an addition of thiskind is not merely mechanical or superficial. It affects the elementsalready given, and produces, as it were, a new chemical combination. And this particular instance shows how Shakespeare transforms thewhole story. He reanimates Brutus by infusing into his veins a strainof present feeling that in some ways transmutes his character; and,transmuting the character in which the chief interest centres, hecannot leave the other _data_ as they were. He can resuscitate the pastin its persons, its conflicts, its palpitating vitality just becausehe endows it with his own life. It was an ancient belief that theshades of the departed were inarticulate or dumb till they had lappeda libation of warm blood; then they would speak forth their secrets. In like manner it is the life-blood of Shakespeare’s own passion andthought that throbs in the pulses of these unsubstantial dead and givesthem human utterance once more. This, however, has two aspects. It isthe dead who speak; but they speak through the life that Shakespearehas lent them. The past is resuscitated; but it is a resuscitation,not the literal existence it had before. Nor in any other way can thephantoms of history win bodily shape and perceptible motion for theworld of breathing men. This may be illustrated by comparing Shakespeare’s _Julius Caesar_with the _Julius Caesar_ of Sir William Alexander, afterwards Earlof Stirling, which seems to have been written a few years laterthan its more illustrious namesake. Alexander was an able man and aconsiderable poet, from whom Shakespeare himself did not disdain toborrow hints for Prospero’s famous reflections on the transitorinessof things. He used virtually the same sources as Shakespeare, likehim making Plutarch his chief authority, and to supplement Plutarch,betaking himself, as Shakespeare may also have done, to the traditionset in France by Muretus, Grévin, and Garnier. So they build on muchthe same sites and with much the same timber. But their methods areas different as can well be imagined. Alexander is by far the morescrupulous in his reproduction of the old-world record. He adopts theSenecan type of tragedy, exaggerating its indifference to movement andfondness for lengthy harangues; and this enables him to preserve muchof the narrative in its original form without thorough reduction to thecategory of action. This also in large measure exempts him from theneed of reorganising his material: practically a single situation isgiven, and whatever else of the story is required, has to be conveyedin the words of the persons, who can repeat things just as they havebeen reported. And proceeding in this way Alexander can include as muchas he pleases of Plutarch’s abundance, a privilege of which he availshimself to the utmost. Few are the details that he must absolutelyreject, for they can always be put in somebody’s mouth; he is slow totamper with Plutarch’s location of them; and he never connects themmore closely than Plutarch has authorised. He does not extract fromhis document inferences that have not already been drawn, nor falsifyit with picturesque touches that have not been already supplied, andhe would not dream of contradicting it in small things or great. EvenBrutus’ republicanism is sacred to the author of this “MonarchicTragedy,” though he was to be Secretary of State to Charles I. andnoted for his advocacy of Divine Right. He has a convenient theory tojustify Brutus as much as is necessary from his point of view. He makeshim explain: If Caesar had been born or chused our prince Then those, who durst attempt to take his life, The world of treason justly might convince. Let still the states, which flourish for the time, By subjects be inviolable thought: And those (no doubt) commit a monstrous crime, Who lawfull soveraignty prophane in ought: And we must think (though now thus brought to bow) The senate, king; a subject Caesar is: The soveraignty whom violating now The world must damne, as having done amisse. Brutus’ motives, which Shakespeare sophisticates, can thus be lefthim. But does this bit of reasoning, which reads like a passage fromthe _Leviathan_, and explains why King James called Alexander “Myphilosophical poet,” really come nearer the historic truth than theheart-searching of Shakespeare’s Brutus? And does Alexander, takingBrutus’ convictions at second hand and manufacturing an apology forthem, do much more to revive the real Brutus, than Shakespeare, whosefervid imagination drives him to realise Brutus’ inmost heart, and whojust for that reason seeks into him For that which is not in him? Here and generally Alexander gives the exacter, if not the morefaithful transcript, but the main truth, the truth of life, escapeshim; and therefore, too, despite all his painstaking fidelity, he isapt to miss even the vital touches that Plutarch gives. We have seenwith what reverent accuracy Shakespeare reproduces the conversationbetween Brutus and Portia. In a certain way Alexander is more accuratestill. Portia pleads: I was not (Brutus) match’d with thee to be A partner onely of thy boord and bed; Each servile whore in those might equall me, Who but for pleasure or for wealth did wed. No, Portia spoused thee minding to remaine Thy fortunes partner, whether good or ill: . . . If thus thou seek thy sorrows to conceale Through a distrust, or a mistrust of me, Then to the world what way can I reveale, How great a matter I would do for thee? And though our sexe too talkative be deem’d, As those whose tongues import our greatest pow’rs, For secrets still bad treasurers esteem’d, Of others greedy, prodigall of ours: “Good education may reforme defects,” And this may leade me to a vertuous life, (Whil’st such rare patterns generous worth respects) I Cato’s daughter am, and Brutus wife. Yet would I not repose my trust in ought, Still thinking that thy crosse was great to beare, Till I my courage to a tryall brought, Which suffering for thy cause can nothing feare: For first to try how that I could comport With sterne afflictions sprit-enfeebling blows, Ere I would seek to vex thee in this sort, (To whom my soule a dutious reverence owes); Loe, here a wound which makes me not to smart, No, I rejoyce that thus my strength is knowne; Since thy distresse strikes deeper in my heart, Thy griefe (lifes joy! ) makes me neglect mine owne. And Brutus answers: Thou must (deare love! ) that which thou sought’st, receive; Thy heart so high a saile in stormes still beares, That thy great courage does deserve to have Our enterprise entrusted to thine eares. Here, with the rhetorical amplification which was the chief and almostsole liberty that Alexander allowed himself, Plutarch’s train ofthought is more closely followed than by Shakespeare himself. KingJames’s “philosophical poet” does not even suppress the tribute toeducation, but rather calls attention to the edifying “sentence” bythe expedient less common west of the Channel than among his Frenchmasters, of placing it within inverted commas. But, besides loweringthe temperature of the whole, he characteristically omits the mostimportant passage, at least in so far as Brutus is concerned, hisprayer that “he might be founde a husband, worthie of so noble a wifeas Porcia. ”Suppose that a conscientious draughtsman and a painter of genius weremoved to reproduce the impression that a group of antique statuary hadmade on them, using the level surface which alone is at their disposal. The one might choose his station, and set down with all possibleprecision in his black and white as much as was given him to see. Theother taking into account the different conditions of the pictorial andthe plastic art, might visualise what seemed to him the inmost meaningto his own mind in his own way, and represent it, the same yet not thesame, in all the glory of colour. The former would deliver a versionmore useful to the historian of sculpture were the original to be lost,but one in which we should miss many beauties of detail, and fromwhich the indwelling spirit would have fled. The latter would not givemuch help to an antiquarian knowledge of the archetype, but he mighttransmit its inspiration, and rouse kindred feelings in an even greaterdegree just because they were mingled with others that came from hisown heart. The analogy is, of course, an imperfect one, for the problem ofrendering the solid on the flat is not on all fours with the problemof converting Plutarch’s _Lives_ to modern plays. But it applies tothis extent, that in both cases the task is to interpret a subject,that has received one kind of treatment, by a treatment that is quitedissimilar. And the difference between William Alexander and WilliamShakespeare is very much the difference between the conscientiousdraughtsman and the inspired artist. CHAPTER IIITHE TITULAR HERO OF THE PLAYThe modification of Brutus’ character typifies and involves themodification of the whole story, because the tragic interest isfocussed in his career. This must be remembered, if we would avoidmisconception. It has sometimes been said that the play suffers fromlack of unity, that the titular hero is disposed of when it is halfthrough, and that thereafter attention is diverted to the murderer. But this criticism is beside the point. Really, from beginning toend, Brutus is the prominent figure, and if the prominent figureshould supply the name, then, as Voltaire pointed out, the dramaought properly to be called _Marcus Brutus_. If we look at it in thisway, there is no lack of unity, though possibly there is a misnomer. Throughout the piece it is the personality of Brutus that attracts ourchief sympathy and concern. If he is dismissed to a subordinate place,the result is as absurd as it would be were Hamlet thus treated in thecompanion tragedy; while, his position, once recognised, everythingbecomes coherent and clear. But when this is the case, why should Shakespeare not say so? Why,above all, should he use a false designation to mix the trail? It has been answered that he was wholly indifferent to labels andnomenclature, that he gives his plays somewhat irrelevant titles, suchas _Twelfth Night_, or lets people christen them at their fancy, _WhatYou Will_, or _As You Like It_. Just in the same way, as a shrewdtheatrical manager with his eye on the audience, he may have turned toaccount the prevalent curiosity about Caesar, without inquiring toocuriously whether placard and performance tallied in every respect. And doubtless such considerations were not unknown to him. Shakespeare,as is shown by the topical allusions in which his works abound, byno means disdained the maxim that the playwright must appeal to thecurrent interests of his public, even to those that are adventitiousand superficial. At the same time, it is only his comedies, in whichhis whole method is less severe, that have insignificant or arbitrarytitles. There is no instance of a tragedy being misnamed. On thecontrary, the chief person or persons are always indicated, and in thisway Shakespeare has protested in advance against the mistake of viewing_King Lear_ as a whole with reference to Cordelia, or _Macbeth_ as awhole with reference to Lady Macbeth. But in the second place, _Julius Caesar_, both in its chronologicalposition and in its essential character, comes as near to theHistories as to the Tragedies; and the Histories are all named afterthe sovereign in whose reign most of the events occurred. He may nothave the chief role, which, for example, belongs in _King John_ tothe Bastard, and in _Henry IV. _ to Prince Hal. He may even drop outin the course of the story, which, for example, in the latter play iscontinued for an entire act after the King’s death: but he serves,as it were, for a landmark, to date and localise the action. It isnot improbable that this was the light in which Shakespeare regardedCaesar. In those days people did not make fine distinctions. He wasgenerally viewed as first in the regular succession of Emperors, and inso far could be considered to have held the same sort of position inRome, as any of those who had sat on the throne of England. But this is not all. Though it is manifest that Brutus is the principalcharacter, the _protagonist_, the chief representative of the action,the central figure among the living agents, the interest of his careerlies in its mistaken and futile opposition to Julius, to the idea ofCaesarism, to what again and again, in the course of the play, iscalled “the spirit of Caesar. ” The expression is often repeated. Brutusdeclares the purpose of the conspirators: We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar; And in the spirit of men there is no blood: O, that we then could come by Caesar’s spirit, And not dismember Caesar. (II. i. 167. )Antony, above the corpse, sees in prophetic anticipation, Caesar’s spirit ranging for revenge. (III. i. 273. )The ghost of Caesar proclaims what he is, Thy evil spirit, Brutus. (IV. iii. 282. )And at the close Brutus apostrophises his dead victim: Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swords In our own proper entrails. (_V. _ iii. 95. )It is really Caesar’s presence, his genius, his conception thatdominates the story. Brutus is first among the struggling mortalswho obey even while resisting their fate, but the fate itself is theimperialist inspiration which makes up the significance of Caesar, andthe play therefore is fitly named after him. [162][162] See Professor Dowden, _Shakespeare’s Mind and Art_. This is brought home to us in a variety of ways. In the first place, Shakespeare makes it abundantly clear that therule of the single master-mind is the only admissible solution for theproblem of the time. Caesar, with his transcendent gifts, was chosen by Providence topreserve the Roman State from shipwreck, and steer it on its triumphantcourse; and even if the helmsman perished, the course was set. Shakespeare was guided to this view by Plutarch. The celebrant of thelife of ancient Greece was indeed very far from idealising the man whoconsolidated the supremacy of Rome. He records impartially and withappreciation, some of his noble traits, and without extenuation manythat were not admirable. But he “honours his memory” very much “on thisside idolatry,” reserves his chief enthusiasm for Brutus, and neverseems to take a full view of Caesar’s unique greatness in the mass. None the less, he is now and again forced to admit that he was the man,and his were the methods that the emergency required. Thus talking ofthe bribery and violence that then prevailed in Rome he remarks: Men of deepe judgement and discression seeing such furie and madnes of the people, thought them selves happy if the common wealth were no worse troubled, then with the absolut state of a Monarchy and soveraine Lord to governe them. Furthermore, there were many that were not affraid to speake it openly, that there was no other help to remedy the troubles of the common wealth, but by the authority of one man only that should commaund them all. [163]Again, commenting on the accident by which Brutus did not learn of thevictory that might have averted his final defeat, he has the weightyreflection; Howbeit the state of Rome (in my opinion) being now brought to that passe, that it could no more abide to be governed by many Lordes, but required one only absolute Governor: God, to prevent Brutus that it shoulde not come to his government, kept this victorie from his knowledge. [164][163] _Julius Caesar. _[164] _Marcus Brutus. _And in one of those comparisons that Montaigne loved, he is moreemphatic still: Howbeit Caesars power and government when it came to be established, did in deede much hurte at his first entrie and beginning unto those that did resist him: but afterwardes unto them that being overcome had received his government, it seemed he had rather the name and opinion[165] onely of a tyranne, then otherwise that he was so in deed. For there never followed any tyrannicall nor cruell act, but contrarilie, it seemed that he was a mercifull Phisition, whom God had ordeyned of speciall grace to be Governor of the Empire of Rome, and to set all thinges againe at quiet stay, the which required the counsell and authoritie of an absolute Prince. . . . But the fame of Julius Caesar did set up his friends againe after his death, and was of such force, that it raised a young stripling, Octavius Caesar, (that had no meanes nor power of him selfe) to be one of the greatest men of Rome. [166][165] Reputation. [166] _The comparison of Dion with Brutus. _On these isolated hints Shakespeare seizes. He amplifies them and worksthem out in his conception of the situation. The vast territory that is subject to Rome, of which we have glimpsesas it stretches north and west to Gaul and Spain, of which we visit theMacedonian and Asiatic provinces in the east and south, has need ofwise and steady government. But is that to be got from the Romans? Theplebeians are represented as fickle and violent, greedy and irrational,the dupes of dead tradition, parasites in the living present. They haveshouted for Pompey, they strew flowers for Caesar: they can be tickledwith talk of their ancient liberties, they can be cajoled by the tricksof shifty rhetoric: they cheer when their favourite refuses the crown,they wish to crown his “better parts” in his murderer: they will nothear a word against Brutus, they rush off to fire his house: they teara man to pieces on account of his name, and hold Caesar beyond parallelon account of his bequest. Nor are things better with the aristocrats. Cassius, the movingspirit of the opposition, is, at his noblest, actuated by jealousyof greatness. And he is not always at his noblest. He confesses thathad he been in Caesar’s good graces, he would have been on Caesar’sside. This strain of servility is more apparent in the flatteries andofficiousness of Decius and Casca. And what is its motive? Cassiusseeks to win Antony by promising him an equal voice in disposing of thedignities: and he presently uses his position for extortion and thepatronage of corruption. Envy, ambition, cupidity are the governingprinciples of the governing classes: and their enthusiasm for freedommeans nothing more than an enthusiasm for prestige and influence,for the privilege of parcelling out the authority and dividing thespoils. What case have these against the Man of Destiny, whose geniushas given compass, peace, and security to the Roman world? But theirplea of liberty misleads the unpractical student, the worshipper ofdreams, memories, and ideals, behind whose virtue they shelter theirselfish aims, and whose countenance alone can make their conspiracyrespectable. With his help they achieve a momentary triumph. But ofcourse it leads not to a renovation of the republic, but to domesticconfusion and to a multiplication of oppressors. So far as the populaceis concerned, the removal of the master means submission to theunprincipled orator, who, with his fellow triumvirs, cheats it of itsinheritance and sets about a wholesale proscription. So far as theEmpire is concerned, the civil war is renewed, and the provincials arepillaged by the champions of freedom. Brutus sees too late that itis vain to strive against the “spirit of Caesar,” which is bound toprevail, and which, though it may be impeded, cannot be defeated. He isruined with the cause he espoused, and confesses fairly vanquished: O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet. [167] (V. iii. 94. )[167] All this is so obvious that it can hardly be overlooked, yetoverlooked it has been, though it has frequently been pointed out. Inhis not very sympathetic discussion of this play, Dr. Brandes makes thetruly astounding statement: “As Shakespeare conceives the situation,the Republic which Caesar overthrew, might have continued to exist butfor him, and it was a criminal act on his part to destroy it. . . . ‘Ifwe try to conceive to ourselves’ wrote Mommsen in 1857, ’a London withthe slave population of New Orleans, with the police of Constantinople,with the non-industrial character of modern Rome, and agitated bypolitics after the fashion of the Paris of 1848, we shall acquire anapproximate idea of the republican glory, the departure of which Ciceroand his associates in their sulky letters deplore. ’ Compare with thispicture Shakespeare’s conception of an ambitious Caesar striving tointroduce monarchy into a well-ordered republican state” (Brandes,_William Shakespeare_). Of course Shakespeare had not read Mommsenor any of Mommsen’s documents, save Plutarch; and if he had, neitherhe nor any one else of his age, was capable of Mommsen’s criticaland constructive research. But considering the _data_ that Plutarchdelivered him he shows marvellous power in getting to the gist of thematter. I think we rise with a clearer idea, after reading him thanafter reading Plutarch, of the hopelessness and vanity of opposing thechanges that Caesar represented, of the effeteness of the republicansystem (“Let him be Caesar! ” cries the citizen in his strangerecognition of Brutus’ achievement), of the chaos that imperialismalone could reduce to rule. If Shakespeare’s picture of Rome is thatof “a well-ordered republican state,” one wonders what the picture ofa republic in decay would be. And where does Dr. Brandes find thatShakespeare viewed Caesar’s enterprise as a criminal act? Again, though it may seem paradoxical to say so, the all-compellingpower of Caesar’s ideal is indicated in the presentation of his owncharacter. This at first sight is something of a riddle and a surprise. Shakespeare, as is shown by his many tributes elsewhere, had ampleperception and appreciation of Caesar’s greatness. Yet in the playcalled after him it almost seems as though he had a sharper eye for anyof the weaknesses and foibles that Plutarch records of him, and evenwent about to exaggerate them and add to them. Thus great stress is laid on his physical disabilities. When the crownis offered him, he swoons, as Casca narrates, for, as Brutus remarks,he is subject to the falling sickness. There is authority for thesestatements. But Cassius describes how his strength failed him in theTiber and how he shook with fever in Spain, and both these touches areadded by Shakespeare. Nor is it the malcontents alone who signalisesuch defects. Caesar himself admits that he is deaf, though of hisdeafness history knows nothing. And not only does Shakespeare accentuate these bodily infirmities; heintroduces them in such a way and in such a connection that they conveyan ironical suggestion and almost make the Emperor ridiculous. At thegreat moment when he is putting by the coronet tendered him by Antonythat he may take with the more security and dignity the crown whichthe Senate will vote him, precisely then he falls down in a fit. Thisindeed is quasi-historical, but the other and more striking instancesare forged in Shakespeare’s smithy. It is just after his overweeningchallenge to the swimming-match that he must cry for aid: “Help me,Cassius, or I sink” (I. ii. 3). In his fever, as Cassius maliciouslynotes, That tongue of his that bade the Romans Mark him and write his speeches in their books, Alas, it cried ‘Give me some drink, Titinius,’ As a sick girl. (I. ii. 125. )A pretty saying to chronicle. He says superbly to Mark Antony, “AlwaysI am Caesar”; and in the very next line follows the anticlimax: Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf. (I. ii. 213. )But if his physical defects, which after all have little to do with thereal greatness of the man save in the eyes of spiteful detractors, arethus brought into satirical relief, much more is this the case with hismental and moral failings, which of course concern the heart of hischaracter. Already on his first appearance, we see this lord of the world thecredulous believer in magic rites. At the Lupercal he enjoins Calpurniato “stand directly in Antonius’ way” and Antony to touch her inhis “holy chase” (I. ii. 3 and 8), and he impresses on Antony theobservance of all the ritual: “Leave no ceremony out” (I. ii. 11). Itwas not ever thus. The time has been when he held these things at theirtrue value, and it is only recently, as watchful eyes take note, thathis attitude has changed. He is superstitious grown of late, Quite from the main opinion he held once Of fantasy, of dreams and ceremonies. (II. i. 195. )And this is no mere invention of the enemy. He does have recourse tosacrifice, he does inquire of the priests “their opinions of success”(II. ii. 5); though afterwards, on the news of the portent, he tries toput his own interpretation on it: The gods do this in shame of cowardice: Caesar should be a beast without a heart, If he should stay at home to-day for fear. (II. ii. 41. )He is really impressed by his wife’s cries in her sleep, as appearsfrom his words to himself, when he has not to keep up appearancesbefore others, but enters, perturbed, in his nightgown, and seems urgedby his anxiety to consult the oracles. He affects to dismiss the signsand omens: These predictions Are to the world in general as to Caesar; (II. ii. 28. )But it is clear that he attaches importance to them, for, when Deciusgives Calpurnia’s dream an auspicious interpretation, he accepts it,and once again changing his mind, presently resolves to set out: How foolish do your fears seem now, Calpurnia! I am ashamed I did yield to them. Give me my robe, for I will go. (II. ii. 105. )Thus we see a touch of self-deception as well as of superstition inCaesar, and this self-deception reappears in other more importantmatters. He affects an absolute fearlessness: Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear. (II. ii. 33. )His courage, of course, is beyond question; but is there not a hint ofthe theatrical in this overstrained amazement, in this statement thatfear is the most unaccountable thing in all his experience? One recallsthe story of the young soldier who said that he knew not what it was tobe afraid, and received his commander’s answer: “Then you have neversnuffed a candle with your fingers. ” That was the reproof of bravadoby bravery in the mouth of a man so fearless that he could affordto acknowledge his acquaintance with fear. And surely Caesar couldhave afforded to do so too. We see and know that he is the bravest ofthe brave, but if anything could make us suspicious, it would be hisconstant harping on his flawless valour. So, too, he says of Cassius: I fear him not: Yet if my name were liable to fear, I do not know the man I should avoid So soon as that spare Cassius . . . I rather tell thee what is to be fear’d Than what I fear; for always I am Caesar. (I. ii. 198, 211. )Why should he labour the point? If he has not fears, he has at leastmisgivings in regard to Cassius, that come very much to the same thing. His anxiety is obvious, as he calls Antony to his side to catechise himon his opinions of the danger. In the same way he prides himself on his inaccessibility to adulationand blandishments. These couchings and these lowly courtesies Might fire the blood of ordinary men, And turn pre-ordinance and first decree Into the law of children. Be not fond To think that Caesar bears such rebel blood, That will be thaw’d from the true quality With that which melteth fools; I mean, sweet words, Low crooked court’sies and base spaniel fawning. (III. i. 36. )We may believe that he does indeed stand secure against the grosserkinds of parasites and their more obvious devices; but that does notmean that he cannot be hood-winked by meaner men who know how to playon his self-love. Decius says: I can o’ersway him: for he loves to hear That unicorns may be betray’d with trees, And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, Lions with toils, and men with flatterers; But when I tell him he hates flatterers, He says he does, being then most flattered. Let me work. (II. i. 203. )And Decius makes his words good. In like manner he fancies that he possesses an insight that readsmen’s souls at a glance. When he hears the cry: “Beware the Ides ofMarch,” he gives the command, “Set him before me; let me see hisface. ” A moment’s inspection is enough: “He is a dreamer: let us leavehim: pass” (I. ii. 24). Yet he fails to read the treachery of theconspirators, though they are daily about him, consults with Deciuswhom he “loves,” and bids Trebonius be near him. And then he elects to pose as no less immovable in resolution thaninfallible in judgment. When we have been witnesses of all hisvacillation and shilly-shally about attending the senate meeting—now hewould, now he would not, and again he would—it is hard to suppress thejeer at the high-sounding words: I could be well moved, if I were as you: If I could pray to move, prayers would move me: But I am constant as the northern star, Of whose true-fix’d and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament. The skies are painted with unnumber’d sparks, They are all fire, and every one doth shine, But there’s but one in all doth hold his place: So in the world: ’tis furnish’d well with men, And men are flesh and blood, and apprehensive; Yet in the number I do know but one That unassailable holds on his rank, Unshaked of motion: and that I am he, Let me a little show it, even in this. (III. i. 58. )Now, all these things are wholly or mainly the fabrications ofShakespeare. In Plutarch Caesar does not direct Calpurnia to putherself in Antony’s way, nor is there any indication that he attachedimportance to the rite. It is in the wife and not in the husband thatPlutarch notes an unexpected strain of credulity, remarking withreference to her dream: “Capurnia untill that time was never gevento any feare or supersticion. ”[168] Plutarch cites noble sayingsof Caesar’s in regard to fear, for instance that “it was better todye once, than alwayes to be affrayed of death:”[169] but he neverattributes to him any pretence of immunity from human frailty, andmakes him explicitly avow the feeling in the very passage where inShakespeare he disclaims it. “‘As for those fatte men, with smoothcomed heades,’ quoth he, ‘I never reckon of them: but these palevisaged and carian leane people, I feare them most. ’” The dismissal ofthe soothsayer after a contemptuous glance is unwarranted by Plutarch. There is no authority for his defencelessness among flatterers, orfor his illusion that he is superior to their arts. Yielding in quitea natural way and without any hesitation to the solicitations ofCalpurnia and the reports of the bad omens, Caesar in Plutarch resolvesto stay at home, but afterwards is induced to change his mind byDecius’ very plausible arguments. There is no hint of unsteadiness inhis conduct, as there described; nor in the final scene is there any ofthe ostentation but only the reality of firmness in his rejection ofMetellus Cimber’s petition. [168] _Julius Caesar. _[169] _Ibid. _Considering all this it is not difficult to understand the indignationof the critics who complain that Shakespeare has here given a libelrather than a portrait of Caesar, and has substituted impertinentcavil for sympathetic interpretation. And some of Shakespeare’sapologists have accepted this statement of the case, but have soughtto defend the supposed travesty on the ground that it is prescribedby the subject and the treatment. Thus Dr. Hudson suggests[170] that“the policy of the drama may have been to represent Caesar, not ashe was indeed, but as he must have appeared to the conspirators; tomake us see him as they saw him; in order that they might have fairand equal justice at our hands. ” With a slight variation this is alsothe opinion of Gervinus:[171] “The poet, if he intended to make theattempt of the conspirators his main theme, could not have ventured tocreate too great an interest in Caesar: it was necessary to keep himin the background, and to present that view of him which gave reasonfor the conspiracy. ” And alleging, what would be hard to prove, thatin Plutarch, Caesar’s character “altered much for the worse, shortlybefore his death,” he continues, in reference to his arrogance: “It isintended with few words to show him at that point when his behaviourwould excite those free spirits against him. ” But this explanation willhardly bear scrutiny. In the first place: if Shakespeare’s object hadbeen to provide a relative justification for the assassins, he couldhave done so much more naturally and effectively by adhering to the_data_ of the _Life_. Among them he could have found graver causes ofresentment against Caesar than any of those he invents, which at theworst are peccadillos and affectations rather than real delinquencies. And Plutarch does not slur them over: on the contrary the shadows inhis picture are strongly marked, and he lays a long list of offencesto Caesar’s score; culminating in what he calls the “shamefullestpart” that he played, to wit, his support of Clodius. Here was matterenough for the dramatic _Advocatus Diaboli_. It would have been aseasy to weave some of these damaging stories into the reminiscencesof Cassius, as to concoct harmless fictions about Caesar’s havinga temperature and being thirsty, or his failing to swim a river inflood. All these bygone scandals, whether domestic or political, wouldhave immensely strengthened the conspirators’ case, especially with aprecisian like Brutus. But Shakespeare is silent concerning them, andBrutus, as we have seen, gives Caesar in regard to his antecedents aclean bill of health. Of course almost all Caesar’s previous historyis taken for granted and left to the imagination, but the dubiouspassages are far more persistently kept out of sight than such as tendto his glory. And that is the bewildering thing, if Shakespeare’sdelineation was meant to explain the attitude of the faction. It issurely an odd way of winning our good will for a man’s murderersto keep back notorious charges against him of cruelty, treason andunscrupulousness, to certify that he has never abused his powers or lethis passion overmaster his reason, and then to trump up stories that hegives himself airs and is deaf in one ear. It reminds one of Swift’sdescription of Arbuthnot: “Our doctor has every quality and virtue thatcan make a man amiable or useful; but, alas, he hath a sort of slouchin his walk. ” Swift, however, was not explaining how people might cometo think that Dr. Arbuthnot should be got rid of. [170] _Shakespeare, His Life, Art and Characters. _[171] _Shakespeare Commentaries. _Again his tendency to parade by no means alters the fact, that he doespossess in an extraordinary degree the intellectual and moral virtuesthat he would exaggerate in his own eyes and the eyes of others. Independence, resolution, courage, insight must have been his inamplest store or he would never have been able to Get the start of the majestic world And bear the palm alone; (I. ii. 130. )and there is evidence of them in the play. He is not moved by thedeferential prayers of the senators: he does persist in the banishmentof Publius Cimber; he has in very truth read the heart and taken themeasure of Cassius: Such men as he be never at heart’s ease, Whiles they behold a greater than themselves; (I. ii. 208. )he neither shrinks nor complains when the fatal moment comes. Theimpression he makes on the unsophisticated mind, on average audiencesand the elder school of critics, is undoubtedly an heroic one. It isonly minute analysis that discovers his defects, and though the defectsare certainly present and should be noted, they are far from sufficingto make the general effect absurd or contemptible. If they do so, wegive them undue importance. It was not so that Shakespeare meant themto be taken. For he has invented for his Caesar not only these trivialblemishes, but several conspicuous exhibitions of nobility, whichPlutarch nowhere suggests; and this should give pause to such as findin Shakespeare’s portrait merely a wilful or wanton caricature. Thus inregard to the interposition of Artemidorus, Shakespeare read in North: He marking howe Caesar received all the supplications that were offered him, and that he gave them straight to his men that were about him, pressed neerer to him and sayed: “Caesar, reade this memoriall to your selfe, and that quickely, for they be matters of great waight and touch you neerely. ” Caesar tooke it of him, _but coulde never reade it, though he many times attempted it_, for the multitude of people that did salute him: but holding it still in his hande, keeping it to him selfe, went on withall into the Senate house. [172][172] _Julius Caesar. _Compare this with the scene in the play: _Artemidorus. _ Hail, Caesar! read this schedule. _Decius.

_ Trebonius doth desire you to o’er-read, At your best leisure, this his humble suit. _Artemidorus. _ O Caesar, read mine first, for mine’s a suit That touches Caesar nearer: read it, great Caesar. _Caesar. _ What touches us ourself shall be last served. (III. i. 3. )Can one say that Shakespeare has defrauded Caesar of his magnanimity? Or again observe, in the imaginary conclusion to the unrecordedremonstrances of Calpurnia, how loftily he refuses to avail himselfof the little white untruths that after all pass current as quiteexcusable in society. They are beneath his dignity. He turns to Decius: _Caesar. _ You are come in very happy time, To bear my greeting to the senators And tell them that I will not come to-day; Cannot, is false, and that I dare not falser: I will not come to-day: tell them so, Decius. _Calpurnia. _ Say he is sick. _Caesar. _ Shall Caesar send a lie? Have I in conquest stretch’d mine arm so far, To be afeard to tell graybeards the truth? Decius, go tell them Caesar will not come . . . The cause is in my will: I will not come. (II. ii. 60. )But this last instance is not merely an example of Shakespeare’s homageto Caesar’s grandeur and his eagerness to enhance it with accessoriesof his own contrivance. It gives us a clue to the secret of hisadditions both favourable and the reverse, and points the way to hisconception of the man. For observe that this refusal of Caesar’s tomake use of a falsehood is an afterthought. A minute before he has,also in words that Shakespeare puts in his mouth, fully consented tothe proposal that he should feign illness. He pacifies Calpurnia: Mark Antony shall say I am not well; And, for thy humour, I will stay at home. (II. ii. 55. )This compliance he makes to his wife, but in presence of Decius Brutushe recovers himself and adopts the stricter standard. What does thisimply? Does it not mean that in a certain sense he is playing a partand aping the Immortal to be seen of men? Let us consider the situation. Caesar, a man with the human frailties,mental and physical, which are incident to men, is nevertheless endowedby the Higher Powers with genius that has raised him far above hisfellows. By his genius he has conceived and grasped and done much torealise the sublime idea of the Roman Empire. By his genius he hasraised himself to the headship of that great Empire which his ownthought was creating. Private ambitions may have urged and doubtfulshifts may have helped his career. He himself feels that within hisdrapery of grand exploits there is something that will not bearscrutiny; and hence his mistrust of Cassius: He is a great observer and he looks Quite through the deeds of men. (I. ii. 201. )But these things are behind him and a luminous veil is drawn overthem, beyond which we discern him only as “the foremost man of allthis world,” “the noblest man that ever lived in the tide of times,”devoted to the cause of Rome, fighting and conquering for her; fillingher public treasuries, her general coffers, with gold; sympathisingwith her poor to whom it will be found only after his death that he hasleft his wealth. The only hints of unrighteous dealing on his part aregiven in Artemidorus’ statement to himself: “Thou hast wronged CaiusLigarius,” and in Brutus’ statement about him that he was slain “butfor supporting robbers. ” But it is never suggested that he himselfwas guilty of robbery: and the wrong to Ligarius, who was accused“for taking parte with Pompey,” and “thanked not Caesar so muche forhis discharge, as he was offended with him for that he was broughtin daunger by his tyrannicall power,”[173] hardly deserves the name,at least in the common acceptation. Besides Shakespeare has a largetolerance for the practical statesman when dowered with patriotism,insight, and resolution; and will not lightly condemn him becausehe must use sorry tools, and takes some soil from the world, and isnot unmoved by personal interests. Provided that his more selfishaims coincide with the good of the whole, and that he has veracityof intellect to understand, with steadiness of will to satisfy theneeds of the time, Shakespeare will vindicate for him his share ofprosperity, honour, and desert. And this seems to be, in glorifiedversion, his view of Caesar. The only serious charge he brings againsthim in the play, the only charge to which he recurs elsewhere, isthat he was ambitious. But ambition is not wholly of sin, and bringsforth good as well as evil fruit. Indeed when a man’s desire for thefirst place merges in the desire for the fullest opportunity, andthat again in the desire for the task he feels he can do best, it isdistinguishable from a virtue, if at all, only by the demand that heshall be the agent. So is it, to compare celebrities of local and ofuniversal history, with the ambitious strain in the character of HenryIV. ; it is not incompatible with sterling worth that commands solidsuccess; it spurs him to worthy deeds that redeem the offences itexacts; and these offences themselves in some sort “tend the profitof the state. ” No doubt with both men their ambition brings its ownNemesis, the ceaseless care of the one, the premature death of theother. But that need not prevent recognition of their high qualities,or their just claims, or their providential mandate. Such men areministers of the Divine Purposes, as Plutarch said in regard to Caesar;and in setting forth the essential meaning of his career, Shakespearecan scorn the base degrees by which he did ascend. Partly his lesscreditable doings were necessary if he was to mount at all; partlythey may have seemed venial to the subject of the Tudor monarchy; atworst, when compared with the splendour of his achievement, they werespots in the sun. In any case they were not worth consideration. Withthem Shakespeare is not concerned, but with the plenary inspiration ofCaesar’s life, the inspiration that made him an instrument of Heavenand that was to bring peace and order to the world. So he passes overthe years of effort and preparation, showing their glories but slightlyand their trespasses not at all. He confines himself to the time whenthe summit is reached and the dream is fulfilled. Then to his mindbegins the tragedy and the transfiguration. [173] Marcus Brutus. He represents Caesar, like every truly great man, as carried away byhis own conception and made a slave to it. What a thing was this ideaof Empire, this “spirit of Caesar,” of which he as one of earth’smortal millions was but the vehicle and the organ! He himself as ahuman person cannot withhold homage from himself as the incarnate_Imperium_. Observe how he speaks of himself habitually in thethird person. Not “I do this,” but “Caesar does this,” “Caesar doesthat,” alike when talking to the soothsayer, to his wife and to thesenate. [174] It is almost as though he anticipated its later use asa common noun equivalent to Emperor: for in all these passages hedescribes, as it were, what the Emperor’s action and attitude shouldbe. And that is the secret of the strange impression that he makes. It is a case, an exaggerated case, of _noblesse oblige_. The Caesar,the first of those Caesars who were to receive their apotheosis andbe hailed as _Divi Augusti_, must in literal truth answer Hobbes’description of the State, and be a mortal god. He must be fearless,omniscient, infallible, without changeableness or shadow of turning:does he not represent the empire? He has to live up to an impossiblestandard, and so he must affect to be what he is not. He is themartyr of the idea that has made his fortune. He must not listen tohis instincts or his misgivings; there is no room in the Caesar fortimidity or mistake or fickleness. But, alas! he is only a man, and asa man he constantly gives the lie to the majesty which the spirit ofCaesar enjoins. We feel all the more strongly, since we are forced tothe comparison, the contrast between the shortcomings of the individualand the splendour of the ideal role he undertakes. And not only that. In this assumption of the Divine, involving as it does a touch ofunreality and falsehood, he has lost his old surety of vision andefficiency in act. He tries to rise above himself, and pays the penaltyby falling below himself, and rushing on the ruin which a little vulgarshrewdness would have avoided. But his mistake is due to his verygreatness, and his greatness encompasses him to the last, when with nofutile and undignified struggle, he wraps his face in his mantle andaccepts the end. Antony does not exaggerate when he says: O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! Then I, and you, and all of us fell down; (III. ii. 194. )for it was the Empire that fell. But to rise again! For the idea ofCaesarism, rid of the defects and limitations of its originator,becomes only the more invincible, and the spirit of Caesar begins itsfree untrammelled course. [174] Of course the substitution of the third for the second or firstperson is very noticeable all through this play, and may have been dueto an idea on Shakespeare’s part that such a mode of utterance suitedthe classical and Roman majesty of the theme. But this rather confirmsthan refutes the argument of the text, for the usage is exceptionallyconspicuous in regard to Caesar, in whom the majesty of Rome is summedup. The greatness of his genius cannot be fully realised unless the storyis carried on to the final triumph at Philippi, instead of breakingoff immediately after his bodily death. It is in part Shakespeare’sperception of this and not merely his general superiority of power,that makes his Caesar so much more impressive than the Caesar ofcontemporary dramatists that seem to keep closer to their theme. Not only then is _Julius Caesar_ the right name for the play, in sofar as his imperialist idea dominates the whole, but a very subtleinterpretation of his character is given when, as this implies, heis viewed as the exponent of Imperialism. None the less Brutus isthe leading personage, if we grant precedence in accordance with theinterest aroused. CHAPTER IVTHE EXCELLENCES AND ILLUSIONS OF BRUTUSThus Shakespeare has his Act of Oblivion for all that might give anunfavourable impression of Caesar’s past, and presents him very much asthe incarnate principle of Empire, with the splendours but also withthe disabilities that must attend the individual man who feels himselfthe vehicle for such an inspiration. He somewhat similarly screens from view whatever in the career ofBrutus might prejudice his claims to affection and respect: andcarries much further a process of idealization that Plutarch hadalready begun. For to Plutarch Brutus is, so to speak, the modelrepublican, the paragon of private and civic virtue. The promise tothe soldiers before the second battle at Philippi of two cities tosack, calls forth the comment: “In all Brutus’ life there is but thisonly fault to be found”: and even this, as the marginal note remarks,is “wisely excused”; on the plea, namely, that after Cassius’ deaththe difficulties were very great and the best had to be made of a badstate of things. But no other misconduct is laid to his charge: hisextortionate usury and his abrupt divorce are passed over in silence. All his doings receive indulgent construction, and the narrative isoften pointed with a formal _éloge_. In the _Comparison_, whereof course such estimates are expected, attention is drawn to hisrectitude, “only referring his frendschippe and enmitie unto theconsideracion of justice and equitie”; to “the marvelous noble minde ofhim, that for fear never fainted nor let falle any part of his corage”;to his influence over his associates so that “by his choyce of them hemade them good men”; to the honour in which he was held by his “verieenemies. ” But already the keynote is struck in the opening page: This Marcus Brutus . . . whose life we presently wryte, having framed his manners of life by the rules of vertue and studie of philosophie, and having employed his wit, which was gentle and constant, in attempting of great things: me thinkes he was rightly made and framed unto vertue. And the story often deviates from its course into little backwaters ofcommendation, as when after some censure of Cassius, we are told: Brutus in contrary manner, for his vertue and valliantnes, was well-beloved of the people and his owne, esteemed of noble men, and hated of no man, not so much as of his enemies: bicause he was a marvelous lowly and gentle person, noble minded, and would never be in any rage, nor caried away with pleasure and covetousness, but had ever an upright mind with him, and would never yeeld to any wronge or injustice, the which was the chiefest cause of his fame, of his rising, and of the good will that every man bare him: for they were all perswaded that his intent was good. This conception Shakespeare adopts and purifies. He leaves out theshadow of that one fault that Plutarch wisely excused: he leaves outtoo the unpleasant circumstance, which Plutarch apparently thoughtneeded no excuse, that Brutus was applicant for and recipient ofoffices at the disposal of the all-powerful dictator. There mustbe nothing to mar the graciousness and dignity of the picture. Shakespeare wishes to portray a patriotic gentleman of the best Romanor the best English type, such “a gentleman or noble person” as itwas the aim of Spenser’s _Faerie Queene_ “to fashion in vertuous andgentle discipline,” such a gentleman or noble person as Shakespeare’sgeneration had seen in Spenser’s friend, Sir Philip Sidney. SoPlutarch’s summaries are expanded and filled in partly with touchesthat his narrative supplies, partly with others that the summariesthemselves suggest. To the latter class belongs the winning courtesy with which Brutus athis first appearance excuses himself to Cassius for his preoccupation. His inward trouble might well have stirred him to irritability andabruptness; but he only feels that it has made him remiss, and that anexplanation is due from him: Vexed I am Of late with passions of some difference, Conceptions only proper to myself, Which give 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 my neglect, Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men. (I. ii. 39. )So with his friends. Shakespeare invents the character of Lucius toshow how attentive and considerate Brutus is as master. He apologisesfor having blamed his servant without cause. Bear with me, good boy, I am much forgetful. (IV. iii. 255. )He notes compassionately that the lad is drowsy and overwatched (IV. iii. 241). At one time he dispenses with his services because he issleeping sound (II. i. 229). At another he asks a song from him not asa right but as a favour (IV. iii. 256). And immediately thereafter themaster waits, as it were, on the nodding slave, and removes his harplest it should be broken. But it is to his wife that he shows the full wealth of hisaffectionate nature. He would fain keep from her the anxieties thatare distracting his own mind: but when she claims to share them as theprivilege and pledge of wifehood, with his quick sympathy he sees it atonce: You are my true and honourable wife, As dear to me as are the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart. (II. i. 288. )And yielding to her claim as a right, he recognises that it is a claimthat comes from an ideally noble and loving soul, and prays to be madeworthy of her. What insight Shakespeare shows even in his omissions! This is the prayer of Plutarch’s Brutus too, but he lifts up his handsand beseeches the gods that he may “bring his enterprise to so goodepasse that he mighte be founde a husband worthie of so noble a wife asPorcia. ” Shakespeare’s Brutus does not view his worthiness as connectedwith any material success. And these words are also an evidence of his humble-mindedness. Howeveraggressive and overbearing he may appear in certain relations, wenever fail to see his essential modesty. If he interferes, as oftenenough he does, to bow others to his will, it is not because he isself-conceited, but because he is convinced that a particular courseis right; and where right is concerned, a man must come forward toenforce it. But for himself he has no idea of the high estimation inwhich his character and parts are held. When Cassius insinuates thateveryone thinks him the man for the emergency, if he would only realiseit, his reply is a disclaimer: he has never supposed, and shrinks fromimagining, that he is fit for such a role. Yet such is his personalitythat, as all of the faction feel, his help is absolutely necessary ifthe conspiracy is to have a chance of approval. Cinna exhorts Cassiusto win him to the party, Casca bears witness to his popular credit andto the value of his sanction in recommending the enterprise, Ligariusis willing to follow any course if Brutus leads, the cynical Cassiusadmits his worth and their great need of him. For his amiable and attractive virtues are saved from all taint ofweakness by an heroic strain, both high-spirited and public-spirited,both stoical and chivalrous. Challenged by the solicitations of Cassiushe for once breaks through his reticence, and discloses his inwardtemper. We may be sure that even then he speaks less than he feels. If it be aught toward the general good, Set honour in one eye, and death i’ the other, And I will look on both indifferently: For let the gods so speed me, as I love The name of honour more than I fear death. (I. ii. 85. )This elevated way of thinking has been fostered and confirmed by study,just as in the case of Sidney, and by study of much the same kind. Plutarch says: Now touching the Greecian Philosophers, there was no sect nor Philosopher of them, but he heard and liked it: but above all the rest, he loved Platoes sect best, and did not much give himself to the new or meane Academy as they call it, but altogether to the old Academy. He has striven to direct his life by right reason, and has ponderedits problems under the guidance of his chosen masters. His utterance,which Plutarch quotes, on suicide, shows how he has sought Plato’said for a standard by which to judge others and himself. [175] Hisutterance, which Shakespeare invents, on the death of Portia, shows howhe has schooled himself to fortitude, and suggests the influence of adifferent school. We must die, Messala: With meditating that she must die once, I have the patience to endure it now. (IV. iii. 190. )[175] Compare the argument in the _Phaedo_, with its conclusion: “Thenthere may be reason in saying that a man should wait and not take hisown life till God summons him. ” Jowett’s _Plato_, Vol. I. He is essentially a thinker, a reader, a student. Plutarch had toldhow on the eve of Pharsalia, when his companions were resting, orforecasting the morrow, Brutus “fell to his booke and wrote all daylong till night, wryting a breviarie of Polybius. ” And in his lastcampaign: His heade ever busily occupied to thinke of his affayres, . . . after he had slumbered a little after supper, he spent all the rest of the night in dispatching of his waightiest causes, and after he had taken order for them, if he had any leysure left him, he would read some booke till the third watch of the night, at what tyme the Captaines, pety Captaines and Colonells, did use to come unto him. Shakespeare only visualises this description when he makes him find thebook, that in his troubles and griefs he has been “seeking for so,”in the pocket of his gown, with the leaf turned down where he stoppedreading. Does then Shakespeare take over Plutarch’s favourite, merely removingthe single stain and accenting all the attractions, to confront him asthe embodiment of republican virtue, with Caesar, against whom too noevil is remembered, as the embodiment of imperial majesty? Will he showthe inevitable collision between two political principles each worthilyrepresented in its respective champion? This has been said, and there are not wanting arguments to supportit. It is clear that the contrast is not perplexed by side issues. Brutus has no quarrel with Caesar as a man, and no justification isgiven for the conspiracy in what Caesar has done. On the contrary, hismurderer stands sponsor for his character, acknowledges his supremegreatness, and loves him as a dear friend. But neither on the otherhand is anything introduced that might divert our sympathies fromBrutus by representing him as bound by other than the voluntary tiesof affection and respect. And this is the more remarkable that inPlutarch there are two particulars full of personal pathos whichShakespeare cannot have failed to note, and which lend themselvesto dramatic purposes, as other dramatists have proved. One of them,employed by Voltaire, would darken the assassination to parricide. In explanation of the indulgence with which Caesar treated Brutus,Plutarch says: When he was a young man, he had been acquainted with Servilia, who was extreamelie in love with him. And bicause Brutus was borne in that time when their love was hottest, he perswaded him selfe that he begat him. [176]And then follows what can be alleged in proof. “What of anguish,” saysMr. Wyndham, “does this not add to the sweep of the gesture wherewiththe hero covered his face from the pedant’s sword! ”This is a mere casual hint; but the other point finds repeatedmention in the _Life_, and is dwelt upon though explained away in the_Comparison_. It is the circumstance that Brutus had fought on Pompey’sside, and that thereafter Caesar had spared him, amnestied his friends,and loaded him with favours. The greatest reproache they could make against Brutus was: that Julius Caesar having saved his life, and pardoned all the prisoners also taken in battell, as many as he made request for, taking him for his frende, and honoring him above all his other frends, Brutus notwithstanding had imbrued his hands in his blood. [177][176] Voltaire decorously invents a secret marriage! [177] _The comparison of Dion with Brutus. _Plutarch indeed instances this as the grand proof of Brutus’superiority to personal considerations; but it looks bad, and certainlyintroduces a new element into the moral problem. At all events, thoughit involves in a specially acute form that conflict of duties whichthe drama loves, and was so used by Shakespeare’s contemporaries, asearly as Muretus and as late as Alexander, Shakespeare dismisses it. Attention is concentrated on the single fact that Brutus felt it hisduty to take the life of Caesar, and no obligations of kinship orgratitude are allowed to complicate the one simple case of conscience. The victim and the sacrificer are thus set before us, each with anunstained record, and in only those personal relations that arise fromwarm and reverent friendship. Of their mutual attachment we are left in no doubt, nor are we eversuffered to forget it. Cassius in talk to himself, bears witness thatCaesar “loves Brutus” (I. ii. 317). Antony, in his speech to thepeople, appeals to this as a notorious fact: Brutus, as you know, was Caesar’s angel: Judge, O you Gods, how dearly Caesar loved him. (III. ii. 185. )But the strongest testimony is Caesar’s own cry, the cry ofastonishment and consternation, whether from the betrayed when thebeloved is the traitor, or from the condemned when the beloved is thejudge: Et tu Brute! Then fall, Caesar! (III. i. 77. )Nor is less stress laid on Brutus’ feeling. He avows it in the Forum,as before he had assured Antony that “he did love Caesar when he struckhim” (III. i. 182). Cassius tells him: When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. (IV. iii. 106. )But here again the most pathetic evidence is to be found in theassassination scene itself. When Brutus stoops in the guise ofpetitioner, we cannot suppose it is merely with treacherous adroitness: I kiss thy hand, but not in flattery, Caesar. (III. i. 52. )Knowing the man, do we not feel that this is the last tender farewell? But though all this is true it cannot be maintained, in view of thesoliloquy before the conspirators’ meeting, that Shakespeare makesBrutus the mouthpiece of republicanism, as he makes Caesar themouthpiece of imperialism. The opposition of principles is present, butit is of principles on a different plane. Caesar, the spirit of Caesar, is indeed the spirit of Empire,the spirit of practical greatness in the domains of war, policy,organisation: of this he is the exponent, to this he is the martyr. Brutus’ spirit is rather the spirit of loyalty to duty, which finds inhim its exponent and martyr too. He is lavishly endowed by nature with all the inward qualities that goto make the virtuous man, and these he has improved and disciplinedby every means in his power. His standard is high, but he is sostrenuous and sincere in living up to it, that he is recognised as noless pre-eminent in the sphere of ethics, than Caesar in the sphereof politics. Indeed their different ideals dominate and impel bothmen in an almost equal degree. And in each case this leads to a kindof pose. It appears even in their speech. The balanced precision ofthe one tells its own tale as clearly as the overstrained loftinessof the other, and is as closely matched with the part that he needsmust play. Obviously Brutus does not like to confess that he has beenin the wrong. No more in the σώφρων than in the Emperor is there roomfor any weakness. After his dispute with Cassius he assumes ratherunjustifiably that he has on the whole been in the right, that he hasbeen the provoked party, and that at worst he has shown momentary heat. But even this slight admission, coming from him, fills Cassius withsurprise. _Brutus. _ When I spoke that, I was ill-temper’d too. _Cassius. _ Do you confess so much? Give me your hand. (IV. iii. 116. )The Ideal Wise Man must not yield to anger any more than to otherpassions, and it costs Brutus something to own that he has done so. Buthe minimises his confession by accepting Cassius’ apology for his rashhumour and promising to overlook any future offences, as though nonecould be laid to his own door. We like him none the worse for this, hiscult of perfection is so genuine: but sometimes the cult of perfectionbecomes the assumption and obtrusion of it. Read the passage whereMessala tells him of Portia’s death. _Messala. _ Had you letters from your wife, my lord? _Brutus. _ No, Messala. _Messala. _ Nor nothing in your letters writ of her? _Brutus. _ Nothing, Messala. _Messala. _ That, methinks, is strange. _Brutus. _ Why ask you? hear you aught of her in yours? _Messala. _ No. my lord. _Brutus. _ Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true. _Messala. _ Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell: For certain she is dead, and by strange manner. _Brutus. _ Why, farewell, Portia. (IV. iii. 181. )Now Brutus had received earlier tidings. He may profess ignorance tosave himself the pain of explanation, though surely it would have beensimpler to say, “I know all. ” But the effect is undoubtedly to bringhis self-control into fuller relief in presence of Messala and Titiniuseven than in the presence of Cassius a few minutes before; for then hewas announcing what he already knew, here he would seem in the eyes ofhis informants to be encountering the first shock. Too much must notbe made of this, for Cassius who is aware of the circumstances, is noless impressed than the others, and Cassius would have detected anyhollow ring. But at the least it savours of a willingness to give ademonstration, so to speak, in Clinical Ethics. A man like this whose desires are set on building up a virtuouscharacter, but who is not free from the self-consciousness andself-confidence of the specialist in virtue, is exposed to peculiardangers. His interests and equipment are in the first place for theinward life, and his chief concern is the well-being of his soul. Butprecisely such an one knows that he cannot save his own soul alone. Itis not open to him to disregard the claims of his fellows or the needsof the world, so he is driven to take in hand matters for which he hasno inclination or aptitude. He may be quite aware of his unfitness forthe work and shrink from investing himself with qualities which heknows he does not possess. All the same, if the call comes, the logicof his nature will force him to essay the ungrateful and impossibletask; and he will be apt to imagine a call when there is none. So itis with Brutus. It is true that many of the best respect do look upto him and designate him as their leader: it is none the less truethat the unsigned instigations which he takes for the voice of Rome,are the fabrications of a single schemer. He would not be Brutusif he suspected or shirked the summons. This votary of duty cannotacknowledge a merely fugitive and cloistered virtue; this platonictheorist can easily be hood-winked by the practised politician. SoBrutus, who is so at home in his study with his book, who is soexemplary in all the private relations of friend, master and husband;predestined, one would say, for the serene labours of philosophicthought and the gracious offices of domestic affection, sweeps from hisquiet anchorage to face the storms of political strife, which such ashe are not born to master but which they think they must not avoid. It is a common case; and many have by their very conscientiousnessbeen hurried into a false position where they could not escape fromcommitting blunders and incurring guilt. But generally the blundersare corrigible and the guilt is venial. It is Brutus’ misfortune, thathis very greatness, his moral ascendancy with the prestige it bestows,gives him the foremost place, and shifts on his shoulders the mainresponsibility for all the folly and crime. For it is inevitable that he should proceed as he does. Yet it is noteasy for him. There is a conflict in this sensitive and finely tunedspirit, which, with all his acquired fortitude, bewrays itself in hisbearing to Cassius before any foreign suggestion has entered his mind,which afterwards makes him unlike himself in his behaviour to his wife,which drives sleep from his eyes for nights together, which so jarsthe rare harmony of his nature, in Antony’s view his chief perfection,that he seems to suffer from an insurrection within himself. And itis not hard to understand why this should be. Morality is the guidingprinciple of Brutus’ character, but what if it should be at variancewith itself? Now two sets of moral forces are at strife in his heart. There are the more personal sentiments of love and reverence for Caesarand of detestation for the crime he contemplates. Even after hisdecision he feels the full horror of conspiracy with its “monstrousvisage”; how much more must he feel the horror of assassinating afriend! On the other side are the more traditional ethical obligationsto state, class, and house. It is almost as fatal to this visionaryto be called Brutus, as it is to the poet to be called Cinna. For agreat historic name spares its bearer a narrow margin of liberty. Itshould be impossible for a Bourbon to be other than a legitimist; itwould be impossible for a Romanoff to abandon the Orthodox Church; itis impossible for a Brutus to accept the merest show of royal power. The memory of his stock is about him. Now Cassius reminds him of hisnamesake who would brook the eternal devil in Rome as easily as aking; now the admonition is affixed with wax upon Old Brutus’ statue;now he himself recalls the share his ancestors had in expelling theTarquin. If such an one acquiesced in the coronation of Caesar, he mustbe the basest renegade, or more detached from his antecedents than itis given a mortal man to be. And in Brutus there is no hint of suchdetachment. The temper that makes him so attentive and loyal to thepieties of life, is the very temper that vibrates to all that is bestin the past, and clings to the spirit of use-and-wont. Let it again berepeated that Brutus reveals himself to Shakespeare very much in theform of a cultured and high-souled English nobleman, the heir of greattraditions and their responsibilities, which he fulfils to the smallestjot and tittle; the heir also of inevitable preconceptions. But in Brutus there is more than individual morality and inheritedethos: there is superimposed on these the conscious philosophic theorywith which his actions must be squared. He has to determine his conductnot by instinct or usage, but by impersonal, unprejudiced reason. Itis to this tribunal that in the last resort he must appeal; and inthat strange soliloquy of his he puts aside all private preferenceson the one hand, all local considerations on the other, and discusseshis difficulty quite as an abstract problem of right and wrong. Hesees that if the personal rule of Caesar is to be averted, halfmeasures will not suffice. There are no safeguards or impedimentsthat can prevent the supremacy of so great a man if he is allowed tolive. This is his starting point: “It must be by his death. ” But thenthe question arises: is the death of such an one permissible? Andin answering it Brutus seems at the first glance to show admirableintellectual candour. He acquits Caesar of all blame; the quarrel“will bear no colour for the thing he is. ” What could be moredispassionate and impartial, what more becoming the philosopher? Thereis no sophistication of the facts in the interest of his party. Butimmediately there follow the incriminating words: Fashion it thus; that what he is, augmented, Would run to these and these extremities. (II. i. 30. )There is a sophistication of the inference. Surely this line ofargument is invented to support a foregone conclusion. Already thathint to his conscience, “Fashion it thus,” betrays the resolve to makeout a case. And does the mere future contingency justify the presentinfliction of death? Brutus is appealing to his philosophy: by hisphilosophy he is judged: for just about this date he was condemning thesuicide of Cato because he found it Cowardly and vile, _For fear of what might fall_, so to prevent The time of life. (V. i. 104. )But the argument is the same in both cases, and if it does not excuseself-murder, still less does it excuse the murder of others. The truth is that Brutus, though he personates the philosopher, is lessof one than he thinks. It is not his philosophy but his character thatgives him strength to bear the grief of Portia’s death; as Cassius says: I have as much of this in art as you, But yet my nature could not bear it so. (IV. iii. 194. )At the end he casts his philosophy to the winds rather than go boundto Rome: he “bears too great a mind” (V. i. 113). And just as on theseoccasions he is independent or regardless of it, so here he tamperswith it to get the verdict that is required. For even in his own eyeshe has to play the part of the ideally wise and virtuous man; andthough the obligations of descent and position, the consideration inwhich he is held, the urgings of a malcontent, and (as he believes notaltogether without reason) the expectations formed of him by his fellowcitizens, supply his real motives for the murder, he needs to give itthe form of ideal virtue and wisdom before he can proceed to it. Now, however, he persuades himself that he has the sanction of reasonand conscience, and he acts on the persuasion. His hesitations aregone. He can face without wincing the horror of conspiracy. With animpassioned eloquence, which he nowhere else displays, he can lift theothers to the level of his own views. No doubts or scruples becloud hisenthusiasm now. If not the face of men, The sufferance of our souls, the time’s abuse— If these be motives weak, break off betimes, And every man hence to his idle bed; So let high-sighted tyranny range on Till each man drop by lottery. (II. i. 114. )His certainty has advanced by leaps and bounds. A few minutes ago therewas no complaint against Caesar as he was or had been, but it couldbe alleged that he might or would change: now his tyranny, lightingby caprice on men, is announced as a positive fact of the future oreven of the present. But by this time Brutus is assured that the plotis just and that the confederates are the pick of men, both plot andconfederates so noble that for them an ordinary pledge would be aninsult: Unto bad causes swear Such creatures as men doubt: but do not stain The even virtue of our enterprise, Nor the insuppressive metal of our spirits, To think that or our cause or our performance Did need an oath. (II. i. 132. )He carries them away with him. They abandon the oath; they acceptall his suggestions; we feel that their thoughts are ennobled byhis intervention, that, as Plutarch noted to be the effect of hisfellowship, he has made them better men, at least for the time. Meanwhile it is a devout imagination, an unconscious sophistry thatlends him his power; and this brings its own Nemesis at its heels. Inthe future Brutus will be disillusioned of the merit of the exploit. Inthe present, persuading his associates of its unparalleled glory, hemakes them take their measures to suit. He will not hear of the murderof Antony, for that would be bloody and unnecessary. And his clemencyis based on disparagement of Antony’s abilities and contempt for hismoral character. Of this “limb of Caesar,” as he calls him, “who can dono more than Caesar’s arm when Caesar’s head is off,” he cries: Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him: If he love Caesar, all that he can do Is to himself, take thought and die for Caesar: And that were much he should; for he is given To sports, to wildness and much company. (II. i. 185. )It is not so in Plutarch: Brutus would not agree to it. First for that he sayd it was not honest: secondly, bicause he told them there was hope of chaunge in him. For he did not mistrust, but that Antonius being a noble minded and coragious man (when he should knowe that Caesar was dead) would willingly helpe his contrie to recover her libertie, having them an example unto him to follow their corage and vertue. In this hope of converting a _rusé_ libertine like Antony, thereis no doubt a hint of idealism, but it is not so marked as in thehigh-pitched magnanimity of Shakespeare’s Brutus, who denies a man’spowers of mischief because his life is loose. Yet though Antony would always be a source of danger, the conspiratorsmight find compensation in the reputation for leniency they would gain,and the danger might be reduced were effective steps taken to renderhim innocuous. But this is only the beginning of Brutus’ mistakes. If indeed they had not begun before. With his masterful influence hehas dissuaded his friends from applying to Cicero, on the ground thatCicero will not share in any scheme of which he is not the author. Itmay be so, but one would think it was at least an experiment well worththe trying. Apart from the authority of his years and position, therewould have been the spell of his oratory; and of that they were soonto be sorely in need, again through Brutus’ crotchet that their courseevinced its own virtue, and that virtue was a sufficient defence. “The first fault that he did,” says Plutarch, “was, when he would not consent to his fellow conspirators, that Antony should be slayne: and therefore he was justly accused, that thereby he had saved a stronge and grievous enemy of their conspiracy. The second fault was when he agreed that Caesars funeralls should be as Antony would have them: the which in deede marred all. ”This hint Shakespeare works out. He sees clearly that this furtherblunder marred all, and heightens the folly of it in various ways. Forin Plutarch the question is debated in the Senate, after it has beendetermined that the assassins shall be not only pardoned but honouredand after provinces have been assigned to them, Crete to Brutus, Africato Cassius, and the like. Only then, when their victory seems completeand assured, do they discuss the obsequies. Antonius thinking good his testament should be red openly, and also that his body should be honorably buried, and not in hugger mugger, least the people might thereby take occasion to be worse offended if they did otherwise: Cassius stowtly spake against it. But Brutus went with the motion and agreed unto it. That is the amount of his error: that when all seemed to be goingwell with the faction, Antony, who had shown himself in seeming andfor the time their most influential friend, commended the proposalon opportunist grounds, and Cassius opposed it, but Brutus supportedit and voted with the majority. In the Play his responsibility isundivided, and all the explanatory circumstances have disappeared. Heis not one member of an approving Senate, who, when the assassinationseems once for all a _chose jugée_, accepts a suggestion, madeapparently in the interests of peace and quiet, by the man to whom,more than to anyone else, the settlement of the affair is due. Whilethe position is still critical, without any evidence of Antony’s goodwill, without any pressure of public opinion or any plea of politicalexpediency, he endows the helpless suppliant with means to undo whathas been done and destroy those who have done it. No wonder thatCassius when he hears Brutus giving Antony permission to speak in themarket place, interrupts: “Brutus, a word with you,” and continues inthe alarmed aside: You know not what you do: do not consent That Antony speak in his funeral: Know you how much the people may be moved By that which he will utter? (III. i. 232. )But Brutus waves his remonstrance aside. He is now so besotted by hisown sophisms that he will listen to no warning. He thinks all risk willbe averted by his going into the pulpit first to show the “reason” ofCaesar’s death. He has quite forgotten that the one reason that hecould allege to himself was merely a hazardous conclusion from doubtfulpremises; and this forsooth is to satisfy the citizens of Rome. Butmeanwhile since their deed is so irreproachable and disinterested, theconspirators must act in accordance, and show their freedom from anypersonal motive by giving Caesar all due rites: It shall advantage more than do us wrong. The infatuation is almost incredible, and it springs not only fromgenerosity to Antony and Caesar, but from the fatal assumption of thejustice of his cause, and the Quixotic exaltation the assumption bringswith it. For were it ever so just, could this be brought home to the Romanpopulace? Brutus, who is never an expert in facts, has been misledby the inventions of Cassius, which he mistakes for the generalvoice of Rome. Here, too, Shakespeare departs from his authority tomake the duping of his hero more conspicuous. For in Plutarch thesecommunications are the quite spontaneous incitements of the public, notthe contrivances of one dissatisfied aristocrat. But for Brutus, _his frendes and contrie men_, both by divers procurementes, and sundrie rumors of the citie, and by many bills also, did openlie call and procure him to doe that he did. For, under the image of his auncestor Junius Brutus, that drave the kinges out of Rome, they wrote: “O, that it had pleased the goddes that thou wert now alive, Brutus: and againe that thou wert with us nowe. ” His tribunall (or chaire) where he gave audience during the time he was praetor, was full of such billes: “Brutus, thou art a sleepe, and art not Brutus in deede. ”All these in Plutarch are worth their face value, but in Shakespearethey are not: and it is one of the ironies of Brutus’ career that hetakes them as appeals from the people when they are only the juggleriesof Cassius. So far from objecting to Imperialism, the citizens whenmost favourable to Brutus call out, “Let him be Caesar! ” “Caesar’sbetter parts shall be crowned in Brutus” (III. ii. 56). This is theacme of his success and the prologue to his disillusionment. But even if the case of the conspirators could be commended to thepopulace, Brutus is not the man to do it. It is comic and pathetic tohear him reassuring Cassius with the promise to speak first as thoughhe could neutralise in advance the arts of Antony. Compare his orationwith that of his rival. First, in the matter of it, there is no appealto the imagination or passions, but an unvarnished series of argumentsaddressed exclusively to the logical reason. Such a speech would makelittle impression on an assembly of those who are called educated men,and to convince an audience like the artisans of Rome (for such wasShakespeare’s conception of the People), it is ridiculously inadequate. But the style is no less out of place. The diction is as different aspossible from the free and fluent rhetoric of Antony. Shakespeare hadread in Plutarch: They do note in some of his Epistells, that he counterfeated that briefe compendious maner of speach of the Lacedaemonians. As when the warre was begonne, he wrote unto the Pergamenians in this sorte: “I understand you have geven Dolabella money; if you have done it willingly, you confesse you have offended me: if against your wills, shewe it then by geving me willinglie. ” An other time againe unto the Samians: “Your counsels be long, your doinges be slowe, consider the ende. ” And in an other Epistell he wrote unto[178] the Patareians: “The Xanthians despising my good wil, have made their contrie a grave of dispaire: and the Patareians that put them selves into my protection, have lost no jot of their libertie. And therefore whilest you have libertie, either choose the judgement of the Patareians, or the fortune of the Xanthians. ”[178] _i. e. _ in reference to. Thus prompted Shakespeare makes Brutus affect the balanced structure ofEuphuism. Not only in his oration. Read his words to Cassius at theirfirst interview: That you do love me, I am nothing jealous; What you would work me to, I have some aim; How I have thought of this and of these times, I shall recount hereafter; for this present, I would not, so with love I might entreat you, Be any further moved. What you have said I will consider: what you have to say I will with patience hear, and find a time Both meet to hear and answer such high things. (I. ii. 161. )Nothing could be more neat, accurate and artificial than thisEuphuistic arrangement of phrases. It at once suggests the academicstudious quality of Brutus’ expression whenever he gives thought toit. But it is a style unsuitable to, one might almost say incompatiblewith, genuine passion. So it is noteworthy that when he lets himself goin answer to Cassius and introduces the personal accent, he abandonshis mannerisms. And could the symmetrical clauses of his oration movethe popular heart? It has a noble ring about it, because it is sincere,with the reticence and sobriety which the sincere man is careful toobserve when he is advocating his own case. But that is not the sort ofthing that the Saviour of his Country, as Brutus thought himself to be,will find fit to sway a mob. Nevertheless his eloquence was notorious. Plutarch states that when his mind “was moved to followe any matter, heused a kind of forcible and vehement perswasion that calmed not till hehad obteyned his desire. ” There is a rush of emotion in his words whenhe is denouncing the conventional pledge or wanton bloodshed, but ifany personal interest is involved, the springs are dry. In the Forumit is characteristic that he speaks with far more warmth—a transitionindicated not only by the change of style, but, after Shakespeare’swont, by the substitution of verse for prose—when he no longer pleadsfor himself but tries to get a hearing for Mark Antony. And this is the man with his formal dialectic and professorial oratory,impassioned only on behalf of his enemy, who thinks that by a temperatestatement of the course which he has seduced his reason to approve,he can prevent the perils of a speech by Caesar’s friend. He does noteven wait to hear it: but if he did, what could he effect againstthe sophistries and rhetorical tricks, the fervour and regret, thegesticulation and tears of Antony’s headlong improvisation? CHAPTER VTHE DISILLUSIONMENT OF BRUTUS. PORTIABrutus had been doubly duped, by his own subtlety and his ownsimplicity in league with his conscientiousness; for in this way hewas led to idealise his deed as enjoined both by the inward moral codeand the demands of his country, and such self-deception avenges itselfas surely as any intentional crime. He is soon disabused in regard tothe wishes of Rome and its view of the alleged wrongs it has sufferedfrom Caesar. His imagination had dwelt on the time when his ancestorsdrove out the Tarquin; now he himself must ride “like a madman” throughthe gates. It is not only the first of his reverses but a step towardshis enlightenment, for it helps to show that he has been mistaken inthe people. Still, the momentary mood of the populace may not alwaysrecognise its best interests and real needs, and may not coincide withthe true _volonté générale_. There is harder than this in store forBrutus. By the time we meet him again at Sardis a worse punishment hasovertaken him, and his education in disappointment has advanced, thoughhe does his utmost to treat the punishment as fate and not to learn thelessons it enforces. This scene has won the applause of the most dissimilar minds andgenerations. We have seen how Leonard Digges singles it out asthe grand attraction of the play, by which, above all others, ittranscends the laboured excellences of _Catiline_ or _Sejanus_. Itexcited the admiration and rivalry of the greatest genius of theRestoration period. Scott says of the dispute between Antony andVentidius in _All for Love_: “Dryden when writing this scene hadunquestionably in his recollection the quarrel between Brutus andCassius, which was so justly a favourite in his time, and to which hehad referred as inimitable in his prologue to _Aureng-Zebe_. But spite of all his pride, a secret shame Invades his breast at Shakespeare’s sacred name: Awed, when he hears his godlike Romans rage, He in a just despair would quit the stage; And to an age less polished, more unskilled, Does with disdain the foremost honours yield. ”In the eighteenth century Dr. Johnson, though he finds _JuliusCaesar_ as a whole “somewhat cold and unaffecting,” perhaps becauseShakespeare’s “adherence to the real story and to Roman manners” has“impeded the natural vigour of his genius,” excepts particular passagesand cites “the contention and reconciliation of Brutus and Cassius”as universally celebrated. And Coleridge goes beyond himself in hispraise: “I know no part of Shakespeare that more impresses on me thebelief of his being superhuman, than this scene between Brutus andCassius. In the Gnostic heresy it might have been credited with lessabsurdity than most of their dogmas, that the Supreme had employed himto create, previously to his function of representing characters. ”Yet it is not merely in the revelation of character that the scene isunique. More than any other single episode, more than all the resttogether, it lays bare the significance of the story in its tragicpathos and its tragic irony. And the wonder of it is increased ratherthan lessened when we take note that it is a creation not out ofnothing but out of chaos. For there is hardly a suggestion, hardly adetail, that Shakespeare did not find in Plutarch, but here in confusedmixture, there in inert isolation, and nowhere with more than thepossibilities of being organised. It is Shakespeare, who, to borrowfrom Milton’s description of the beginning of his Universe, “foundedand conglobed like things to like, and vital virtue infused and vitalwarmth. ”The nucleus of this passage is found just after the account of Brutus’exploits in Lycia. About that tyme, Brutus sent to pray Cassius to come to the citye of Sardis, and so he did. Brutus understanding of his comming, went out to meete him with all his frendes. There both their armies being armed, they called them both Emperors. Nowe, as it commonly hapneth in great affayres betwene two persons, both of them having many friends, and so many Captaines under them; there ranne tales and complaints betwixt them. Therefore, before they fell in hand with any other matter, they went into a little chamber together, and bad every man avoyde, and did shut the dores to them. Then they beganne to powre out their complaints one to the other, and grew hot and lowde, earnestly accusing one another, and at length fell both a weeping. Their friends that were without the chamber hearing them lowde within, and angry betwene them selves, they were both amased and affrayd also lest it would grow to further matter: but yet they were commaunded that no man should come to them. Notwithstanding, one Marcus Phaonius, that had bene a friend and follower of Cato while he lived, and tooke upon him to counterfeate a Philosopher, not with wisedom and discretion, but with a certaine bedlem and frantick motion: he would needes come into the chamber, though the men offered to keepe him out. But it was no boote to let Phaonius, when a mad moode or toy tooke him in the head: for he was a hot hasty man, and sodaine in all his doings, and cared for never a Senator of them all. Now, though he used this bold manner of speeche after the profession of the Cynick Philosophers (as who would say, doggs), yet this boldnes did no hurt many times, bicause they did but laugh at him to see him so mad. This Phaonius at that time, in despite of the doore keepers, came into the chamber, and with a certain scoffing and mocking gesture which he counterfeated of purpose, he rehearsed the verses which old Nestor sayd in Homer: My lords, I pray you harken both to mee, For I have seene moe yeares than suchye three. Cassius fell a-laughing at him: but Brutus thrust him out of the chamber, and called him dogge, and counterfeate Cynick. Howbeit his comming in brake their strife at that time, and so they left eche other. Here there seems little enough to tempt the dramatist; the two generalsquarrel, Phaonius bursts in, Cassius laughs at him, Brutus turns himout, but the interruption temporarily patches up a truce between them. And this petty incident is made the most pregnant in Shakespeare’swhole play; and that by apparently such simple means. To get themeaning out of it, or to read the meaning into it, he does little more,so far as the mechanical aspects of his treatment are concerned, thancollect a few other notices scattered up and down the pages of hisauthority. He had found in an earlier digression Cassius described as a hot cholerick and cruell man, that would often tymes be caried away from justice for gayne: it was certainly thought that he made warre, and put him selfe into sundry daungers, more to have absolute power and authoritie, than to defend the liberty of his contrie. Again after describing Brutus’ success with the Patareians, Plutarchproceeds: Cassius, about the selfe same tyme, after he had compelled the Rhodians every man to deliver all the ready money they had in gold and silver in their houses, the which being brought together, amounted to the summe of eyght thousande talents: yet he condemned the citie besides, to paye the summe of five hundred talents more. When Brutus in contrary manner, after he had leavyed of all the contrye of Lycia but a hundred and fiftye talents onely: he departed thence into the contrye of Ionia, and did them no more hurt. Previously with reference to the first meeting of the fugitives afterthey collected their armies and before they came to Sardis at all,Plutarch narrates: Whilst Brutus and Cassius were together in the citie of Smyrna: Brutus prayed Cassius to let him have some part of his money whereof he had great store, bicause all that he could rappe and rend of his side, he had bestowed it in making so great a number of shippes, that by meanes of them they should keepe all the sea at their commaundement. Cassius’ friendes hindered this request, and earnestly disswaded him from it: perswading him, that it was no reason that Brutus should have the money which Cassius had gotten together by sparing, and leavied with great evil will of the people their subjects, for him to bestowe liberally uppon his souldiers, and by this meanes to winne their good willes, by Cassius charge. This notwithstanding, Cassius gave him the third part of his totall summe. Then at Sardis, but not on occasion of the dispute interrupted byPhaonius, mention is made of the affair with Pella: The next daye after, Brutus, upon complaynt of the Sardians did condemne and noted Lucius Pella for a defamed person, that had been a Praetor of the Romanes, and whome Brutus had given charge unto: for that he was accused and convicted of robberie, and pilferie in his office. This judgement much misliked Cassius; bicause he him selfe had secretly (not many dayes before) warned two of his friends, attainted and convicted of the like offences, and openly had cleered them: but yet he did not therefore leave to employ them in any manner of service as he did before. And therefore he greatly reproved Brutus, for that he would shew him selfe so straight and seveare in such a tyme, as was meeter to beare a little, then to take thinges at the worst. Brutus in contrary manner aunswered, that he should remember the Ides of Marche, at which tyme they slue Julius Caesar: who nether pilled nor polled the contrye, but onely was a favorer and suborner of all them that did robbe and spoyle, by his countenaunce and authoritie. And if there were any occasion whereby they might honestly sette aside justice and equitie: they should have had more reason to have suffered Caesar’s friendes, to have robbed and done what wronge and injurie they had would, then to beare with their owne men. For then, sayde he, they could but have sayde they had bene cowards: “and now they may accuse us of injustice, beside the paynes we take, and the daunger we put our selves into. ”Lastly at the end of the _Life of Brutus_, Shakespeare would find ashort notice of the death of Portia. No indication is given of the dateat which this took place, except that Plutarch seems on the whole todiscredit the idea that she survived her husband. And for Porcia, Brutus’ wife: Nicolaus the Philosopher, and Valerius Maximus doe wryte, that she determining to kill her selfe (her parents and frendes carefullie looking to her to kepe her from it) tooke hot burning coles, and cast them into her mouth, and kept her mouth so close, that she choked her selfe. There was a letter of Brutus found wrytten to his frendes, complayning of their negligence, that his wife being sicke, they would not helpe her, but suffered her to kill her selfe, choosing to dye rather than to languish in paine. Thus it appeareth, that Nicolaus knewe not well that time, sith the letter (at the least if it were Brutus letter) doth plainly declare the disease and love of this Lady, as also the maner of her death. Now in Shakespeare’s scene all these detached jottings find theirpredestined place, and together have an accumulated import of whichPlutarch has only the remotest guess. They are so combined as tobring out at once the ideal aspect of Brutus’ deed, and its folly anddisastrousness in view of the facts. He maintains his manhood under themost terrible ordeal, which is well; he clings to his illusion in theface of the clearest proof, which is not so well. He is gathering evilfruit where he looked for good, but he refuses to admit that the treewas corrupt; and of the prestige that his clear conscience confers, hestill makes baneful use. He is raised to the heroic by his persistencein regarding the murder as an act of pure and disinterested justice,but for that very reason he makes his blunders, and puts himself andothers in the wrong. Perhaps indeed his loss of temper is to be ascribed to another cause. He is in a tense, over-wrought state, when the slightest thing willprovoke an outbreak. In Cassius’ view his private and personal sorrow,the only one Cassius could understand, might quite well, apart from allthe rest, have driven him to greater violence: How ’scaped I killing when I cross’d you so? (IV. iii. 150. )No wonder he uses stinging words to his friend, taxes him most unfairlywith the boast of being a better soldier, and flings aside Cassius’temperate correction of “elder,” with the contemptuous, “If you did,I care not. ” No wonder he drives out the poet, while Cassius merelylaughs at him. Yet even here, though he is undoubtedly the angrier andmore unreasonable in the quarrel, his moral dignity just before hassaved him from an indiscretion into which Cassius falls. When the otherbegins to complain before the soldiers, Brutus checks him: Cassius, be content; Speak your griefs softly; I do know you well. Before the eyes of both our armies here, Which should perceive nothing but love from us, Let us not wrangle: Bid them move away; Then in my tent, Cassius, enlarge your griefs, And I will give you audience. (IV. ii. 41. )In the onset of misfortune Brutus does not forget his weightierresponsibilities, though the strain of resisting it may impair hissuavity. The fine balance of his nature that was overthrown bysuspense, may well be shaken by his afflictions. For they are morenumerous than Cassius knew and more poignant than he could understand. Portia’s suicide with all its terrible accessories Brutus brings intorelation with himself. It is absence from him, and, as his love tellshim, distress at the growing power of his enemies that caused hermadness. The ruin of that home life which was his native element, theagony and death of the wife he worshipped, are the direct consequencesof his own act. And with this private there has come also the public news. Theproscription has already swept away seventy senators; Cicero, despitehis “silver hairs,” his “judgment,” and his “gravity” being one; andthe number given, according to Messala, is an understatement. Brutushad talked of each man’s dropping by lottery under Caesar’s rule, buthowever much Caesar had degenerated, would he have decreed a morewholesale and indiscriminate slaughter than this? Was there anythingin his career as described by Brutus himself, that foreshadowed acallousness like that of the Triumvirs in pricking down and damningtheir victims, among them the most illustrious members of Brutus’ ownclass? And the perpetrators, far from injuring their cause by theseatrocities, are in a position to take the field with a “mighty power. ”So the civil war with all its horrors and miseries will run its fullcourse. But even that is not the worst. Brutus has to realise that hisassociates were not the men he supposed them. Their hands are notclean, their hearts are not pure, even his brother Cassius connivesat corruption and has “an itching palm” himself. Even when the _soidisant_ deliverers wield the power, what are things better than theywould have been under Caesar who was at least personally free from suchreproach and whose greatness entitled him to his place in front? Surelythere are few more pathetic passages even in Shakespeare than theconfession of disillusionment wrung from Brutus by the force of events,a confession none the less significant that he admits disillusion onlyas to the results and still clings to his estimate of the deed itself. Remember March, the ides of March remember: Did not great Julius bleed for justice’ sake? What villain touch’d his body, that did stab, And not for justice? What, shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world But for supporting robbers, shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honours For so much trash as may be grasped thus? I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman. (IV. iii. 18. )It has come to this. In anticipating the effects of Caesar’s rule, hehad said he “had rather be a villager than to repute himself a sonof Rome” in the probable conditions. But his attempt at remedy hasresulted in a situation even more intolerable. He would rather be a dogthan such Romans as the confederates whom he sought to put in Caesar’splace are disclosing themselves to be. It says much for his intrinsic force, that when all these things riseup in judgment against him, he can still maintain to himself and othersthe essential nobility of the deed that has brought about all the woeand wrong; and without any faint-hearted penitence, continue to insistthat their doings must conform to his conception of what has been done:that if that conception conflicts with the facts, it is the facts thatmust give way. Yet on that very account he is quite impracticable andperverse, as every enthusiast for abstract justice must be, who letshimself be seduced into crime on the plea of duty, and yet shapes hiscourse as though he were not a criminal. Brutus has brought about an upturn of society by assassinating the oneman who could organize that society. His own motives were honourable,though not so unimpeachable as he assumed, but they could not changewrong into right and they could not be taken for granted in others thanhimself. Now in the confusions that ensue he finds, to his horror,that revolutions are not made with rose water, that even champions ofvirtue have to reckon with base and dirty tools. So he condemns Pellafor bribery. Cassius judges the case better. He sees that Pella is anefficient and useful officer of whose services he does not wish to bedeprived. He sees that in domestic broils the leaders must not be tooparticular about their instruments, that, according to the old proverb,you must go into the water to catch fish. But Brutus will not go intothe water. He thinks that an assassin should only have Galahads in histroops. And sometimes his offended virtue becomes even a little absurd. He is angry with Cassius for not giving him money, but listen to hisspeech: I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you denied me: 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: I did send To you for gold to pay my legions, Which you denied me: was that done like Cassius? Should I have answer’d Caius Cassius so? 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! (IV. iii. 69. )What does all this come to?

That the superfine Brutus will not beguilty of extortion, but that Cassius may: and then Brutus will demandto share in the proceeds. All this distress and oppression are hisdoing, or at least the consequences of his deed, and he would wash hishands of these inevitable accompaniments. He would do this by usingCassius as his _âme damnée_ while yet interfering in Cassius’ necessarymeasures with his moral rebukes. [179][179] It will be noticed that in this episode Shakespeare has alteredPlutarch’s narrative in two respects. In the first place Cassius didgive money to the amount of “the thirde part of his totall summe. ”This is not very important, as in the play he disclaims having everrefused it. But in the second place Brutus was neither so scrupulousnor so unsuccessful in raising supplies, but had used them in aquite practical way, that Captain Mahan would thoroughly approve, indeveloping his sea power: “all that he could rappe and rend . . . he hadbestowed it in making so great a number of shippes that by meanes ofthem they should keepe all the sea at their commaundement. ”This of course is between Cassius and himself, and if Cassius choosesto submit, it is his own concern. But Brutus plays the Infallible tosuch purpose, that, what with his loftiness of view, his earnestness,and his marvellous fortitude, he obtains an authority over Cassius’mind that has disastrous results. Though Cassius is both the betterand the elder soldier, he must needs intermeddle with Cassius’ plan ofcampaign. Here, as so often, Shakespeare has no warrant for his mostsignificant touch. Plutarch had said that Cassius, against his will,was overruled by Brutus to hazard their fortunes in a single battle. But that was afterwards, at Philippi. There is no hint that Cassiuswas opposed to the movement from Sardis to Philippi, and it is on thisinvented circumstance that Shakespeare lays most stress. In the playBrutus, in the teeth of his fellow generals’ disapproval, insists ontheir leaving their vantage ground on the hills, chiefly as it appearsbecause he dislikes the impositions they are compelled to lay on thepeople round about: They have grudged us contribution; (IV. iii. 206. )and because he has a vague belief that this is the nick of time; There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their lives Is bound in shallows and in miseries. (IV. ii. 218. )These are the arguments which he opposes to Cassius’ skilled strategy. He will not even listen to Cassius’ rejoinder: _Cassius. _ Hear me, good brother— _Brutus. _ Under your pardon: (IV. iii. 212. )and he runs on. The spiritual dictator carries his point, as he alwaysdoes, and as here especially he is bound to do, when their recent trialof strength has ratified his powers afresh. Cassius is hypnotised intocompliance, “Then, with your will, go on. ” But Brutus is wrong. He isdoing the very thing that the Triumvirs would have him do and dare nothope he will do. Octavius, when he hears of the movement, exclaims: Now, Antony, our hopes are answered: You said the enemy would not come down, But keep the hills and upper regions: It proves not so. (V. i. 1. )The adoption of Brutus’ plan, which he secured in part through theadvantage he had gained in the quarrel, leads directly to the finalcatastrophe. Here then we have the gist of the whole story. The tribulations ofBrutus that ensue on his grand mistake, the wreck of his dearestaffections, the butchery at Rome, the oppression of the provinces,the appalling discovery that his party is animated by selfish greedand not by righteous zeal, and that Caesar bore away the palm incharacter as well as ability; the dauntless resolution with whichdespite his vibrant sensibility he bears up against the rudest blows;the sustaining consciousness that he himself acted for the best, andthe pathetic imagination even now that the rest must live up to hisstandard; the warrant this gives him to complete the outward ruin ofthe cause that already is rotten within—all this is brought home to usin a passage of little more than two hundred lines. It is not merely amasterpiece in characterisation; it at once garners the harvest of thepast and sows the seeds of the future. Nor is the execution inferiorto the conception; the passion of the verse, the fluctuation of thedialogue, provide the fit medium for the pregnancy and wealth of thematter. [180][180] Two objections have been made to this scene, or, rather to thewhole act. The first, in Mr. Bradley’s words that it has a “tendency todrag” (_Shakespearian Tragedy_), is put more uncompromisingly by Mr. Baker (_Development of Shakespeare as a Dramatist_); “[Shakespeare]produced in _Julius Caesar_ a fourth act probably not entirelysuccessful even in his own day”; and afterwards he refers to it as“ineffective to-day. ” In view of Digges’ testimony, it is difficultto see how Mr. Baker can say that it was not entirely successful inShakespeare’s day. As to the impression it makes now, one must largelydepend on one’s own feeling and experience. Certainly I myself havenever been conscious that it dragged or was ineffective, nor have Inoted that it failed to stir the audience. I have never been present ata first-rate performance, but I have seen it creditably presented inGermany, England and Australia; and on every occasion it seemed to methat the quarrel scene was the most popularly successful in the play. This statement is, I believe, strictly accurate, for having Digges’lines in my mind I was on the watch to see whether the taste of theElizabethan coincided with the taste of a later generation. The second criticism is that in the economy of the piece it leads tonothing, “unless,” as Mr. Bradley says, “we may hold that but for thequarrel and reconciliation, Cassius would not have allowed Brutusto overcome his objection to the fatal policy of offering battle atPhilippi. ” This is quite true, though the proviso is a most importantone. But it does very manifestly connect with what has gone before,and gives the essence and net result of the story. We could soonerdispense with the Fifth Act than the Fourth, for the Fifth may withless injustice be described as an appendix than the Fourth as anepisode. Not only is it less unique in kind, but for the most part itworks out issues that can easily be foreseen and that to some extentare clearly indicated here. Of course this is not to say that it couldbe rejected without mutilating the play, for it works them out farmore impressively than we could do in our own imaginations, even withPlutarch to help us. But the scene is not yet at an end. Even now we are not for a momentallowed to forget Brutus, the considerate gentleman and culturedstudent, in Brutus, the political pedant and the incompetent commander. We have a momentary glimpse of him with Lucius, unassuming and gentle,claiming the indulgence, consulting the comfort, tending the needs ofhis slave. This moving little passage is, as we have seen, entirelydue to Shakespeare, and it seems to be introduced for the sake partlyof the dramatic contrast with the prevailing trouble and gloom, partlyof the indication it gives that Brutus is still unchanged at heart. Inthe stress of his suffering he may be irritable and overbearing withCassius, but he has more than a woman’s tenderness for the boy. His habit of reading at night is mentioned by Plutarch, but when weconsider the circumstances, has it not a deeper meaning here? His lovefor Portia we know, but after his brief references to her death, heseems to banish her from his mind, and never, not even in his dyingwords, does her name cross his lips again. Is this an inadvertenceon Shakespeare’s part, or an omission due to the kinship of _JuliusCaesar_ with the Chronicle History? Is it not rather that he conceivesBrutus as one of those who are so bound up in their affections thatthey fear to face a thought of their bereavement lest they shouldutterly collapse? Is it fanciful to interpret that search for his bookwith the leaf turned down, in the light of Macaulay’s confession onthe death of his sister: “Literature has saved my life and my reason;even now I dare not in the intervals of business remain alone a minutewithout a book”? But this little interlude, which sets Brutus before us with all hiswinsome and pathetic charm, leads back to the leading _motif_, thedestruction he has brought on himself by his own error, though he mayface it like a man and keep the beauty of his soul unsoiled. Here, too,Plutarch points the way, but Shakespeare advances further in it. Whathe found was the following bit of hearsay: One night very late (when all the campe tooke quiet rest) as he was in his tent with a little light, thinking of waighty matters, he thought he heard one come in to him, and casting his eye towards the doore of his tent, that he saw a wonderfull straunge and monstruous shape of a body comming towards him, and sayd never a word. So Brutus boldly asked what he was, a god, or a man, and what cause brought him thither. The spirit aunswered him, “I am thy evill spirit, Brutus, and thou shalt see me by the citie of Philippes. ” Brutus beeing no otherwise affrayd, replyed again unto it: “Well, then, I shall see thee agayne. ” The spirit presently vanished away: and Brutus called his men unto him, who tolde him that they heard no noyse, nor sawe any thinge at all. Shakespeare’s Brutus is not at the outset so unconcerned as Plutarch’s. Instead of “being no otherwise affrayd,” his blood runs cold and hishair “stares. ” On the other hand, he is free from the perturbation thatseizes Plutarch’s Brutus when he reflects, and that drives him to tellhis experience to Cassius, who “did somewhat comfort and quiet him. ”The Brutus of the play breathes no word of the visitation, though itis repeated at Philippi, till a few minutes before his death, and thenin all composure as a proof that the end is near, not as a horror fromwhich he seeks deliverance. He needs not the support of another, andeven in the moment of physical panic he has moral courage enough: hesummons up his resolution, and when he has “taken heart” the spectrevanishes. This means, too, that it has a closer connection with hisnerves, with his subjective fears and misgivings, than the “monstruousshape” in Plutarch, and similarly, though he alleges that Lucius andhis attendants have cried out in their sleep, they are unaware of anyfeeling or cause of fright. And the significance of this is markedby the greatest change of all. Shakespeare gives a personality toPlutarch’s nameless phantom: it is individualised as the ghost ofCaesar, and thus Caesar’s spirit has become Brutus’ evil genius, asBrutus had been Caesar’s angel. The symbolism explains itself, butis saved from the tameness of allegory by the superstitious dreadwith which it is enwrapped. The regrets and forebodings of Brutusappear before him in outward form. All day the mischievousness of hisintervention has been present to his mind: now his accusing thoughtstake shape in the vision of his murdered friend, and his vaguepresentiments of retribution at Philippi leap to consciousness in itsprophetic words. But all this does not abash his soul or shake hispurpose. He only hastens the morning march. Thus he moves to his doom, and never was he so great. He is strippedof all adventitious aids. His private affections are wrecked, and thethought of his wife has become a torture. Facts have given the lie tohis belief that his country has chosen him as her champion. He can nolonger cherish the dream that his course has been of benefit to theRoman world. He even seems at last to recognise his own guilt, fornot only does he admit the might of Caesar’s spirit in the suicide ofCassius, but when his own turn comes, his dying words sound like aproffer of expiation: Caesar, now be still; I kill’d not thee with half so good a will. (V. v. 50. )The philosophic harness in which he felt so secure, he has alreadyfound useless in the hour of need, and fit only to be cast aside. So hestands naked to the blows of fate, bereft of his love, his illusions,his self-confidence, his creed. He has to rely solely on himself, onhis own nature and his own character. Moreover his nature, in so far asit means temperament, is too delicate and fine for the rough practicaldemands on it. Suspense is intolerable to his sensitive and eager soul. Ere the battle begins, he can hardly endure the uncertainty: O that a man might know The end of this day’s business ere it come! But it sufficeth that the day will end, And then the end is known. (V. i. 123. )The patience in which he tries to school himself cannot protect himfrom a last blunder. He gives the word too soon and his impetuosityruins all. No doubt he is not so unsuccessful as Titinius thinks, buthe has committed the unpardonable fault of fighting for his own handwithout considering his partner. Thus his imprudence gives the finalblow to the cause that all through he has thwarted and ennobled. But in inward and essential matters his character victoriously standsthe test, and meets all the calls that are made upon it. Even when hislife-failure stares him in the face, he does not allow it a wider scopethan its due, or let it disturb his faith in the purity of his motives. I am Brutus, Marcus Brutus, I: Brutus, my country’s friend. (V. iv. 7. )Even now he can see himself aright, and be sure of the truth of hispatriotism. Even now he can prefer the glory of this “losing day” tothe “vile conquest” of such men as the authors of the proscription. And he is not without more personal consolations. When none of hisfriends will consent to kill him, their very refusal, since it springsfrom love, fills his soul with triumph. It is characteristic that thissatisfaction to his private affections ranks with him as supreme at theend of all. Countrymen, My heart doth joy that yet in all my life I found no man but he was true to me. (V. v. 33. )We need not bemoan his fate: he is happy in it: indeed there is nothingthat he could live for in the world of the Triumvirs, and this is whathe himself desires: My bones would rest, That have but labour’d to attain this hour. (V. v. 41. )At the side of this rare and lofty nature, we see the kindred figureof his wife, similar in her noble traits, similar in her experiences,the true mate of his soul. Their relations are sketched in the merestoutline, or, to be more correct, are implied rather than sketched. Onlyin some eighty lines of one scene do we see them together and hear themexchange words. In only one other scene does Portia appear, when wewitness her tremors on the morning of the assassination. And in a thirdwe hear of her death in detached notices, which, with the comments theycall forth, barely amount to twenty lines. Yet the impression madeis indelible and overpowering, not only of the lady’s own character,but of the perfect union in which she and Brutus lived. There is noobtrusion of their love: it does not exhale in direct professions. On her part, the claim to share his troubles, the solicitude for hissuccess, the distraction because of his absence and danger; on his,the acceptance of her claim, two brief outbursts of adoration—and hisreticence at her death. For he is not the man to wear his heart on hissleeve; and the more his feelings are stirred the less inclined is heto prate of them. Just as after slaying Caesar though “he loved himwell,” he never alludes to the anguish he must have endured, so afterhis “Farewell, Portia,” he turns to the claims of life (“Well, to ourwork alive! ”), and never even in soliloquy refers to her again. Evenin the first pang of bereavement, the one hint of grief it can extortfrom him is the curt retort, “No man bears sorrow better. ” We mightfail to recognise all that it meant for him if we did not see hismisery reflected in the sympathy and consternation of other men; in thehesitating reluctance of Messala, to break, as he thinks, the news; inthe dismay of Cassius and his wonder at Brutus’ self-control. Cassiusindeed cannot but recur to it despite the prohibition, “Speak no moreof her. ” When they have sat down to business his thoughts hark back tothe great loss: “Portia, art thou gone? ” “No more, I pray you,” repeatsBrutus, who cannot brook the mention of her, and he plunges into thebusiness of the hour. And this woman, of whom Brutus felt that he was unworthy, and prayedto be made worthy, noble and devoted as himself, is involved too inhis misfortunes. On her also a greater load is laid than she can bear. He is drawn by his political, and she by her domestic ideal into aposition that overstrains the strength of each. She demands, as inPlutarch, though perhaps with father less of the dignity of the Romanmatron and rather more of the yearning of the affectionate wife, toshare in her husband’s secrets. She does this from no curiosity,intrusiveness or jealousy, but from her unbounded love and her exaltedconception of the marriage tie. And she is confident that she can bearher part in her husband’s cares. She has a great spirit, but it is lodged in a fragile and nervousframe. Does she make her words good? She gains her point, but hersuccess is almost too much for her. She can endure pain but notsuspense: like Brutus she is martyr to her sense of what is right. Wepresently find her all but ruining the conspiracy by her uncontrollableagitation. The scene where she waits in the street serves the functionin the main story of heightening our excitement by means of hers, inexpectation of what will presently be enacted at the Capitol; but it iseven more important for the light it throws on her character. She maywell confess: “I have a man’s heart, but a woman’s might. ” Her feverishanxiety quite overmasters her throughout, and makes her do and saythings which do not disclose the plot only because the bystanders arefaithful or unobservant. She sends the boy to the senate house withouttelling him his errand. She meaningly bids him take good note What Caesar doth, what suitors press about him. (II. iv. 15. )She interrupts herself with the fancy that the revolt has begun. Sheplies the soothsayer with suspicious questions that culminate in themost indiscreet one on his wish to help Caesar: Why, know’st thou any harm’s intended towards him? (II. iv. 31. )Then she almost commits herself, and has to extemporise a subterfuge,before, unable to hold out any longer, she retires on the point offainting, though even now her love gives her strength to send acheering message to her lord. For her as for Brutus the burden of a duty, which she assumes by herown choice, but which one of her nature must assume, is too heavy. Andin the after consequences, for which she is not directly responsible,but which none the less flow from the deed that she has encouraged andapproved, it is the same inability to bear suspense, along with hercraving for her husband’s presence and success, that drives her throughmadness to death. CHAPTER VITHE REMAINING CHARACTERSFar beneath this pair are the other conspirators who rise up againstthe supremacy of Caesar. Among these lower natures, Cassius is undoubtedly the most imposing andmost interesting. The main lines of his character are given in Caesar’s masterlydelineation, which follows Plutarch in regard to his spareness, but inthe other particulars freely elaborates the impression that Plutarch’swhole narrative produces. Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look: He thinks too much: such men are dangerous. . . . He reads much; He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men; he loves no plays, As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music; Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort As if he mock’d himself and scorn’d his spirit That could be moved to smile at anything. Such men as he be never at heart’s ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves, And therefore are they very dangerous. (I. ii. 194 and 201. )Lean, gaunt, hungry, disinclined to sports and revelry, spending histime in reading, observation, and reflection—these are the first traitsthat we notice in him. He too, like Brutus, has learned the lessons ofphilosophy, and he finds in it the rule of life. He chides his friendfor seeming to fail in the practice of it: Of your philosophy you make no use, If you give place to accidental evils. (IV. iii. 145. )And even when he admits and admires Brutus’ self-mastery, he attributesit to nature, and claims as good a philosophic discipline for himself. There is, however, a difference between them even in this point. Brutus is a Platonist with a Stoic tinge; Cassius is an Epicurean. That strikes us at first as strange, that the theory which identifiedpleasure with virtue should be the creed of this splenetic solitary:but it is quite in character. Epicureanism appealed to some of thenoblest minds of Rome, not as a cult of enjoyment, but as a doctrinethat freed them from the bonds of superstition and the degrading fearof death. This was the spirit of Lucretius, the poet of the sect: Artis Religionum animum nodis exsolvere pergo:and one grand _motif_ of his poem is the thought that this death,the dread of which makes the meanness of life, is the end of allconsciousness, a refuge rather than an evil: “What ails thee so, Omortal, to let thyself loose in too feeble grievings? Why weep and wailat death? . . . Why not rather make an end of life and labour? ” And theseare the reasons that Cassius is an Epicurean. At the end, when hisphilosophy breaks down, he says: You know that I held Epicurus strong And his opinion: now I change my mind, And partly credit things that do presage. (V. i. 77. )He has hitherto discredited them. And we seem to hear Lucretius in hisnoble utterance: Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, Can be retentive to the strength of spirit: But life, being weary of these worldly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss itself. (I. iii. 93. )Free from all superstitious scruples and all thought of superhumaninterference in the affairs of men, he stands out bold and self-reliant,confiding in his own powers, his own will, his own management: Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars But in ourselves, that we are underlings. (I. ii. 139. )And the same attitude of mind implies that he is rid of all illusions. He is not deceived by shows. He looks quite through the deeds of men. He is not taken in by Casca’s affectation of rudeness. He is not misledby Antony’s apparent frivolity. He is not even dazzled by the glamourof Brutus’ virtue, but notes its weak side and does not hesitate toplay on it. Still less does Caesar’s prestige subdue his criticism. Onthe contrary, with malicious contempt he recalls his want of endurancein swimming and the complaints of his sick-bed, and he keenly noteshis superstitious lapses. He seldom smiles and when he does it is inscorn. We only once hear of his laughing. It is at the interpositionof the poet, which rouses Brutus to indignation; but the presumptuousabsurdity of it tickles Cassius’ sardonic humour. For there is no doubt that he takes pleasure in detecting theweaknesses of his fellows. He has obvious relish in the thought thatif he were Brutus he would not be thus cajoled, and he finds food forsatisfaction in Caesar’s merely physical defects. Yet there is aslittle of self-complacency as of hero-worship in the man. He turns hisremorseless scrutiny on his own nature and his own cause, and neithermaintains that the one is noble or the other honourable, nor denies thepersonal alloy in his motives. This is the purport of that strangesoliloquy that at first sight seems to place Cassius in the ranks ofShakespeare’s villains along with his Iagos and Richards, rather thanof the mixed characters, compact of good and evil, to whom neverthelesswe feel that he is akin. Well, Brutus, thou art noble: yet, I see, Thy honourable metal may be wrought From that it is disposed: therefore it is meet That noble minds keep ever with their likes: For who so firm that cannot be seduced? Caesar doth bear me hard: but he loves Brutus: If I were Brutus now and he were Cassius, He should not humour me. (I. ii. 312. )It frequently happens that cynics view themselves as well as others intheir meaner aspects. Probably Cassius is making the worst of his owncase and is indulging that vein of self-mockery and scorn that Caesarobserved in him. [181] But at any rate the lurking sense of unworthinessin himself and his purpose will be apt to increase in such a man hisnatural impatience of alleged superiority in his fellows. He is jealousof excellence, seeks to minimise it and will not tolerate it. It ison this characteristic that Shakespeare lays stress. Plutarch reportsthe saying “that Brutus could evill away with the tyrannie and thatCassius hated the tyranne, making many complayntes for the injurieshe had done him”; and instances Caesar’s appropriation of some lionsthat Cassius had intended for the sports, as well as the affair ofthe city praetorship. But in the play these specific grievances arealmost effaced in the vague statement, “Caesar doth bear me hard”;which implies little more than general ill-will. It is now resentmentof pre-eminence that makes Cassius a malcontent. Caesar finds him“very dangerous” just because of his grudge at greatness; and hisown avowal that he “would as lief not be as live to be in awe” of athing like himself, merely puts a fairer colour on the same unamiabletrait. He may represent republican liberty and equality, at least inthe aristocratic acceptation, but it is on their less admirable side. His disposition is to level down, by repudiating the leader, not tolevel up, by learning from him. In the final results this would meanthe triumph of the second best, a dull and uniform mediocrity in art,thought and politics, unbroken by the predominance of the man of geniusand king of men. And it may be feared that this ideal, translated intothe terms of democracy, is too frequent in our modern communities. Buttrue freedom is not incompatible with the most loyal acknowledgment ofthe master-mind; witness the utterance of Browning’s Pisan republican: The mass remains— Keep but the model safe, new men will rise To take its mould. [181] This explanation is offered with great diffidence, but it is theonly one I can suggest for what is perhaps the most perplexing passagein the play, not even excepting the soliloquy of Brutus. Yet notwithstanding this taint of enviousness and spite, Cassius isfar from being a despicable or even an unattractive character. He mayplay the Devil’s Advocate in regard to individuals, but he is capableof a high enthusiasm for his cause, such as it is. We must share hiscalenture of excitement, as he strides about the streets in the tempestthat fills Casca with superstitious dread and Cicero with discomfortat the nasty weather. His republicanism may be a narrow creed, but atleast he is willing to be a martyr to it; when he hears that Caesar isto wear the crown, his resolution is prompt and Roman-like: I know where I will wear this dagger then: Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius. (I. iii. 89. )And surely at the moment of achievement, whatever was mean and sordidin the man is consumed in his prophetic rapture that fires the soul ofBrutus and prolongs itself in his response. _Cassius. _ How many ages hence Shall this our lofty scene be acted over In states unborn and accents yet unknown! _Brutus. _ How many times shall Caesar bleed in sport That now on Pompey’s basis lies along No worthier than the dust! [182] (III. i. 111. )[182] What a strange effect these words are apt to produce on auditorand reader! “How true! ” we say, “The prophecy is fulfilled. This ishappening now. ” And then the reflection comes that just because thatis the case there is no prophecy and no truth in the scene; the wholeis being enacted, in sport. We experience a kind of vertigo, in whichwe cannot distinguish the real and the illusory and yet are consciousof both in their highest potence. And this is a characteristic of allpoetry, though it is not always brought so clearly before the mind. InShakespeare something of the kind is frequent: compare the reference tothe “squeaking Cleopatra” in _Antony and Cleopatra_, which is almostexactly parallel; compare too his favourite device of the play withinthe play, when we see the actors of a few minutes ago, sitting likeourselves as auditors; and thus, on the one hand their own performanceseems comparatively real, but on the other there is the constantreminder that we are in their position, and the whole is merelyspectacular. Dr. Brandes has some excellent remarks in this connectionon Tieck’s Dramas in his _Romantic School in Germany_. And even to individuals if they stand the test of his mordantcriticism, he can pay homage and admiration. The perception that Brutusmay be worked upon is the toll he pays to his self-love, but, thatsettled, he can feel deep reverence and affection for Brutus’ moreideal virtue. Perhaps the best instance of it is the scene of theirdispute. Brutus, as we have seen, is practically, if not theoretically,in the wrong, and certainly he is much the more violent and bitter; butCassius submits to receive his forgiveness and to welcome his assurancethat he will bear with him in future. This implies no little deferenceand magnanimity in one who so ill brooks a secondary role. But he doesgive the lead to Brutus, and in all things, even against his betterjudgment, yields him the primacy. And then it is impossible not to respect his thorough efficiency. Inwhatsoever concerns the management of affairs and of men, he knows theright thing to do, and, when left to himself, he does it. He sees howneedful Brutus is to the cause and gains him—gains him, in part by atrickery, which Shakespeare without historical warrant ascribes to him;but the trickery succeeds because he has gauged Brutus’ nature aright. He takes the correct measure of the danger from Antony, of his love forCaesar and his talents, which Brutus so contemptuously underrates. So,too, after the assassination, when Brutus says, I know that we shall have him well to friend;he answers, I wish we may: but yet I have a mind That fears him much; and my misgiving still Falls shrewdly to the purpose. (III. i. 144. )Brutus seeks to win Antony with general considerations of right andjustice, Cassius employs a more effective argument: Your voice shall be as strong as any man’s In the disposing of new dignities. (III. i. 177. )He altogether disapproves of the permission granted to Antony topronounce the funeral oration. He grasps the situation when the civilwar breaks out much better than Brutus: In such a time as this it is not meet That every nice offence should bear his comment. (IV. iii. 7. )His plans of the campaign are better, and he has a much better notionof conducting the battle. All such shrewd sagacity is entitled to our respect. Yet even in thisdepartment Cassius is outdone by the unpractical Brutus, so soon ashigher moral qualities are required, and the wisdom of the fox yieldsto the wisdom of the man. We have seen that however passionate andwrong-headed Brutus may be in their contention, he has too much senseof the becoming to wrangle in public, as Cassius begins to do. Anothermore conspicuous example is furnished by the way in which they bearanxiety. Shakespeare found an illustration of this in Plutarch, whichhe has merely dramatised. When Caesar came out of his litter: Popilius Laena, that had talked before with Brutus and Cassius, and had prayed the goddes they might bring this enterprise to passe, went into Caesar and kept him a long time with a talke. Caesar gave good eare unto him. Wherefore the conspirators (if so they should be called) not hearing what he sayd to Caesar, but conjecturing by that he had told them a little before, that his talke was none other but the verie discoverie of their conspiracie: they were affrayed everie man of them, and one looking in an others face, it was easie to see that they all were of a minde, that it was no tarying for them till they were apprehended, but rather that they should kill them selves with their owne handes. And when Cassius and certaine other clapped their handes on their swordes under their gownes to draw them: Brutus marking the countenaunce and gesture of Laena, and considering that he did use him selfe rather like an humble and earnest suter, then like an accuser: he sayd nothing to his companions (bicause there were amongest them that were not of the conspiracie) but with a pleasaunt countenaunce encouraged Cassius. And immediatlie after, Laena went from Caesar, and kissed his hande; which shewed plainlie that it was for some matter concerning him selfe, that he had held him so long in talke. Shakespeare, by rejecting the reason for the dumb show, is able topresent this scene in dialogue, and thus bring out the contrast morevividly. Cassius believes the worst, loses his head, now hurries onCasca, now prepares for suicide. But Brutus, the disinterested man, isless swayed by personal hopes and fears, keeps his composure, urges hisfriend to be constant, and can calmly judge of the situation. It isthe same defect of endurance that brings about Cassius’ death. Reallythings are shaping well for them, but he misconstrues the signs justas he has misconstrued the words of Lena, and kills himself owing to amistake; as Messala points out: Mistrust of good success hath done this deed. (V. iii. 66. )This want of inward strength explains the ascendancy which Brutus withhis more dutiful and therefore more steadfast nature exercises overhim, though Cassius is in many ways the more capable man of the two. They both have schooled themselves in the discipline of fortitude,Brutus in Stoic renunciation, Cassius in Epicurean independence; butin the great crises where nature asserts herself, Brutus is strong andCassius is weak. And as often happens with men, in the supreme trialtheir professed creeds no longer satisfy them, and they consciouslyabandon them. But while Cassius in his evil fortune falls back on thesuperstitions[183] which he had ridiculed Caesar for adopting on hisgood fortune, Brutus falls back on his feeling of moral dignity, andgives himself the death which theoretically he disapproves. [183] The trait is taken from Plutarch who, after enumerating thesinister omens before Philippi, adds: “the which beganne somewhat toalter Cassius minde from Epicurus opinions. ”Yet, when all is said and done, what a fine figure Cassius is, and howmuch both of love and respect he can inspire. Plutarch’s story of hisdeath already bears witness to this, but Shakespeare with a few deeperstrokes marks his own esteem. Cassius thinking in deede that Titinius was taken of the enemies, he then spake these wordes: “Desiring too much to live, I have lived to see one of my best frendes taken, for my sake, before my face. ” After that, he gote into a tent where no bodie was, and tooke Pyndarus with him, one of his freed bondmen, whom he reserved ever for suche a pinche, since the cursed battell of the Parthians, when Crassus was slaine, though he notwithstanding scaped from that overthrow; but then casting his cloke over his head, and holding out his bare neck unto Pindarus, he gave him his head to be striken of. So the head was found severed from the bodie: but after that time Pindarus was never seene more. Whereupon some tooke occasion to say that he had slaine his master without his commaundement. By and by they knew the horsemen that came towards them, and might see Titinius crowned with a garland of triumphe, who came before with great speede unto Cassius. But when he perceived by the cries and teares of his frends which tormented them selves the misfortune that had chaunced to his Captaine Cassius by mistaking; he drew out his sword, cursing him selfe a thousand times that he had taried so long, and so slue him selfe presentlie in the fielde. Brutus in the meane time came forward still, and understoode also that Cassius had bene over throwen: but he knew nothing of his death, till he came verie neere to his campe. So when he was come thither, after he had lamented the death of Cassius, calling him the last of all the Romanes, being impossible that Rome should ever breede againe so noble and valliant man as he: he caused his bodie to be buried, and sent it to the citie of Thassos, fearing least his funerals within the campe should cause great disorder. In the play Pindarus is not yet enfranchised, and though he gains hisfreedom by the fatal stroke, would rather remain a slave than return tohis native wilds at such a price. Titinius places his garland on thedead man’s brow, and in fond regret slays himself, not with his own butwith Cassius’ sword. Brutus, with hardly a verbal change, repeats theeulogy that Plutarch puts in his mouth, The last of all the Romans, fare thee well! It is impossible that ever Rome Should breed thy fellow. But he does not stop here. Flushed with his initial success, he expectsto triumph and to live, and the years to come seem darkened with grieffor his “brother”: Friends, I owe more tears To this dead man than you shall see me pay. I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time. (V. iii. 99. )The minor conspirators, with the adherents of the cause and the humblerdependents, are of course sketched very slightly, as proportionrequires, but they have all something to individualise them in gaitor pose. Even in the crowded final act, where, as in the chroniclehistories which Shakespeare was leaving behind him, a number of personsare introduced with whom we are almost or entirely unacquainted, thereis no monotony in the subordinate figures. They are distinguished fromor contrasted with each other in their circumstances, sentiments orfate. Thus Pindarus and Strato are both described as servants, they areboth attached to their masters, they are both reluctantly compelledto assist in their masters’ death. Should we have thought it possibleto differentiate them in the compass of the score or so of lines atthe dramatist’s disposal? But Cassius’ slave, who, since his capture,has been kept like a dog to do whatever his owner might bid him, willnot abide the issue and uses his new liberty to flee beyond the Romanworld. Strato, to whom Brutus characteristically turns because heis “a fellow of a good respect” with “some snatch of honour” in hislife, claims Brutus’ hand like an equal before he will hold the sword,confronts the victors with praise of the dead, hints to Messala thatBrutus’ course is the one to follow, and has too much self-respectto accept employment with Octavius till Messala “prefers,” that is,recommends him. So too with the three captains, all on the losing side, all devoted totheir leaders. Titinius, who seems to feel that his love for Cassiusexceeds that of Brutus (Brutus, come apace, And see how I regarded Caius Cassius)will not outlive him. Lucilius is quite ready to die for his general,but spared by the generosity of Antony, survives to exult that Brutushas fulfilled his prophecy and been “like himself. ” Messala, whobrought word of Portia’s death, must now tell the same tale of Cassiuswith the same keen sympathy for Brutus’ grief; and though Stratoseems to censure him for consenting to live “in bondage,” he shows nobondman’s mind when he grounds his preferment of Strato to Octavius onthe fact of Strato’s having done “the latest service to my master. ”More prominent, but still in the background, are the subaltern membersof the faction in Rome. Ligarius, the best of them, with his fieryenthusiasm and personal fealty to Brutus, is an excellent counterpartto the ingratiating and plausible Decius, the least erected spirit ofthe group. Between them comes Casca, the only one who may claim a wordor two of comment, partly because he is sketched in some detail, partlybecause he is practically an original creation. Plutarch has only twoparticulars about him, the one that he was the first to strike Caesarand struck him from behind; the other that when Caesar cried out andgripped his hand, he shouted to his brother in Greek. Shakespeare, aswe have seen, summarily rejects his acquaintance with Greek, but thestab in the back sets his fancy to work, and he constructs for him acharacter and life-history to match. Casca is a man who shares with Cassius the jealousy of greatness—“theenvious Casca,” Antony described him—but is vastly inferior to Cassiusin consistency and manhood. He seems to be one of those alert,precocious natures, clever at the uptake in their youth and full ofa promise that is not always fulfilled: Brutus recalls that “he wasquick mettle when we went to school” (I. ii. 300). Such sprightlyyoungsters, when they fail, often do so from a certain lack of moralfibre. And so with Casca. He appears before us at first as the mostobsequious henchman of Caesar. When Caesar calls for Calpurnia,Casca is at his elbow: “Peace, ho! Caesar speaks. ” When Caesar,hearing the soothsayer’s shout, cries, “Ha! who calls? ” Casca is againready: “Bid every noise be still: peace yet again! ” Cassius wouldnever have condescended to that. For Casca resents the supremacy ofCaesar as much as the proudest aristocrat of them all: he is onlywaiting an opportunity to throw off the mask. But meanwhile in hisangry bitterness with himself and others he affects a cross-grainedbluntness of speech, “puts on a tardy form,” as Cassius says, plays thesatirist and misanthrope, as many others conscious of double dealinghave done, and treats friend and foe with caustic brutality. But itis characteristic that he is panic-stricken with the terrors of thetempestuous night, which he ekes out with superstitious fancies. Itillustrates his want both of inward robustness and of enlightenedculture. We remember that Cicero’s remark in Greek was Greek to him,and that Greek was as much the language of rationalists then, aswas French of the eighteenth century _Philosophes_. Nor is it lesscharacteristic that even at the assassination he apparently does notdare to face his victim. Antony describes his procedure Damned Casca, like a cur, behind Struck Caesar on the neck. (V. i. 43. )Yet even Casca is not without redeeming qualities. His humour, in theaccount he gives of the coronation fiasco, has an undeniable flavour:its very tartness, as Cassius says, is a “sauce to his good wit. ” Andthere is a touch of nobility in his avowal: You speak to Casca, and to such a man That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold, my hand: Be factious for redress of all these griefs, And I will set this foot of mine as far As who goes farthest. (I. iii. 116. )But among those little vignettes, that of Cicero is decidedly themasterpiece. For this Shakespeare got no assistance from any of thethree Lives on which he drew for the rest of the play. Indeed the onelittle hint they contained he did not see fit to adopt. In the _MarcusBrutus_ Plutarch says of the conspirators: For this cause they durst not acquaint Cicero with their conspiracie, although he was a man whome they loved dearlie and trusted best: for they were affrayed that he being a coward by nature, and age also having increased his feare, he would quite turne and alter all their purpose. In the play their reason for leaving him out is very different: He will never follow anything That other men begin. (II. i. 151. )It seems to me, however, highly probable that Shakespeare had readthe _Life of Cicero_ and obtained his general impression from it,though he invents the particular traits. The irritable vanity andself-consciousness of the man, which Brutus’ objection implies, are,for example, prominent features in Plutarch’s portrait. So too is hisaversion for Caesar and Caesarism, which makes him view the offer ofthe crown, abortive though it has been, as a personal offence: Brutusobserves that he Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes As we have seen him in the Capitol Being cross’d in conference with some senators. (I. ii. 186. )But he is very cautious, and even when venting his vexation in oneof those biting gibes to which, by Plutarch’s statement, he was tooprone, he takes care to veil it in the safe obscurity of a foreignlanguage. “He spoke Greek . . . but those that understood him smiled atone another and shook their heads” (I. ii. 282). This has sometimesbeen misinterpreted. Shakespeare has been taxed with the absurdity ofmaking Cicero deliver a Greek speech in a popular assemblage. Surelyhe does nothing of the kind. It is a sally that he intends for hisfriends, and he takes the fit means for keeping it to them; much asSt. John might talk French, if he wished to be intelligible only tothose who had made the Grand Tour and so were in a manner of his ownset. Plutarch lays stress on his familiarity with Greek, as also onhis study of the Greek Philosophers. This may have left some trace inthe description of his bearing in contrast to Casca’s, when they meetin the storm. Cool and sceptical, he cannot guess the cause of Casca’salarm. Even when the horrors of earthquake, wind and lightning, aredescribed in detail, he asks unmoved: Why, saw you anything more wonderful? (I. iii. 14. )And after the enumeration of the portents, he critically replies: Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time: But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves. (I. iii. 32. )And then after a passing reference[184] to current affairs, he bidsCasca good night. To him the moral of the whole tempest is: “Thisdisturbed sky is not to walk in. ” Opinions may differ as to this beingthe real Cicero; none will deny that it is a living type. [184] Trivial to him, to us full of tragic meaning. Apart from the main group of personages, more or less antagonistic toCaesar, stands the brilliant figure of his friend and avenger, theeloquent Mark Antony. Shakespeare conceives him as a man of genius andfeeling but not of principle, resourceful and daring, ambitious ofhonour and power, but unscrupulous in his methods and a voluptuary inhis life. Caesar tells him that he is “fond of plays” and “revels longo’ nights. ” Cassius calls him a “masker and a reveller. ” Brutus saysthat he is given “to sports, to wildness and much company. ”He makes his first appearance as the tool of Caesar. With Asiaticflattery, as though in the eastern formula, to hear were to obey, hetells his master: When Caesar says “do this,” it is perform’d. (I. ii. 10. )He perceives his unspoken desires, his innermost wishes, and offers himthe crown. It is no wonder that Brutus should regard him but as a “limbof Caesar,” or that Trebonius, considering him a mere time-server,should prophesy that he will “live and laugh” hereafter at Caesar’sdeath. But they are wrong. They do not recognise either the genuinenessof the affection that underlies his ingratiating ways, or the realgenius that underlies his frivolity. Here, as everywhere, Cassius’estimate is the correct one. He fears Antony’s “ingrafted love” forCaesar, and predicts that they will find in him “a shrewd contriver. ”Of the love indeed there can be no question. It is proved not only byhis public utterances, which might be factitious, nor by his deeds,which might serve his private purposes, but by his words, when he isalone with his patron’s corpse. O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, That I am meek and gentle with these butchers! Thou art the ruins of the noblest man That ever lived in the tide of times. Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood! (III. i. 254. )It is worth noting the grounds that Antony in this solitary outburstalleges for his love of Caesar. He is moved not by gratitude forfavours past or the expectation of favours to come, but solely by thesupreme nobility of the dead. To the claims of nobility, in truth,Antony is always responsive and he is ready to acknowledge it inBrutus too. “This was the noblest Roman of them all”; so he begins hisheartfelt tribute to his vanquished foe. This generous sympatheticstrain in his nature is one of the things that make him dangerous. Heis far from acting a part in his laments for Caesar. He feels the griefthat he proclaims and the greatness he extols. His emotions are easilystirred, especially by worthy objects, and he has only to give themfree rein to impress other people. But along with this he has a subtle, scheming intellect; he is as mucha man of policy as a man of sentiment. After the flight of Brutusand Cassius, we see him planning how he and his colleagues may cutdown Caesar’s bequests, of which in his speech he had made so much;how he may shift some of the odium of his proceedings on to Lepidus’back; how they may best arrange to meet the opposition. This mixtureof feeling and diplomacy is especially shown in his words and deedsafter the assassination. He does not shrink from any base compliance. His servant appears before the murderers, and at his bidding “kneels,”“falls down,” lies “prostrate” in token of submission, promising thathis master will follow Brutus’ fortunes. But even here it is on theunderstanding that Caesar’s death shall be justified; and when hehimself enters he gives his love and grief free scope. O mighty Caesar, dost thou lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, Shrunk to this little measure? Fare thee well. I know not, gentlemen, what you intend, Who else must be let blood, who else is rank: If I myself, there is no hour so fit As Caesar’s death’s hour, nor no instrument Of half that worth as those your swords, made rich With the most noble blood of all this world. I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard, Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke, Fulfil your pleasure. Live a thousand years, I shall not find myself so apt to die; No place will please me so, no mean of death, As here by Caesar, and by you cut off, The choice and master spirits of this age. (III. i. 148. )What could be more loyal on the one hand, or more discreet on theother? For, as he is well aware, if he comes to terms with theassassins at all, he is liable to an alternative accusation. Eitherhis love for Caesar was genuine, and then his reconciliation with themurderers implies craven fear; or, if he can freely take their part,his previous homage to Caesar was mere pretence. As he himself says: My credit now stands on such slippery ground, That one of two bad ways you must conceit me, Either a coward or a flatterer. (III. i. 191. )And what more dexterous course could he adopt than to assert hisdevotion to Caesar without restraint, with undiminished emphasis: andat the same time to profess his respect for the conspirators, “thechoice and master spirits of this age,” and his readiness to jointhem _if_ they prove that Caesar deserved to die. This honourableand reasonable attitude, which honour and reason would in realityprescribe, must especially impress Brutus, to whom Antony is carefulchiefly to address himself. He enters a doubtful suppliant; at the endof the scene not only are his life and credit safe, but he has won fromBrutus’ magnanimity the means to overthrow him. It is characteristic of Antony that he has no scruple about using thevantage ground he has thus acquired. He immediately determines toemploy the liberty of speech accorded him against the men who havegranted it. To Octavius’ servant, who enters ere he has well ended hissoliloquy, he says: Thou shalt not back till I have borne this corse Into the market place: there shall I try, In my oration, how the people take The cruel issue of these bloody men. (III. i. 291. )He does not hesitate, though this course will involve in ruin thosewho have generously spared him and given him the weapons againstthemselves. Not even for his country’s sake will he pause, though,with his prescient imagination, he sees in all their lurid details thehorrors of the Domestic fury and fierce civil strife (I. iii. 263. )that must inevitably ensue. And he effects his purpose, without any other help, by his wonderfuladdress to the citizens. Perhaps nowhere else in History or Literaturedo we find the procedure of the demagogue of Genius set forth with suchmasterly insight. For Antony shows himself a demagogue of the mostprofligate description, but as undeniably the very genius of the art ofmoving men. Consider the enormous difficulties of his position. He isspeaking under limitation and by permission before a hostile audiencethat will barely give him a hearing, and his task is to turn them quiteround, and make them adore what they hated and hate what they adored. How does he set about it? He begins with an acknowledgment and compliment to Brutus: “For Brutus’sake I am beholding to you. ” He disclaims the intention of evenpraising the dead. He cites the charge of ambition, but not to replyto it, merely to point out that any ambition has been expiated. Butthen he insinuates arguments on the other side: Caesar’s faithfulnessand justice in friendship, the additions not to his private but tothe public wealth that his victories secured, his pitifulness to thepoor, his refusal of the crown. Really these things are no argumentsat all. They have either nothing to do with the case, or are perfectlycompatible with ambition, or may have been its very means or may havebeen meant to cloak it. Such indeed we know that in part at leastthey were. But that does not signify so far as Antony’s purpose isconcerned. They were all matters well known to the public, fit to callforth proud and grateful and pleasing reminiscences of Caesar’s career. The orator has managed to praise Caesar while not professing to doso: if he does not disprove what Brutus said, yet in speaking what hedoes know, he manages to discredit Brutus’ authority. And now theseregretful associations stirred, he can at any rate ask their tears fortheir former favourite. Have they lost their reason that they do notat least mourn for him they once loved? And here with a rhetoricaltrick, which, to his facile, emotional nature, may have also been thesuggestion of real feeling, his utterance fails him; he must pause, forhis “heart is in the coffin there with Caesar. ”We may be sure that whatever had happened to his heart his ear wasintent to catch the murmurs of the crowd. They would satisfy him. Though he has not advanced one real argument, but has only played as itwere on their sensations, their mood has changed. Some think Caesar hashad wrong, some are convinced that he was not ambitious, all are nowthoroughly favourable to Antony. He begins again. And now he strikes the note of contrast betweenCaesar’s greatness yesterday and his impotence to-day. It is such atragic fall as in itself might move all hearts to terror and pity. But what if the catastrophe were undeserved? Antony could prove thatit was, but he will keep faith with the conspirators and refrain. Nevertheless he has the testament, though he will not read it, which,read, would show them that Caesar was their best friend. Compassion, curiosity, selfishness are now enlisted on his side. Criesof “The will! The will! ” arise. He is quick to take advantage ofthese. Just as he would not praise Caesar, yet did so all the same; sohe refuses to read the will, for they would rise in mutiny—this is alittle preliminary hint to them—if they heard that Caesar had made themhis heirs. Renewed insistence on the part of the mob, renewed coyness on the partof Antony; till at last he steps down from the pulpit, taking care tohave a wide circle round him that as many as possible may see. But hedoes not read the will immediately. Partly with his incomparable eyeto effect, partly out of the fullness of his heart (for the substanceof his words is the same as in his private soliloquy), he stands raptabove the body. Caesar’s mantle recalls proud memories of the gloryof Caesar and of Rome, the victory over the Barbarian. [185] And thismantle is pierced by the stabs of assassins, of Cassius, of Casca, ofBrutus himself. He has now advanced so far that he can attack the manwho was the idol of the mob but a few minutes before. And he makeshis attack well. The very superiority of Brutus to personal claims,the very patriotism which none could appreciate better than Antony,and to which he does large justice when Brutus is no more, this verydisinterestedness he turns against Brutus, and despite all he owes him,accuses him of black ingratitude. There is so much speciousness in thecharge that it would be hard to rebut before a tribunal of sages: andwhen Antony makes his _coup_, withdrawing the mantle and displaying themutilated corpse, Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold Our Caesar’s vesture wounded? Look you here, Here is himself, marr’d, as you see, with traitors: (III. ii. 199. )the cause of Brutus is doomed. Antony has a right to exult, and he doesso. There is the triumphant pride of the artist in his art, when, onresuming, he represents Brutus as the rhetorician and himself as theunpractised speaker. He is no orator as Brutus is, and—with sublimeeffrontery—that was probably the reason he was permitted to addressthem. But Were I Brutus And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits and put a tongue In every wound of Caesar, that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. (III. ii. 230. )Note the last words: for though Antony feels entitled to indulge inthis farcing and enjoys it thoroughly, he does not forget the seriousbusiness. He keeps recurring more and more distinctly to the suggestionof mutiny, and for mutiny the citizens are now more than fully primed. All this, moreover, he has achieved without ever playing his trumpcard. They have quite forgotten about the will, and indeed it is notrequired. But Antony thinks it well to have them beside themselves, sohe calls them back for this last maddening draught. [185] Plutarch’s account of Caesar’s personal prowess in the battlewith the Nervii, and of the honours decreed him by the Senate, showswhy Shakespeare chose this exploit for special mention: “Had notCaesar selfe taken his shield on his arme, and flying in amongest thebarbarous people, made a lane through them that fought before him; andthe tenth legion also seeing him in daunger, ronne unto him from thetoppe of the hill, where they stoode in battell,{note} and broken theranckes of their enemies; there had not a Romane escaped a live thatday. But taking example of Caesar’s valliantnes, they fought desperatlybeyond their power, and yet could not make the Nervians flie, but theyfought it out to the death, till they were all in manner slaine inthe field. . . . The Senate understanding it at Rome, ordained that theyshoulde doe sacrifice unto the goddes, and keepe feasts and solemneprocessions fifteene dayes together without intermission, havingnever made the like ordinaunce at Rome, for any victorie that everwas obteined. Bicause they saw the daunger had bene marvelous great,so many nations rising as they did in armes together against him: andfurther the love of the people unto him made his victorie much morefamous. ”{note} battle orderAnd all the while, it will be observed, he has never answered Brutus’charge on which he rested his whole case, that Caesar was ambitious. Yet such is the headlong flight of his eloquence, winged by genius, bypassion, by craft, that his audience never perceive this. No wonder: itis apt to escape even deliberate readers. Such a man will go fast and far. We next see him practically the rulerof Rome, swaying the triumvirate, treating Octavius as an admiringpupil whom he will tutor in the trade, ordering about or ridiculing theinsignificant and imitative Lepidus. [186][186] In Plutarch Antony treats Lepidus with studied deference. But he has the _hybris_ of genius, unaccompanied by character andundermined by licence. It would be an anomaly if such an one were tobe permanently successful. Shakespeare was by and by, though probablyas yet he knew it not, to devote a whole play to the story of hisdownfall; here he contents himself with indicating his impendingdeposition and the agent who shall accomplish it. There is somethingominous about the reticence, assurance, and calm self-assertion of the“stripling or springall of twenty years” as Plutarch calls Octavius. At the proscription Lepidus and even Antony are represented asconsenting to the death of their kinsfolk: Octavius makes demands butno concessions.

When Lepidus is ordered off on his errand, and Antony,secure in his superiority, explains his methods, Octavius listenssilent with just a hint of dissent, but we feel that he is learninghis lessons and will apply them in due time at his teacher’s expense. Already he appropriates the leadership. Before Philippi, Antony assignsto him the left wing and he calmly answers: Upon the right hand I, keep thou the left. _Antony. _ Why do you cross me in this exigent? _Octavius. _ I do not cross you: but I will do so. (V. i. 18. )All these touches are contributed by Shakespeare, but the last isespecially noticeable, because, though the words and the particularturn are his own, the incident itself is narrated not of Antony andOctavius but of their opponents. Then Brutus prayed Cassius he might have the leading of the right winge, the whiche men thought was farre meeter for Cassius: both bicause he was the elder man, and also for that he had the better experience. But yet Cassius gave it him. Octavius too has a higher conception of the dignity of his position. In that strange scene, another of Shakespeare’s additions, when theadversaries exchange _gabs_, like the heroes of the old Teutonic laysor the _Chansons de Gestes_, it is Antony who suggests the somewhatunseemly proceeding and it is Octavius who breaks it off. And atthe close he, as it were, constitutes himself the heir of Brutus’reputation, and assumes as a matter of course that he has the rightand duty to provide for Brutus’ followers and take order for Brutus’funeral. All that served Brutus, I will entertain them . . . According to his virtue let us use him With all respect and rites of burial Within my tent his bones to-night shall lie. (V. v. 60 and 76. )For the first of these statements there is no warrant in Plutarch, andthe second contradicts the impression his narrative produces; for inall the mention he makes of the final honours paid to Brutus, he givesthe credit to Antony. Antonius, having found Brutus bodie, he caused it to be wrapped up in one of the richest cote armors he had. Afterwards also, Antonius understanding that this cote armor was stollen, he put the theefe to death that had stollen it, and sent the ashes of his bodie to Servilia his mother. _Marcus Brutus. _And more explicitly in the _Marcus Antonius_: (Antony) cast his coate armor (which was wonderfull rich and sumptuous) upon Brutus bodie, and gave commaundement to one of his slaves infranchised to defray the charge of his buriall. By means of these additions and displacements Shakespeare shows theyoung Octavius with his tenacity and self-control already supersedinghis older and more brilliant colleague. We see in them the beginning aswell as the prophecy of the end. _ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA_CHAPTER IPOSITION OF THE PLAY AFTER THE GREAT TRAGEDIES. SHAKESPEARE’S INTERESTIN THE SUBJECTIt may be taken as certain that Shakespeare did not at once set aboutcontinuing the story which he had brought to the end of one of itsstages in _Julius Caesar_ and of the future progress of which he had inthat play given the partial programme. _Antony and Cleopatra_ belongsto a different phase of his development. Though not published, so far as we know, till it appeared in theFolio Edition of 1623, there is not much difficulty in finding itsapproximate date; and that, despite its close connection with _JuliusCaesar_ in the general march of events and in the re-employment of someof the characters, was some half-dozen years after the compositionof its predecessor. The main grounds for this opinion, now almostuniversally accepted, are the following:1. We learn from the _Stationers’ Register_ that the publisher,Edward Blount, had entered a “booke called _Antony and Cleopatra_” onMay 20th, 1608. Some critics have maintained that this could not beShakespeare’s in view of the fact that in November, 1623, license wasgranted to the same Blount and the younger Jaggard, with whom he wasnow co-operating, to include in the collected edition the Shakespearianpiece among sixteen plays of which the copies were “not formerlyentered to other men. ” But the objection hardly applies, as theprevious entry was in Blount’s favour, and, though he is now associatedwith Jaggard, he may not have thought it necessary, because of achange of firm as it were, to describe himself as “another man. ” Even,however, if the authorship of the 1608 play be considered doubtful, itspublication is significant. For, as has often been pointed out, it wascustomary when a piece was successful at one theatre to produce one ona similar subject at another. The mere existence, then, of an _Antonyand Cleopatra_ in the early months of 1608, is in so far an argumentthat about that time the great _Antony and Cleopatra_ was attractingattention. 2. There is evidence that in the preceding years Shakespeare wasoccupied with and impressed by the _Life of Antony_. (_a_) Plutarch tells how sorely Antony took to heart what he consideredthe disloyalty of his followers after Actium. He forsooke the citie and companie of his frendes, and built him a house in the sea, by the Ile of Pharos, upon certaine forced mountes which he caused to be cast into the sea, and dwelt there, as a man that banished him selfe from all mens companie; saying he would live Timons life, bicause he had the like wrong offered him, that was affore offered unto Timon: and that for the unthankefulnes of those he had done good unto, and whom he tooke to be his frendes he was angry with all men, and would trust no man. In reference to this withdrawal of Antony’s to the Timoneon, as hecalled his solitary house, Plutarch inserts the story of Timon ofAthens, and there is reason to believe that Shakespeare made hiscontributions to the play of that name just before he wrote _Macbeth_,about the year 1606. [187][187] See Bradley, _Shakespearian Tragedy_. (_b_) In _Macbeth_ itself he has utilised the _Marcus Antonius_probably for one passage and certainly for another. In describing thescarcity of food among the Roman army in Parthia, Plutarch says: In the ende they were compelled to live of erbes and rootes, but they found few of them that men doe commonly eate of, and were enforced to tast of them that were never eaten before: among the which there was one that killed them, and _made them out of their witts_. For he that had once eaten of it, his memorye was gone from him, and he knewe no manner of thing. Shakespeare is most likely thinking of this when after thedisappearance of the witches, he makes Banquo exclaim in bewilderment: Were such things here as we do speak about? Or have we eaten on the insane _root_ That _takes the reason prisoner_. (I. iii. 83. )In any case _Macbeth_ contains an unmistakable reminiscence of thesoothsayer’s warning to Antony. He . . . told Antonius plainly, that his fortune (which of it selfe was excellent good, and very great) was altogether bleamished, and obscured by Caesars fortune: and therefore he counselled him utterly to leave his company, and to get him as farre from him as he could. “For thy Demon,” said he (that is to say, the good angell and spirit that kepeth thee), “is affraied of his, and being coragious and high when he is alone, becometh fearefull and timerous when he commeth neere unto the other. ”Shakespeare was to make use of this in detail when he drew on the_Life_ for an independent play. O Antony, stay not by his side: Thy demon, that’s thy spirit which keeps thee, is Noble, courageous, high, unmatchable Where Caesar’s is not; but, near him, thy angel Becomes a fear, as being o’erpower’d: therefore Make space enough between you. (II. iii. 18. )But already in _Macbeth_ it suggests a simile, when the King giveswords to his mistrust of Banquo: There is none but he Whose being I do fear: and, under him, My Genius is rebuked; as, it is said, Mark Antony’s was by Caesar. [188] (III. i. 54. )More interesting and convincing is a coincidence that Malone pointedout in Chapman’s _Bussy d’Ambois_, which was printed in 1607, but wasprobably written much earlier. Bussy says to Tamyra of the terrors ofSin: So our ignorance tames us, that we let His[189] shadows fright us: and like _empty clouds_ In which our faulty apprehensions forge The forms of _dragons_, _lions_, elephants, When they _hold no proportion_, the sly charms Of the Witch Policy makes him like a monster. (III. i. 22. )[188] I have said nothing of other possible references and loansbecause they seem to me irrelevant or doubtful. Thus Malone drewattention to the words of Morose in Ben Jonson’s _Epicoene_: “Nay,I would sit out a play that were nothing but fights at sea, drum,trumpet and target. ” He thought that this remark might contain ironicalallusion to the battle scenes in _Antony and Cleopatra_, for instancethe stage direction at the head of Act III. , Scene 10: “Canidiusmarcheth with his land army one way over the stage: and Taurus, thelieutenant of Caesar the other way. After their going in is heardthe noise of a sea-fight. ” But even were this more certain than itis, it would only prove that _Antony and Cleopatra_ had made so muchimpression as to give points to the satirist some time after itsperformance: it would not help us to the date. For _Epicoene_ belongsto 1610, and no one would place _Antony and Cleopatra_ so late. [189] _i. e. _ Sin’s. Compare Antony’s words: Sometime we see a _cloud that’s dragonish_: A vapour sometimes like a bear or lion . . . . . . . Here I am Antony: Yet _cannot hold this visible shape_. (IV. xiv. 2 and 13. )It is hard to believe that there is no connection between thesepassages, and if there is Shakespeare must have been the debtor; butas _Bussy d’Ambois_ was acted before 1600, this loan is without muchvalue as a chronological indication. 3. Internal evidence likewise points to a date shortly after thecomposition of _Macbeth_. (_a_) In versification especially valuable indications are furnished bythe proportion of what Professor Ingram has called the light and theweak endings. By these terms he denotes the conclusion of the versewith a syllable that cannot easily or that cannot fully bear the stresswhich the normal scansion would lay upon it. In either case the effectis to break down the independence of the separate line as unit, andto vest the rhythm in the couplet or sequence, by forcing us on tillwe find an adequate resting-place. It thus has some analogy in formalprosody to enjambement, or the discrepancy between the metrical andthe grammatical pause in prosody when viewed in connection with thesense. Now the employment of light and weak endings, on the one hand,and of enjambement on the other, is, generally speaking, much morefrequent in the plays that are considered to be late than in those thatare considered to be early. The tendency to enjambement indeed may betraced farther back and proceeds less regularly. But the laxity inregard to the endings comes with a rush and seems steadily to advance. It is first conspicuous in _Antony and Cleopatra_ and reaches itsmaximum in _Henry VIII. _ In this progress however there is one notablepeculiarity. While it is unmistakable if the percentage be taken fromthe light and weak endings combined, or from the weak endings alone,it breaks down if the light endings be considered by themselves. Ofthem there is a decidedly higher proportion in _Antony and Cleopatra_than in _Coriolanus_, which nevertheless is almost universally held tobe the later play. The reason probably is that the light endings meana less revolutionary departure from the more rigid system and wouldtherefore be the first to be attempted. When the ear had accustomeditself to them, it would be ready to accept the greater innovation. Thus the sudden outcrop of light and weak endings in _Antony andCleopatra_, the preponderance of the light over the weak in that play,the increase in the total percentage of such endings and especially inthe relative percentage of weak endings in the dramas that for variousreasons are believed to be later, all confirm its position after_Macbeth_ and before _Coriolanus_. (_b_) The diction tells the same tale. Whether we admire it or no,we must admit that it is very concise, bold and difficult. Gervinuscensures it as “forced, abrupt and obscure”; and it certainly makesdemands on the reader. But Englishmen will rather agree with thewell-known eulogy of Coleridge: “_Feliciter audax_ is the motto forits style comparatively with that of Shakspere’s other works, evenas it is the general motto of all his works compared with those ofother poets. Be it remembered, too, that this happy valiancy of styleis but the representative and result of all the material excellencesso expressed. ” But in any case, whether to be praised or blamed, itis a typical example of Shakespeare’s final manner, the manner thatcharacterises _Coriolanus_ and the Romances, and that shows itself onlyoccasionally or incompletely in his preceding works. 4. A consideration of the tone of the tragedy yields similar results. It has been pointed out[190] that there is a gradual lighteningin the atmosphere of Shakespeare’s plays after the composition of_Othello_ and _Lear_. In them, and especially in the latter, we movein the deepest gloom. It is to them that critics point who read inShakespeare a message of pessimism and despair. And though there arenot wanting, for those who will see them, glimpses of comfort and hopeeven in their horror of thick darkness, it must be owned that themisery and murder of Desdemona, the torture and remorse of Othello,the persecution of Lear, the hanging of Cordelia, are more harrowingand appalling than the heart can well endure. But we are conscious ofa difference in the others of the group. Though Macbeth retains oursympathy to the last, his story does not rouse our questionings asdo the stories of these earlier victims. We are well content that heshould expiate his crimes, and that a cleaner hand should inherit thesceptre: we recognise the justice of the retribution and hail the dawnof better times. In _Coriolanus_ the feeling is not only of assent butof exultation. True, the tragedy ends with the hero’s death, but thatis no unmitigated evil. He has won back something of his lost nobilityand risen to the greatest height his nature could attain, in renouncinghis revenge: after that what was there that he could live for either inCorioli or Rome? [190] Bradley, _Shakespearian Tragedy_. _Antony and Cleopatra_ has points of contact with both these plays, andshows like them that the night is on the wane. Of course in one way theview of life is still disconsolate enough. The lust of the flesh andthe lust of the eye and the pride of life: ambitious egoism, uninspiredcraft and conventional propriety; these are the forces that clash inthis gorgeous mêlée of the West and the East. At the outset passionholds the lists, then self-interest takes the lead, but principle neverhas a chance. We think of Lucifera’s palace in the _Faerie Queene_,with the seven deadly sins passing in arrogant gala before the marblefront, and with the shifting foundations beneath, the dungeons andruins at the rear. The superb shows of life are displayed in alltheir superbness and in all their vanity. In the end their worshippersare exposed as their dupes. Antony is a cloud and a dream, Cleopatrano better than “a maid that milks and does the meanest chares”: yetshe sees that it is “paltry to be Caesar,” and hears Antony mock atCaesar’s luck. Whatever the goal, it is a futile one, and the objectsof human desire are shown on their seamy side. We seem to lose sight ofideals, and idealism would be out of place. Even the passing referenceto Shakespeare’s own art shows a dissipation of the glamour. In _JuliusCaesar_ Brutus and Cassius had looked forward to an immortality ofglory on the stage and evidently regard the theatre as equal to thehighest demands, but now to Cleopatra it is only an affair of vulgarmakeshifts that parodies what it presents. I shall see Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness I’ the posture of a whore. (V. ii. 219. )In so far the impression produced is a cheerless one, and Gervinushas gone so far as to say: “There is no great or noble characteramong the personages, no really elevated feature in the action ofthis drama whether in its politics or its love affairs. ” This isexcessive: but it is true that, as in _Timon_, the suggestion forwhich came from the same source and the composition of which may bedated a short time before, no very spiritual note is struck and novery dutiful figure is to the fore. And the background is a lurid one. “A world-catastrophe! ” says Dr. Brandes, “(Shakespeare) has no mindnow to write of anything else. What is sounding in his ears, what isfilling his thoughts, is the crash of a world falling in ruins. . . . Themight of Rome, stern and austere, shivered at the touch of Easternvoluptuousness. Everything sank, everything fell,—character and will,dominions and principalities, men and women. Everything was worm-eaten,serpent-bitten, poisoned by sensuality—everything tottered andcollapsed. ”Yet though the sultry splendours of the scenes seem to blast ratherthan foster, though the air is laden with pestilence, and none of theprotagonists has escaped the infection, the total effect is anythingbut depressing. As in _Macbeth_ we accept without demur the penaltyexacted for the offence. As in _Coriolanus_ we welcome the magnanimitythat the offenders recover or achieve at the close. If there is less ofacquiescence in vindicated justice than in the first, if there is lessof elation at the triumph of the nobler self than in the second, thereis yet something of both. In this respect too it seems to stand betweenthem and we cannot be far wrong if we place it shortly after the oneand shortly before the other, near the end of 1607. And that means too that it comes near the end of Shakespeare’s tragicperiod, when his four chief tragedies were already composed and whenhe was well aware of all the requirements of the tragic art. In hisquartet of masterpieces he was free to fulfil these requirementswithout let or hindrance, for he was elaborating material that claimedno particular reverence from him. But now he turns once more toauthorised history and in doing so once more submits to the limitationsthat in his practice authorised history imposed. Why he did so it isof course impossible to say. It was a famous story, accessible to theEnglish public in some form or other from the days of Chaucer’s _Legendof Good Women_, and at an early age Shakespeare was attracted by it,or at least was conversant with Cleopatra’s reputation as one of theworld’s paragons of beauty. In _Romeo and Juliet_ Mercutio includesher in his list of those, Dido, Hero, Thisbe and the rest, who inRomeo’s eyes are nothing to his Rosaline; compared with that lady hefinds “Cleopatra a gipsy. ”[191] And so indeed she was, for gipsy atfirst meant nothing else than Egyptian, and Skelton, in his _Garland ofLaurel_, swearing by St. Mary of Egypt, exclaims: By Mary gipcy, Quod scripsi scripsi. But in current belief the black-haired, tawny vagrants, who, fromthe commencement of the sixteenth century, despite cruel enactmentscruelly enforced, began to swarm into England, were of Egyptian stock. And precisely in this there lay a paradox and riddle, for accordingto conventional ideas they were anything but comely, and yet it was amatter of common fame that a great Roman had thrown away rule, honourand duty in reckless adoration of the queen of the race. PerhapsShakespeare had this typical instance in his mind when in _MidsummerNight’s Dream_ he talks of the madness of the lover who Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt. (V. i. 11. )For to the end the poet ignores the purity of Cleopatra’s Greekdescent, and seems by many touches to imagine her as of the same typeas those undesirable immigrants against whom the penal laws were of solittle avail. Nevertheless he accepts the fact of her charm, and, in_As You Like It_, among the contributions which the “Heavenly Synod”levied on the supreme examples of womankind for the equipment ofRosalind, specifies “Cleopatra’s majesty. ”[192] It is not the qualityon which he was afterwards to lay stress, it is not the quality thatPlutarch accentuates, nor is it likely to have been suggested by thegipsies he had seen. But there was another source on which he may havedrawn. Next to the story of Julius Caesar, the story of Antony andCleopatra was perhaps the prerogative Roman theme among the dramatistsof the sixteenth century[193] and was associated with such illustriouspersonages as Jodelle and Garnier in France, and the Countess ofPembroke and Daniel in England. It is, as we have seen, highly probablethat Shakespeare had read the versions of his compatriots at any rate,and their dignified harangues are just of the kind to produce theimpression of loftiness and state. [191] II. iv. 44. [192] III. ii. 154. [193] Besides the plays discussed in the Introduction as having apossible place in the lineage of Shakespeare’s, others were producedon the Continent, which in that respect are quite negligible but whichserve to prove the widespread interest in the subject. Thus in 1560Hans Sachs in Germany composed, in seven acts, one of his homespun,well-meant dramas that were intended to edify spectator or reader. Thus in 1583 Cinthio in Italy treated the same theme, and it has beenconjectured, by Klein, that his _Cleopatra_ was known to Shakespeare. Certainly Shakespeare makes use of Cinthio’s novels, but theparticulars signalised by Klein, that are common to the English and tothe Italian tragedy, which latter I have not been able to procure, are,to use Klein’s own term, merely “external,” and are to be explained,in so far as they are valid at all, which Moeller (_Kleopatra in derTragödien-Literatur_) disputes, by reference to Plutarch. An additionalone which Moeller suggests without attaching much weight to it, iseven less plausible than he supposes. He points out that Octavius’emissary, who in Plutarch is called Thyrsus, in Cinthio becomes Tireo,as in Shakespeare he similarly becomes Thyreus; but he notes that thisis also the name that Shakespeare would get from North. As a matterof fact, however, in the 1623 folio of _Antony and Cleopatra_ and insubsequent editions till the time of Theobald, this personage, forsome reason or other as yet undiscovered, is styled Thidias; so thealleged coincidence is not so much unimportant as fallacious. A thirdtragedy, Montreuil’s _Cléopatre_, which like Cinthio’s is inaccessibleto me, was published in France in 1595; but to judge from Moeller’sanalysis and the list of _dramatis personae_, it has no contact withShakespeare’s. Be that as it may, Cleopatra was a familiar name to Shakespeare when hebegan seriously to immerse himself in her history. We can understandhow it would stir his heart as it filled in and corrected his previousvague surmises. What a revelation of her witchcraft would be thatglowing picture of her progress when, careless and calculating, shecondescended to obey the summons of the Roman conqueror and answer thecharge that she had helped Brutus in his campaign. When she was sent unto by divers letters, both from Antonius him selfe and also from his frendes, she made so light of it, and mocked Antonius so much, that she disdained to set forward otherwise, but to take her barge in the river of Cydnus, the poope whereof was of gold, the sailes of purple, and the owers of silver, which kept stroke in rowing after the sounde of the musicke of flutes, howboyes, citherns, violls, and such other instruments as they played upon in the barge. And now for the person of her selfe: she was layed under a pavillion of cloth-of-gold of tissue, apparelled and attired like the goddesse Venus, commonly drawen in picture: and hard by her, on either hand of her, pretie faire boyes apparelled as painters doe set forth god Cupide, with little fannes in their hands, with which they fanned wind upon her. Her ladies and gentlewomen also, the fairest of them were apparelled like the nymphes Nereides (which are the mermaides of the waters) and like the Graces, some stearing the helme, others tending the tackle and ropes of the barge, out of which there came a wonderfull passing sweete savor of perfumes, that perfumed the wharfes side pestered[194] with innumerable multitudes of people. Some of them followed the barge all alongest the rivers side: others also ranne out of the citie to see her comming in. So that in the end, there ranne such multitudes of people one after an other to see her, that Antonius was left post alone in the market place, in his Imperiall seate to geve audience: and there went a rumor in the peoples mouthes that the goddesse Venus was come to play with the god Bacchus,[195] for the generall good of all Asia. When Cleopatra landed, Antonius sent to invite her to supper with him. But she sent him word againe, he should doe better rather to come and suppe with her. Antonius therefore to shew him selfe curteous unto her at her arrivall, was contented to obey her, and went to supper to her: where he found such passing sumptuous fare that no tongue can expresse it. [194] obstructed. [195] Antony had already been worshipped as that deity. Only by a few touches has Shakespeare excelled his copy in the words ofEnobarbus: but he has merely heightened and nowhere altered the effect. The barge she sat in, like a _burnished throne, Burn’d_ on the water: the poop was beaten gold: Purple the sails and so perfumed that The winds _were love-sick_ with them: the oars were silver, Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke and made _The water which they beat to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes_. For her own person, _It beggar’d all description_: she did lie In her pavilion—cloth-of-gold of tissue— _O’er picturing_ that Venus where we see _The fancy outwork nature_: on each side her Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids With divers-colour’d fans, whose wind did seem _To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool, And what they undid did_ Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides So many mermaids, _tended her i’ the eyes_ And made their bends adornings: at the helm A seeming mermaid steers: the _silken_ tackle _Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands_ That _yarely_ frame the office. From the barge A _strange invisible_ perfume hits the sense Of the adjacent wharfs: and Antony, Enthroned i’ the market-place, did sit alone, _Whistling the air: which, but for vacancy, Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, And made a gap in nature_. . . . Upon her landing, Antony sent to her, Invited her to supper: she replied It should be better he became her guest; Which she entreated: our courteous Antony, _Whom ne’er the word of “No” woman heard speak, Being barber’d ten times o’er_, goes to the feast _And for his ordinary pays his heart For what his eyes eat only_. (II. ii. 196. )And the impression of all this magnificence had not faded fromShakespeare’s mind when in after years he wrote his _Cymbeline_. Imogen’s chamber is hang’d With tapestry of silk and silver; the story Proud Cleopatra, when she met her Roman, And Cydnus swell’d above the banks, or for The press of boats or pride. [196] (II. iv. 68. )[196] It is rather strange that Shakespeare, whose “accessories” areusually relevant, should choose such a subject for the decoration ofImogen’s room. Mr. Bradley, in a note to his essay on _Antony andCleopatra_ says: “Of the ‘good’ heroines, Imogen is the one who hasmost of [Cleopatra’s] spirit of fire and air. ” This is one of thethings one sees to be true as soon as one reads it: can it be thattheir creator has brought them into association through some feeling,conscious or unconscious, of their kinship in this important respect? I regret that Mr. Bradley’s admirable study, which appeared when I wastravelling in the Far East, escaped my notice till a few days ago, whenit was too late to use it for my discussion. But it was not only the prodigality of charm that would enthral thepoet. In the relation of the lovers, in the character of Cleopatra, inthe nature of her ascendancy, there is something that reminds us of thestory of passion enshrined in the _Sonnets_. No doubt it is uncertainwhether these in detail are to be regarded as biographical, butbiographical they are at the core, at least in the sense that they areauthentic utterance of feelings actually experienced. No doubt, too,the balance of evidence points to their composition, at least in theparts that deal with his unknown leman, early in Shakespeare’s career;but for that very reason the memories would be fitter to help him ininterpreting the poetry of the historical record, for as Wordsworthsays: “Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity. ” So once moreShakespeare may have been moved to “make old offences of affectionsnew,” that is, to infuse the passion of his own youth into this tale of“old unhappy far-off things. ” His bygone sorrows of the _Sonnets_ comeback to him when he is writing the drama, mirror themselves in someof the situations and sentiments, and echo in the wording of a few ofthe lines. It is of course easy to exaggerate the importance of thesereminiscences. The Dark Lady has been described as the original ofCleopatra, but the original of Cleopatra is the Cleopatra of Plutarch,and in many ways she is unlike the temptress of the poet. She isdowered with a marvellous beauty which all from Enobarbus to Octaviusacknowledge, while the other is “foul” in all eyes save those of herlover; her face “hath not the power to make love groan”; and in herthere is no hint of Cleopatra’s royalty of soul. Nor is the devotionof Antony the devotion of the sonneteer; it is far more absolute andunquestioning, it is also far more comrade-like and sympathetic; atfirst he exults in it without shame, and never till the last distracteddays does suspicion or contempt enter his heart. Still less is hispassing spasm of jealousy at the close like the chronic jealousy ofthe poet. It is a vengeful frenzy that must find other outlets as wellas the self-accusing remonstrances and impotent rebukes of the lyricalcomplaints. The resemblance between sonnets and play is confined to thesingle feature that they both tell the story of an unlawful passionfor a dark woman—for this was Shakespeare’s fixed idea in regard toCleopatra—whose character and reputation were stained, whose influencewas pernicious, and whose fatal spells depended largely on her artsand intellect. But this was enough to give Shakespeare, as it were,a personal insight into the case, and a personal interest in it, tofurnish him with the key of the situation and place him at the centre. And there was another point of contact between the author and the heroof the tragedy. It is stated in Plutarch’s account of Antony: “Somesay that he lived three and fiftie yeares: and others say six andfiftie. ” But the action begins a decade, or (for, as we shall see,there is a jumbling of dates in the opening scenes like that which wehave noted in the corresponding ones of _Julius Caesar_) more than adecade before the final catastrophe. Thus Shakespeare would imagineAntony at the outset as between forty-two and forty-six, practically onthe same _niveau_ of life as himself, for in 1607-1608 he was in hisforty-fourth year. They had reached the same stadium in their career,had the same general outlook on the future, had their great triumphsbehind them, and yet with powers hardly impaired they both could say, Though grey Do something mingle with our younger brown, yet ha’ we A brain that nourishes our nerves, and can Get goal for goal of youth. (IV. viii. 19. )There would be a general sympathy of attitude, and it even extendsto something in the poet himself analogous to the headlong ardour ofAntony. In the years that had elapsed since Shakespeare gave the firstinstalment of his story in _Julius Caesar_, a certain change had beenproceeding in his art. The present drama belongs to a different epochof his authorship, an epoch not of less force but of less restrainedforce, an epoch when he works perhaps with less austerity of stroke andless intellectualism, but—strange that it should be so in advancingyears—with more abandonment to the suggestions of imagination andpassion. In all these respects the fortunes of Antony and Cleopatrawould offer him a fit material. In the second as compared with thefirst Roman play, there is certainly no decline. The subject isdifferent, the point of view is different, the treatment is different,but subject, point of view and treatment all harmonise with each other,and the whole in its kind is as great as could be. Perhaps some such considerations may explain why Shakespeare, afterhe had been for seven years expatiating on the heights of free tragicinvention, yet returned for a time to a theme which, with his ideasof loyalty to recorded fact, dragged him back in some measure to theembarrassments of the chronicle history. It was all so congenial, thathe was willing to face the disadvantages of an action that straggledover years and continents, of a multiplicity of short scenes that inthe third act rise to a total of thirteen and in the fourth to a totalof fifteen, of a number of episodic personages who appear withoutpreparation and vanish almost without note. He had to lay his accountwith this if he dramatised these transactions at all, for to him theywere serious matters that his fancy must not be allowed to distort. Indeed he accepts the conditions so unreservedly, and makes so littleeffort to evade them, that his mind seems to have taken the ply, andhe resorts to the meagre, episodical scene, not only when Plutarch’snarrative suggests it, but when he is making additions of his own andwhen no very obvious advantage is to be secured. This is the onlyexplanation that readily presents itself for the fourth scene ofthe second act, which in ten lines describes Lepidus’ leave-takingof Mecaenas and Agrippa. [197] There is for this no authority in the_Life_; and what object does it serve? It may indicate on the onehand the punctilious deference that Octavius’ ministers deem fit toshow as yet to the incompetent Triumvir, and on the other his lack ofefficient energy in allowing his private purposes to make him two dayslate at the _rendezvous_ which he himself has advocated as urgent. Butthese hints could quite well have been conveyed in some other way, andthis invented scene seems theatrically and dramatically quite otiose. Nevertheless, and this is the point to observe, it so fits into thepattern of the chronicle play that it does not force itself on one’snotice as superfluous. [197] Of course the division into scenes is not indicated in the Folio,but a new “place” is obviously required for this conversation. Ofcourse, too, change of scene did not mean so much on the Elizabethanas on the modern stage, but it must always have counted for something. Every allowance made, the above criticism seems to me valid. It is partly for this reason that _Antony and Cleopatra_ holds itsdistinctive place among Shakespeare’s masterpieces. On the one handthere is no play that springs more spontaneously out of the heartof its author, and into which he has breathed a larger portion ofhis inspiration; and on the other there is none that is more purelyhistorical, so that in this respect it is comparable among the Romandramas to _Richard II. _ in the English series. This was the doublecharacteristic that Coleridge emphasised in his _Notes on Shakespeare’sPlays_: “There is not one in which he has followed history so minutely,and yet there are few in which he impresses the notion of angelicstrength so much—perhaps none in which he impresses it more strongly. This is greatly owing to the manner in which the fiery force issustained throughout, and to the numerous momentary flashes of naturecounteracting the historical abstraction. ” The angelic strength, thefiery force, the flashes of nature are due to his complete sympathywith the facts, but that makes his close adherence to his authority allthe more remarkable. CHAPTER II_ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA_, A HISTORY, TRAGEDY, AND LOVE POEM; AS SHOWN BYITS RELATIONS WITH PLUTARCHThe obligations to Plutarch, though very great, are of a somewhatpeculiar kind. Shakespeare does not borrow so largely or so repeatedlyfrom the diction of North as in _Coriolanus_ or even in _JuliusCaesar_. His literal indebtedness is for the most part confined tothe exploitation here and there of a few short phrases or sentences,generally of a not very distinctive character. Thus Octavia isdescribed as “having an excellent grace, wisedom and honestie, joinedunto so rare a beawtie”; which suggests her “beauty, wisdom, modesty,”in the play (II. ii. 246). Thus, after the scourging of Thyreus, Antonysends Caesar the message: “If this mislike thee,” said he, “thou hast Hipparchus[198] one of my infranchised bondmen with thee: hang him if thou wilt, or whippe him at thy pleasure, that we may cry quittaunce. ”[198] The irony of the proposal, which Plutarch indicates but does notstress, is entirely lost in Shakespeare. We have already been told thatHipparchus “was the first of all his (_i. e. _ Antony’s) infranchisedbondmen that revolted from him and yelded unto Caesar”; so Caesar isinvited to retaliate on one of his own adherents. This becomes: If he mislike My speech and what is done, tell him he has Hipparchus, my enfranchised bondman, whom He may at pleasure whip, or hang, or torture, As he shall like, to quit me. (III. xiii. 147. )So, too, Plutarch says of Dolabella’s disclosure to Cleopatra: He sent her word secretly as she had requested him, that Caesar determined to take his journey through Suria, and that within three dayes he would sende her away before with her children. The words are closely copied in Dolabella’s statement: Caesar through Syria Intends his journey, and within three days You with your children will he send before: Make your best use of this: I have perform’d Your pleasure and my promise. (V. ii. 200. )It is only now and then that such small loans stand out as examplesof the “happy valiancy of style” that characterises the drama as awhole. For instance, at the end when Cleopatra is dead and Charmian hasapplied the asp, the brief interchange of question and answer whichPlutarch reports could not be bettered even by Shakespeare. One of the souldiers seeing her, angrily sayd unto her: “Is that well done, Charmion? ” “Verie well,” sayd she againe, “and meete for a Princes discended from a race of so many noble Kings. ”Shakespeare knows when he is well off and accepts the goods the godsprovide. _1st Guard. _ Charmian, is this well done? _Charmian. _ It is well done and fitting for a princess Descended from so many royal kings. (V. ii. 238. )Perhaps the noblest and one of the closest of these paraphrases is inthe scene of Antony’s death. With his last breath he persuades her that she should not lament nor sorowe for the miserable chaunge of his fortune at the end of his dayes: but rather that she should thinke him the more fortunate, for the former triumphes and honors he had received, considering that while he lived he was the noblest and greatest Prince of the world, and that now he was overcome, not cowardly but valiantly, a Romane by an other Romane. Shakespeare’s Antony says: 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 noblest: and do now not basely die, Not cowardly put off my helmet to My countryman,—a Roman by a Roman Valiantly vanquish’d. (IV. xv. 51. )As a rule, however, even these short reproductions are not transcripts. Shakespeare’s usual method is illustrated in his recast of Antony’spathetic protest to Caesar that he made him angrie with him, bicause he shewed him selfe prowde and disdainfull towards him, and now specially when he was easie to be angered, by reason of his present miserie. Shakespeare gives a more bitter poignancy to the confession. Look, thou say He makes me angry with him, for he seems Proud and disdainful, _harping on what I am, Not what he knew I was: he makes me angry_; And at this time most easy ’tis to do ’t, _When my good stars, that were my former guides, Have empty left their orbs, and shot their fires Into the abysm of hell_. (III. xiii. 140. )Much the same estimate holds good of the longer passages derived fromNorth, which for the rest are but few. The most literal are as a rulecomparatively unimportant. A typical specimen is the list of complaintsmade by Antony against Octavius, and Octavius’ rejoinder: And the chiefest poyntes of his accusations he charged him with, were these: First, that having spoyled Sextus Pompeius in Sicile, he did not give him his parte of the Ile. Secondly, that he did deteyne in his handes the shippes he lent him to make that warre. Thirdly, that having put Lepidus their companion and triumvirate out of his part of the Empire, and having deprived him of all honors: he retayned for him selfe the lands and revenues thereof, which had been assigned to him for his part. . . . Octavius Caesar aunswered him againe: that for Lepidus, he had in deede deposed him, and taken his part of the Empire from him, bicause he did overcruelly use his authoritie. And secondly, for the conquests he had made by force of armes, he was contented Antonius should have his part of them, so that he would likewise let him have his part of Armenia. Shakespeare copies even Caesar’s convenient reticence as to theborrowed vessels. _Agrippa. _ Who does he accuse? _Caesar. _ Caesar: and that, having in Sicily Sextus Pompeius spoil’d, we have not rated him His part o’ the isle: then does he say, he lent me Some shipping unrestored: lastly, he frets That Lepidus of the triumvirate Should be deposed; and, being, that we detain All his revenue. _Agrippa. _ Sir, this should be answer’d. _Caesar. _ ’Tis done already, and the messenger gone. I have told him Lepidus was grown too cruel: That he his high authority abused, And did deserve his change: for what I have conquer’d I grant him part: but then, in his Armenia, And other of his conquer’d kingdoms, I Demand the like. (III. vi. 23. )Less matter-of-fact, because more vibrant with its fanfare of names,but still somewhat of the nature of an official schedule, is the listof tributaries in Antony’s host. (He) had with him to ayde him these kinges and subjects following: Bocchus king of Lybia, Tarcondemus king of high Cilicia, Archelaus king of Cappadocia, Philadelphus king of Paphlagonia, Mithridates king of Comagena, and Adallas king of Thracia. All the which were there every man in person. The residue that were absent sent their armies, as Polemon king of Pont, Manchus king of Arabia, Herodes king of Iury; and furthermore, Amyntas king of Lycaonia, and of the Galatians: and besides all these he had all the ayde the king of Medes sent unto him. The long bead-roll of shadowy potentates evidently delightsShakespeare’s ear as it would have delighted the ear of Milton orVictor Hugo[199]: He hath assembled Bocchus, the king of Libya; Archelaus Of Cappadocia; Philadelphos king Of Paphlagonia; the Thracian king, Adallas; King Malchus of Arabia; king of Pont; Herod of Jewry; Mithridates, king Of Comagene; Polemon and Amyntas, The kings of Mede and Lycaonia, With a more larger list of sceptres. (III. vi. 68. )[199] It is interesting to note that it had already caught the fancy ofJodelle, though being more faithful to the text in enumerating only thekings who were actually present and taking no liberties with the namesand titles, he failed to get all the possible points out of it. Agrippasays to Octavian: Le Roy Bocchus, le Roy Cilicien Archelaus, Roy Capadocien, Et Philadelphe, et Adalle de Thrace, Et Mithridate, usoyent-ils de menace Moindre sus nous que de porter en joye Nostre despouille et leur guerriere proye, Pour a leurs Dieux joyeusement les pendre Et maint et maint sacrifice leur rendre? Acte II. Still, of the longer passages that show throughout a real approximationto North’s language, the two already quoted, the soothsayer’s warningto Antony, and the description of Cleopatra on the Cydnus are the mostimpressive: and even they, and especially the latter, have been touchedup and revised. Shakespeare’s general procedure in the cases where heborrows at all is a good deal freer, and may be better illustrated fromthe passage in which Octavius recalls the bygone fortitude of Antony. These two Consuls (Hircius and Pansa) together with Caesar, who also had an armye, went against Antonius that beseeged the citie of Modena, and there overthrew him in battell: but both the Consuls were slaine there. Antonius flying upon this overthrowe, fell into great miserie all at once: but the chiefest want of all other, and that pinched him most, was famine. Howbeit he was of such a strong nature, that by pacience he would overcome any adversitie, and the heavier fortune lay upon him, the more constant shewed he him selfe. . . . It was a wonderfull example to the souldiers, to see Antonius that was brought up in all finenes and superfluitie, so easily to drink puddle water, and to eate wild frutes and rootes: and moreover it is reported, that even as they passed the Alpes, they did eate the barcks of trees, and such beasts, as never man tasted of their flesh before. This is good, but Shakespeare’s version visualises as well as heightensAntony’s straits and endurance, and brings them into contrast with hislater effeminacy. When thou once Wast beaten from Modena, where thou slew’st Hirtius and Pansa, consuls, at thy heel Did famine follow: whom thou fought’st against, Though daintily brought up, with patience more Than savages could suffer: thou didst drink The stale of horses, and the gilded puddle Which beasts would cough at: thy palate then did deign The roughest berry on the rudest hedge: Yea, like the stag, when snow the pasture sheets, The barks of trees thou browsed’st; on the Alps It is reported thou didst eat strange flesh, Which some did die to look on: and all this— It wounds thine honour that I speak it now— Was borne so like a soldier, that thy cheek So much as lank’d not. (I. iv. 56. )But including such elaborations, the number of passages repeated orrecast from North is not considerable. In the whole of the first actthis description of the retreat from Modena is the only one of anyconsequence, and though the percentage increases as the play proceeds,and they are much more frequent in the second half, even in the fifthact, the proportion of easily traceable lines is fifty-seven to fourhundred and forty-six, or barely more than an eighth. Much more numerous and generally much more noteworthy than thestrictly verbal suggestions are those that, conveyed altogether inShakespeare’s phrase, give such immediate life to the play, whetherthey supply episodes for acting or merely material for the dialogue. Sometimes a whole paragraph is distilled into a sentence, like thatfamous bit of domestic chit-chat that must have impressed Plutarch whena boy. I have heard my grandfather Lampryas report, that one Philotas a Physition, born in the citie of Amphissa, told him that he was at the present time in Alexandria, and studied physicke: and that having acquaintance with one of Antonius cookes, he tooke him with him to Antonius house, (being a young man desirous to see things) to shew him the wonderfull sumptuous charge and preparation of one only supper. When he was in the kitchin, and saw a world of diversities of meates, and amongst others eight wilde boares rosted whole: he began to wonder at it, and sayd, “Sure you have a great number of ghestes to supper. ” The cooke fell a-laughing, and answered him: “No,” (quoth he), “not many ghestes, nor above twelve in all: but yet all that is boyled or roasted must be served in whole, or else it would be marred straight. For Antonius peradventure will suppe presently, or it may be in a pretie while hence, or likely enough he will deferre it longer, for that he hath dronke well to-day, or else hath had some other great matters in hand: and therefore we doe not dresse one supper only, but many suppers, bicause we are uncerteine of the houre he will suppe in. ”In what strange ways has the gossip of the inquisitive medical studentbeen transmitted through Lampryas and his grandchild to furnishan arabesque for Shakespeare’s tapestry! And, when we know itshistory, what a realistic touch does this anecdote lend to Mecaenas’badinage, though Shakespeare has raised the profuse to the sublime bytransferring the banquet from the evening to the morning, suppressingthe fact of the relays, and insinuating that this was nothing out ofthe common! _Mecaenas. _ Eight wild boars roasted whole at a breakfast, and but twelve persons there: is this true? _Enobarbus. _ This was but as a fly by an eagle: we had much more monstrous matter of feast, which worthily deserved noting. (II. ii. 183. )Or again we are told of Cleopatra’s precautions after Actium. Now to make proofe of those poysons which made men dye with least paine, she tried it upon condemned men in prison. For when she saw the poysons that were sodaine and vehement, and brought speedy death with grievous torments: and in contrary manner, that suche as were more milde and gentle, had not that quicke speede and force to make one dye sodainly: she afterwardes went about to prove the stinging of snakes and adders, and made some to be applied unto men in her sight, some in one sorte, and some in an other. So when she had dayly made divers and sundrie proofes, she found none of all them she had proved so fit as the biting of an Aspicke, the which only causeth a heavines of the head, without swounding or complaining, and bringeth a great desire also to sleepe, with a little swet on the face, and so by little and little taketh away the sences and vitall powers, no living creature perceiving that the pacientes feele any paine. For they are so sorie when any bodie waketh them, and taketh them up; as those that being taken out of a sound sleepe, are very heavy and desirous to sleepe. This leaves a trace only in three lines of Caesar’s reply when theguard detects the aspic’s trail; but these lines gain in significanceif we remember the fuller statement. Most probable That so she died: for her physician tells me She hath pursued conclusions infinite Of easy ways to die. (V. ii. 356. )Apart from the great pivots and levers of the action Plutarch hassupplied numbers of these minor fittings. Including with them the moreliteral loans, from which they cannot always be discriminated, we findin addition to the instances already cited the following unmistakablereminiscences: in Act I. , Antony’s proposal to roam the streets withCleopatra; in Act II. , the motive assigned for Fulvia’s rising,Antony’s ambiguous position as widower, Sextus Pompeius’ courtesyto Antony’s mother, Charmian’s description of the fishing, theconditions of peace offered to Pompey, Pompey’s flout at the seizureof his father’s house, the bantering of Antony in regard to Cleopatra,the banquet on the galley, Menas’ suggestion and Pompey’s reply; inAct III. , Ventidius’ halt in his career of victory and its reason,Octavia’s distraction between the claims of husband and brother, theoverthrow of Pompey and deposition of Lepidus, the account of thecoronation of Cleopatra and her children, Enobarbus’ remonstranceagainst Cleopatra’s presence in the armament, the allusion to the warbeing managed by her eunuch and her maids, the comparison of Octavius’and Antony’s navies, the name Antoniad given to Cleopatra’s admiral,Antony’s challenge to Octavius, the soldier’s appeal to fight on land,many particulars about the battle of Actium, Antony’s dismissal ofhis friends with treasure, the embassage of Euphronius and Octavius’reply, Thyreus’ commission, Antony’s renewed challenge, the birthdaycelebration; in Act IV. , Octavius’ answer to the challenge, Antony’sdisquieting speech at the banquet, the supposed departure of his divinepatron, the defection of Enobarbus, the reference to the treason ofAlexas and others, Antony’s successful sally, his return in triumph andembrace of Cleopatra ere he doffs his armour, her gift to the valiantsoldier, the death of Enobarbus, the posting of the footmen on thehills before the final catastrophe, the presage of swallows buildingon Antony’s ship, the fraternization of the fleets, Antony’s rage atCleopatra, her flight to the tomb, the message of her death, Antony’srevulsion of feeling at the news, Eros’ plighted obligation and hissuicide, the mortal wound Antony gives himself, the second message fromCleopatra, his conveyance to the monument, Cleopatra’s refusal to undothe locks and her expedient of drawing him up, several particulars inthe last interview, such as the commendation of Proculeius; in ActV. , Dercetas’ announcement to Octavius of Antony’s death, Octavius’reception of the tidings and his reference to their correspondence,his plans for Cleopatra, the interview of Proculeius with Cleopatraat the Monument, his unobserved entrance, the exclamation of thewaiting-woman, Cleopatra’s attempted suicide, the visit of Octavius,his threats concerning Cleopatra’s children, her concealment of hertreasure, the disclosure of Seleucus, her indignation at him andapology to Octavius, Octavius’ reception of it, Dolabella’s sympathywith the captive queen, the arrival of the countryman with the figs,the dressing in state, the death of Cleopatra and Iras before thesoldiers enter, Charmian’s last service in adjusting the diadem,Octavius’ appreciation of Cleopatra’s courage and command for herburial beside Antony. This enumeration shows how largely Shakespeare is indebted to Plutarch,and also how his obligations are greatest in the later portion of theplay. They become conspicuous a little before the middle of the thirdact, and the proportion is maintained till the close; for though thereare not so many in the fifth act, it is considerably shorter than thefourth or than the last eight scenes of the third. Shakespeare however obtains from Plutarch not merely a large numberof his details, but the general programme of the story and thepresuppositions of the portraiture, as will appear from a short summaryof Plutarch’s narrative, into which, for clearness’ sake, I insert theprincipal dates. After Philippi, Antony gave himself up to a life of ostentation andluxury, interrupted by flashes of his nobler mood, first in Greeceand subsequently in Asia. Then came his meeting with Cleopatra onthe Cydnus, and in his passion for her all that was worthiest in hisnature was smothered. Despite pressing public duties he accompanied heron her return to Alexandria, where he wasted his time in “childishsports and idle pastimes. ” In the midst of his dalliance the tidingsarrive with which the play opens, in 41 B. C. , of the contest of hisbrother Lucius and his wife Fulvia, first with each other and then withOctavius, of their defeat and expulsion from Italy; as well as of theinroad of the Parthians under Labienus as far as Lydia and Ionia. Then began Antonius with much a doe to rouse him selfe as if he had been wakened out of a deepe sleepe, and as a man may say comming out of a great dronkennes. He sets out for Parthia, but in obedience to the urgent summons ofFulvia, changes his course for Italy. On the way he falls in withfugitives of his party who tell him that his wife was sole cause ofthe war and had begun it only to withdraw him from Cleopatra. Soonafterwards Fulvia, who was “going to meete with Antonius” fell sickand died at Sicyon in 40 B. C. —“by good fortune” comments Plutarch, asnow the colleagues could be more easily reconciled. The friends ofboth were indisposed to “unrippe any olde matters” and a compositionwas come to whereby Antony obtained the East, Octavius the West, andLepidus Africa. This agreement, since Antony was now a widower and“denied not that he kept Cleopatra, but so did he not confesse that hehad her as his wife,” was confirmed by Antony’s marriage, which everyone approved, with Octavius’ dearly loved half-sister Octavia, andit was hoped that “she should be a good meane to keepe good love andamitie betwext her brother and him. ”Meanwhile Sextus Pompeius in Sicily had been making himself troublesomewith his pirate allies, and as he had showed great courtesy to Antony’smother, it seemed good to make peace with him. An interview accordinglytook place at Misenum in 39 B. C. as a result of which he was grantedSicily and Sardinia on the conditions mentioned in the play. Antony was now able to resume his plans for punishing the Parthians andsent Ventidius against them while he still remained in Rome. But movedby the predominance of Octavius and the warning of the soothsayer,he resolved to take up his own jurisdiction, and with Octavia andtheir infant daughter set out for Greece, where he heard the news ofVentidius’ success in 38 B. C. In 37 B. C. , offended at some reports, he returned to Italy withOctavia, who had now a second daughter and was again with child. By herintercession good relations were restored between the brothers-in-law,each lending the other the forces of which he most stood in need. Octavius employed the borrowed ships against Sextus Pompeius, Antonywas to employ the borrowed soldiers against the Parthians. Leaving his wife and children in Octavius’ care, Antony proceededdirectly to Asia. Then beganne this pestilent plague and mischiefe of Cleopatraes love (which had slept a longe tyme and seemed to have bene utterlie forgotten and that Antonius had geven place to better counsell) againe to kindle and to be in force, so soone as Antonius came neere unto Syria. He sends for her and to the scandal of the Romans pays her extravaganthonours, showers kingdoms upon her, and designates their twin childrenthe Sun and the Moon. He does not, however, in seeming, neglect his expedition to Parthia,but gathers a huge and well appointed host wherewith to invade it. Nevertheless this so great and puisant army which made the Indians quake for feare, dwelling about the contry of the Bactrians and all Asia also to tremble: served him to no purpose, and all for the love he bore to Cleopatra. For the earnest great desire he had to lye all winter with her, made him begin his warre out of due time, and for hast to put all in hazard, being so ravished and enchaunted with the sweete poyson of her love, that he had no other thought but of her, and how he might quickly returne againe: more then how he might overcome his enemies. Not only did Antony choose the wrong season, but in his hurry he leftall his heavy engines behind him and thus threw away his chancesin advance. The campaign was a series of disasters and ended in aninglorious retreat. The only credit that can be given to him frombeginning to end is for efficiency in misfortune and sympathy with hissoldiers. Yet even these were impaired by his fatal passion. The greate haste he made to returne unto Cleopatra, caused him to put his men to great paines, forcing them to lye in the field all winter long when it snew unreasonably, that by the way he lost eight thowsand of his men. Arrived at the Syrian coast he awaits her coming. And bicause she taried longer then he would have had her, he pined away for love and sorrow. So that he was at such a straight, that he wist not what to doe, and therefore to weare it out, he gave him selfe to quaffing and feasting. But he was so drowned with the love of her, that he could not abide to sit at the table till the feast were ended: but many times while others banketted, he came to the sea side to see if she were comming. Meanwhile, in 36 B. C. , during the Parthian expedition, Sextus Pompeiushad been defeated, his death, not mentioned by Plutarch, following inthe ensuing year, and Lepidus had been deposed by Octavius, who gave noaccount of the spoils. On the other hand, in 34 B. C. , Antony, who hadoverrun and seized Armenia, celebrated his triumph not in Rome but inAlexandria. Grievances were thus accumulating on both sides, and Octavia once moreseeking to mediate, took ship to join her husband with the approval ofOctavius, who foresaw the upshot, and regarded it as likely to put hisbrother-in-law in the wrong. Antony bade her stop at Athens, promising to come to her, butafterwards, fearing lest Cleopatra should kill herself for grief,he broke tryst, and Octavia returned to Rome where she watched overhis interests as best she might. Antony in the meantime accompaniedCleopatra to Egypt and gave the Romans new offence by paying her divinehonours and parcelling out the East among her and her children. Then came the interchange of uncompromising messages in 33 B. C. , andAntony bade Octavia leave his house. The appeal to arms was inevitable,and as the taxation to which Octavius was compelled to resort in viewof his rival’s great preparation roused general discontent, it wasAntony’s cue to invade Italy. But he continued to squander his time infeasts and revels, and in such and other ways further alienated hisfriends in Rome. In 32 B. C. Octavius declared war against Cleopatra, and had Antonydeprived of his authority. The battle of Actium followed on the 2ndSeptember, 31 B. C. But Antony, after his retirement to Egypt, in somemeasure recovered from his first despondency at the defeat, and evenwhen he found himself forsaken by allies and troops, continued to livea life of desperate gaiety. After an ignominious attempt at negotiationand a flicker of futile success, the final desertion of his fleet, forwhich he blamed Cleopatra, put an end to his resistance, and he killedhimself in 30 B. C. , less, however, in despair at his overthrow than forgrief at Cleopatra’s alleged death. (He) said unto him selfe: “What doest thou looke for further, Antonius, sith spitefull fortune hath taken from thee the only joy thou haddest, for whom thou yet reservedst thy life. ”After mentioning how Antony’s son, Antyllus, and Cleopatra’s son,Caesarion, were betrayed to death by their governors, Plutarchdescribes how Cleopatra for a while is deterred from suicide chieflyby fears for her other children. Hearing, however, Octavius’ definiteplans for her, she obtains leave to offer a last oblation at Antony’stomb, and thereafter takes her own life. The biography concludes with anotice of Octavia’s care for all Antony’s children, not only Fulvia’sand her own, but those of whom Cleopatra was mother. It will be seen from this sketch that no incidents of politicalimportance are added, few are altered, and very few omitted byShakespeare. Of course the dramatic form necessitates a certainconcentration, and this of itself, even were there no farther motive,would account for the occasional synchronising of separate episodes. Thus the news of Fulvia’s death and Sextus Pompeius’ aggression isrun together with the news of the wars of Fulvia and Lucius and theadvance of the Parthians. Thus between the second marriage and thefinal breach it was convenient to condense matters, and, in doingthis, to omit Antony’s flying visit to Italy, blend Octavia’s firstand second attempts at mediation, and represent her as taking leave ofher husband at Athens. In the same way the months between the battleof Actium and the death of Antony, and the days between the death ofAntony and that of Cleopatra might easily be compressed without anyhurt to the sentiment of the story. But even of this artistic licenseShakespeare avails himself far less systematically than in _JuliusCaesar_. There, as we saw, the action is crowded into five days, thoughwith considerable intervals between some of them. There is no sucharrangement in _Antony and Cleopatra_. Superficially this play is oneof the most invertebrate in structure that Shakespeare ever wrote. It gives one the impression of an anxious desire to avoid tamperingwith the facts and their relations even when history does not furnishready-made the material that bests fits the drama. And in the main this impression is correct. Shakespeare supplies apanorama of some ten eventful years in which he can not only cite hischapter and verse for most of the official _data_, but reproduces, withamazing fidelity, the general contour of the historical landscape,in so far as it was visible from his point of view. And yet hisallegiance to the letter has often been exaggerated and is to a greatextent illusory. This does not mean merely that his picture failsto approve itself as the truth, the whole truth and nothing but thetruth, when tested by the investigations of modern scholars. Hisposition and circumstances were not theirs. He took Plutarch’s _MarcusAntonius_ as his chief and almost sole authority, resorting possiblyfor suggestions of situation and phrase to the Senecan tragedies onthe same theme, probably for the descriptions of Egypt to Holland’stranslation of Pliny or Cory’s translation of Leo, and almost certainlyfor many details about Sextus Pompeius[200] to the 1578 version ofAppian; but always treating the _Life_ not only as his inexhaustiblestorehouse, but as sufficient guarantee for any statement that itcontained. In short he could give the history of the time, not as itwas but as Plutarch represented it, and as Plutarch’s representationexplained itself to an Elizabethan. It is hardly to his discredit if heunderestimates Cleopatra’s political astuteness, and has no guess ofthe political projects that recent criticism has ascribed to Antony,for of these things his author has little to say. It is hardly to hiscredit, if, on Appian’s hint, he realises the importance of SextusPompeius’ insular position and naval power, for he lived in the days ofHawkins and Drake. [200] See Appendix D. But he is not slavishly literal even in his adherence to Plutarch. He adopts his essential and many of his subsidiary facts: he followshis lead in the broad course of events; he does not alter the mainlines of the story. But it is surprising to find how persistently herearranges and regroups the minor details, and how by this means hegives them a new significance. The portions of the play where he hasmade the narrative more compact are also, roughly speaking, thosein which he has taken most liberties in dislocating the sequence,and the result is not merely greater conciseness but an originalinterpretation. Yet on the other hand we must not either misconstruethe meaning or overstate the importance of this procedure. In the firstplace it affects not so much the history of events as the portraitureof the persons. In the second place, even in the characterisation itgenerally adds vividness and depth to the presentation rather thanalters the fundamental traits. Thus in Plutarch the soothsayer’swarning to Antony follows, in Shakespeare it precedes, the compositionwith Pompey. From the chronicler’s point of view this transposition isabundantly unimportant, but it does make a difference in our estimateof Antony: his consequent decision shows more levity and rashness inthe play than in the biography. Yet in both his whole behaviour at thisjuncture is distinctly fickle and indiscreet; so the net result of thedisplacement is to sharpen the lines that Plutarch has already drawn. And this is true in a greater or less degree of most of the cases inwhich Shakespeare reshuffles Plutarch’s notes. On the whole, despitedramatic parallax and changed perspective, _Antony and Cleopatra_is astonishingly faithful to the facts as they were supposed to be. Shakespeare could hardly have done more in getting to the heart ofPlutarch’s account, and in reconstructing it with all its vital andessential characteristics disentangled and combined afresh in theirrational connection. And since after all Plutarch “meant right” thisimplies that Shakespeare is not only true to Plutarch, but virtuallytrue to what is still considered the spirit of his subject. [201][201] This may be said even if we accept Professor Ferrero’s argumentsthat Antony’s infatuation for Cleopatra was invented or exaggerated byopponents, and that their relation was to a great extent invented orprescribed by their ambitions. Antony would still be the profligate manof genius, captivated by Asiatic ideals and careless of the interestsof Rome. His policy at the close would still, by Professor Ferrero’sown admission, be traceable to the ascendancy which Cleopatra hadestablished over him. And the picture of contemporary conditions wouldstill retain a large measure of truth. Indeed his most far-reaching modifications concern in the main themanner in which the persons appeal to our sympathies, and in which hewishes us to envisage their story; and these perhaps in a preliminaryview can better be indicated by what he has suppressed than by what hehas added or recast. There is one conspicuous omission that shows howhe deals with character; there are several minor ones that in their sumshow how he prescribes the outlook. To begin with the former, it is impossible not to be struck by thecomplete deletion of the Parthian fiasco, which in Plutarch occupiesnearly a fifth of the whole _Life_, or a fourth of the part with whichShakespeare deals in this play. It thus bulks large in Antony’s career,and though in the main it may be unsuitable for dramatic purposes, itis nevertheless connected in its beginning, conduct and close, withthe story of his love for Cleopatra. Yet we have only one far off andeuphemistic reference to it in the words of Eros, when Antony bids himstrike. The gods withhold me! Shall I do that which all the Parthian darts, Though enemy, lost aim, and could not? (IV. xiv. 69. )Why this reticence in regard to one of the most ambitious enterpriseswith which the name of Antony was associated? The truth is that thewhole management of the campaign detracts grievously from the glamourof “absolute soldiership” with which the dramatist surrounds his heroand through which he wishes us to view him. His silence in regard to itis thus a hint of one far-reaching and momentous change Shakespeare hasmade in the impression the story conveys, and that is in the characterof Antony himself. In the biography he is by no means so grandiosea figure, so opulent and magnificent a nature, as he appears in theplay. Gervinus sums up the salient features of Plutarch’s Antony in thefollowing sentence: A man who had grown up in the wild companionship of a Curio and a Clodius, who had gone through the high school of debauchery in Greece and Asia, who had shocked everybody in Rome during Caesar’s dictatorship by his vulgar excesses, who had made himself popular among the soldiers by drinking with them and encouraging their low amours, a man upon whom the odium of the proscriptions under the rule of the triumvirate especially fell, who displayed a cannibal pleasure over Cicero’s bloody head and hand, who afterwards renewed in the East the wanton life of his youth, and robbed in grand style to maintain the vilest gang of parasites and jugglers, such a man depicted finally as the prey of an elderly and artful courtesan, could not possibly have been made the object of dramatic interest. It is wonderful how Shakespeare on the one hand preserved the historic features of Antony’s character, so as not to make him unrecognisable, and yet how he contrived on the other to render him an attractive personage. The array of charges Gervinus compiles from Plutarch is notexaggerated. Indeed it could be enlarged and emphasised. Dishonestyin money matters, jealousy of his subordinates, an occasional lackof generalship that almost becomes inefficiency, might be addedto the list. But Plutarch’s picture contains other traits that hedoes not seek to reconcile with those that repel us, but drops incasually and by the way: and in Shakespeare these are brought to thefront. Valour, endurance, generosity, versatility, resourcefulness,self-knowledge, frankness, simplicity after a fashion, width ofoutlook, power of self-recovery, are all attributed to Antony even byhis first biographer, though these qualities are overweighted by themass of his delinquencies. Shakespeare shows them in relief; while themore offensive characteristics, like his youthful licentiousness, arerelegated to his bygone past, or, like his jealousy and vindictiveness,are merely suggested by subordinate strokes, such as the break inVentidius’ triumphant campaign, or the merciless scourging of Thyreus. It is sometimes said that Shakespeare’s Brutus is historically correctand that his Mark Antony is a new creation. The opposite statementwould be nearer the truth. We feel that both the biographer and thedramatist have given a portrait of Cleopatra’s lover, and that bothportraits are like; but the one painter has been content with acollection of vivid traits which in their general effect are ignobleand repulsive: the other in a sense has idealised his model, but itis by reading the soul of greatness through the sordid details, andexplaining them by the conception of Antony, not perhaps at his bestbut at his grandest. He is still, though fallen, the Antony who atCaesar’s death could alter the course of history; a dissolute intriguerno doubt, but a man of genius, a man of enthusiasms, one who is equalor all but equal to the highest occasion the world can present,and who, if he fails owing to the lack of steadfast principle andvirile will that results from voluptuous indulgence and unscrupulouspractisings, yet remains fascinating and magnificent even in his ruin. And by means of this transfiguration, Shakespeare is able to lendabsorbing interest to his delineation of this gifted, complex, andfaulty soul, and to rouse the deepest sympathy for his fate. Despitehis loyalty to the historical record he lifts his argument above thelevel of the Chronicle History, and makes it a true tragedy. In itsdeference for facts, _Antony and Cleopatra_ is to be ranked with suchpieces as _Richard II. _ and _Henry VIII. _, but in its real essence itclaims another position. “The highest praise, or rather the highestform of praise, of this play,” says Coleridge, “is the doubt whichthe perusal always occasions in me, whether _Antony and Cleopatra_ isnot, in all exhibitions of a giant power in its strength and vigourof maturity, a formidable rival of _Macbeth_, _Lear_, _Hamlet_, and_Othello_. ”In another aspect the more obvious of the minor omissions are in theirgeneral tendency not less typical of the way in which Shakespeare dealswith his subject. For what are those that strike us at first sight? To begin with, many instances of Octavia’s devotion, constancy andprinciple are passed over, and she is placed very much in the shade. Then there is no reference to the children that sprang from her unionwith Antony, indeed their existence is by implication denied, and sheseems to be introduced as another Iseult of the White Hands. Antonycries to Cleopatra, Have I my pillow left unpress’d in Rome, Forborne the getting of a lawful race, And by a gem of women, to be abused By one that looks on feeders? (III. xiii. 106. )Further, the tragic stories of Antony’s son Antyllus and of Cleopatra’sson Caesarion are left unused, Antyllus not being mentioned at all,Caesarion only by the way; though Daniel does not scruple to includeboth accessories within the narrower limits of a Senecan tragedy. Morenoticeable still, however, is the indifference with which the childrenof Antony and Cleopatra are dismissed. They are barely alluded to,though the Queen’s anxiety for their preservation, which suppliesacceptable matter not only to Daniel but to Jodelle and Garnier, isavouched by Plutarch’s statement and driven home by North’s vigorousphrase. Plutarch describes her distress of body and mind after Antony’sdeath and her own capture. She fell into a fever withal: whereof she was very glad, hoping thereby to have good colour to absteine from meate, and that so she might have dyed easely without any trouble. . . . But Caesar mistrusted the matter, by many conjectures he had, and therefore did put her in feare, and threatned her to put her children to shameful death. With these threats Cleopatra for feare yelded straight, _as she would have yelded unto strokes_; and afterwards suffred her selfe to be cured and dieted as they listed. Shakespeare makes no use of this save in the warning of Octavius: If you seek To lay on me a cruelty, by taking Antony’s course, you shall bereave yourself Of my good purposes, and put your children To that destruction which I’ll guard them from, If thereon you rely. (V. ii. 128. )But here the threat is significant of Octavius’ character, notof Cleopatra’s, who makes no reply to it, and remains absolutelyunaffected by it. Indeed she shows more sense of motherhood in herdying reference to the asp as “her baby at her breast,” than in all theprevious play. It cannot be doubted that the effect of all these omissions is toconcentrate the attention on the purely personal relations of thelovers. And the prominence assigned to them also appears if we comparethe _Life_ and the drama as a whole. It will be noted that in direct quotation, in incident and allusion,in general structure, Shakespeare owes far more to his authority inthe last half of the play than in the first: for the closer observanceof, and the larger loans from, the biography begin with the centralscenes of the third act. But it is at this stage of the narrativethat Cleopatra, for a while in the background, once more becomesthe paramount person; and few are the allusions to her from theperiod of Actium that Shakespeare suffers to escape him. Moreoversuch independent additions as there are in the latter portion of theplay, have mostly to do with her; and in six of the invented scenesin the earlier acts she has the chief or at least a leading role. Clearly, when she is in evidence, Shakespeare feels least need tosupplement, and when she is absent he has to fill in the gap. And thisis significant of his whole conception.

Gervinus tries to express thecontrast between the Antony of Plutarch and the Antony of Shakespeareby means of a comparison. “We are inclined,” he writes, “to designatethe ennobling transformation which the poet undertook by one word:he refined the crude features of Mark Antony into the character ofan Alcibiades. ” In a way that is not ill said, so far as it goes;but it omits perhaps the most essential point. The great thing aboutShakespeare’s Antony is his capacity for a grand passion. We cannottalk of Alcibiades as a typical lover in the literature of the world,but Antony has a good right to his place in the “Seintes Legende ofCupyde. ” When three-quarters of a century after Shakespeare Drydenventured to rehandle the theme in the noble play that almost justifiesthe audacity of his attempt, he called his version, _All for Love orthe World well lost_. We have something of the same feeling in readingShakespeare, and we do not have it in reading Plutarch. Plutarch hasno eyes for the glory of Antony’s madness. He gives the facts ortraditions that Shakespeare reproduced, but he regards the whole affairas a pitiable dotage, or, at best, as a calamitous visitation—regardsit in short much as the Anti-Shakesperians do now. After describingthe dangerous tendencies in Antony’s mixed nature, he introduces hisaccount of the meeting at the Cydnus, with the deliberate statementwhich the rest of his story merely works out in detail: Antonius being thus inclined, the last and extreamest mischiefe of all other (to wit, the love of Cleopatra) lighted on him, who did waken and stirre up many vices yet hidden in him, and were never seene to any; and if any sparke of goodnesse or hope of rising were left him, Cleopatra quenched it straight and made it worse than before. Similarly his final verdict in the _Comparison of Demetrius and MarcusAntonius_ is unrelenting: Cleopatra oftentimes unarmed Antonius, and intised him to her, making him lose matters of importaunce, and verie needeful jorneys, to come and be dandled with her about the rivers of Canobus and Taphosiris. In the ende as Paris fledde from battell and went to hide him selfe in Helens armes; even so did he in Cleopatras armes, or to speak more properlie, Paris hidde him selfe in Helens closet, but Antonius to followe Cleopatra, fledde and lost the victorie. . . . He slue him selfe (to confesse a troth) cowardly and miserably. Shakespeare by no means neglects this aspect of the case, as Drydentends to do, and he could never have taken Dryden’s title for his play. Nevertheless, while agreeing with Plutarch, he agrees with Dryden too. To him Antony’s devotion to Cleopatra is the grand fact in his career,which bears witness to his greatness as well as to his littleness, andis at once his perdition and his apotheosis. And so in the third placethis is a love tragedy, and has its relations with _Romeo and Juliet_and _Troilus and Cressida_, the only other attempts that Shakespearemade in this kind: as is indicated even in their designations. Forthese are the only plays that are named after two persons, and thereason is that in a true love story both the lovers have equal rights. The symbol for it is an ellipse with two foci not a circle with asingle centre. [202][202] Even in _Othello_ the conspicuous place is reserved for the Moor,and in him it is jealousy as much as love that is depicted. It has sometimes been pointed out that what is generally consideredthe chief tragic theme and what was an almost indispensable ingredientin the classic drama of France, is very seldom the _Leit-motif_ of aGreek or a Shakespearian masterpiece. In this triad however Shakespearehas made use of it, and it is interesting to note the differences oftreatment in the various members of the group. In _Romeo and Juliet_ heidealises youthful love with its raptures, its wonders, its overthrowin collision with the harsh facts of life. _Troilus and Cressida_ showsthe inward dissolution of such love when it is unworthily bestowed, andsuffers from want of reverence and loftiness. In _Antony and Cleopatra_love is not a revelation as in the first, nor an illusion as in thesecond, but an infatuation. There is nothing youthful about it, whetheras adoration or inexperience. It is the love that seizes the elderlyman of the world, the trained mistress of arts, and does this, as itwould seem, to cajole and destroy them both. It is in one aspect thelove that Bacon describes in his essay with that title. He that preferred Helena, quitted the gifts of Juno and Pallas. For whosoever esteemeth too much of Amorous Affection quitteth both Riches and Wisedom. This Passion hath his Flouds in the very times of Weaknesse, which are great Prosperitie and great Adversitie, though this latter hath beene lesse observed. Both which times kindle Love, and make it more fervent, and therefore shew it to be the Childe of Folly. They doe best, who, if they cannot but admit Love, yet make it keepe Quarter, And sever it wholly from their serious Affaires and Actions of life; For if it checke once with Businesse, it troubleth Men’s Fortunes, and maketh Men that they can no wayes be true to their owne Ends. . . . In Life it doth much mischiefe, Sometimes like a Syren, Sometimes like a Fury. You may observe that amongst all the great and worthy Persons (whereof the memory remaineth, either Ancient or Recent), there is not One that hath beene transported to the mad degree of Love; which shewes that great Spirits and great Businesse doe keepe out this weake Passion. You must except, never the lesse, Marcus Antonius the halfe partner of the Empire of Rome. Part Siren, part Fury, that in truth is precisely how Plutarch wouldpersonify the love of Antony: and yet it is just this love that makeshim memorable. Seductive and destructive in its obvious manifestations,nevertheless for the great reason that it was so engrossing andsincere, it reveals and unfolds a nobility and depth in his character,of which we should otherwise never have believed him capable. These three aspects of this strange play, as a chronicle history,as a personal tragedy and as a love poem, merge and pass into eachother, but in a certain way they successively become prominent in thefollowing discussion. CHAPTER IIITHE ASSOCIATES OF ANTONYThe political setting of _Julius Caesar_ had been the struggle betweenthe Old Order and the New. The Old goes out with a final and temporaryflare of success; the New asserts itself as the necessary solution forthe problem of the time, but is deprived of its guiding genius whomight best have elicited its possibilities for good and neutralisedits possibilities for evil. In _Antony and Cleopatra_ we see how itsmastery is established and confirmed despite the faults and limitationsof the smaller men who now represent it. But in the process verymuch has been lost. The old principle of freedom, which, even whenmoribund, serve to lend both the masses and the classes activity andself-consciousness, has quite disappeared. The populace has beendismissed from the scene, and, whenever casually mentioned, it is onlywith contempt. Octavius describes it: This common body, Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream, Goes to and back, lackeying the varying tide, To rot itself with motion. (I. iv. 44. )Antony has passed so far from the sphere of his oratorical triumph,that he thinks of his late supporters only as “the shouting plebeians,”who cheapen their sight-seeing “for poor’st diminutives, for doits”(IV. xiii. 33). His foreign Queen has been taught his scorn of theImperial people, and pictures them as “mechanic slaves, with greasyaprons, rules, and hammers,” and with “their thick breaths, rank ofgross diet” (V. ii. 208). Beyond these insults there is no reference tothe plebs, except that, as we learn from Octavius, he and Antony haveboth notified it of their respective grievances against each other;but this is a mere formality that has not the slightest effect on theprogress of events, and no citizen or group of citizens has part in theplay. Even the idea of the State is in abeyance. The sense of the majestyof Rome, which inspired both the conspirators and their opponents,seems extinct. No enterprise, whether right or wrong, is undertakenin the name of patriotism. On the very outposts of the Empire, where,in conflict with the national foe, the love of country is apt to burnmore clearly than amidst the security and altercation of the capital,we see a general, in the moment of victory, swayed in part by affectionfor his patron, in part by care for his own interest, but not in theslightest degree by civic or even chivalrous considerations. WhenVentidius is urged by Silius to pursue his advantage against theParthians, he replies that he has done enough: Who does i’ the wars more than his captain can Becomes his captain’s captain: and ambition, The soldier’s virtue, rather makes choice of loss, Than gain which darkens him. I could do more to do Antonius good, But ’twould offend him; and in his offence Should my performance perish. (III. i. 21. )And not only is Silius convinced; he gives his full approval toVentidius’ policy: Thou hast, Ventidius, that Without the which a soldier, and his sword, Grants scarce distinction. (III. i. 27. )Are things better with Octavius’ understrappers? They serve him welland astutely, but there is no hint that their service is promptedby any large public aim, and its very efficacy is due in greatmeasure to its unscrupulousness. Agrippa and Mecaenas are ready forpolitic reasons to suggest or support the marriage of the chaste andgentle Octavia with a voluptuary like Mark Antony, whose record theyknow perfectly well, and pay decorous attentions to Lepidus whilemocking him behind his back: Thyreus and Proculeius make love to theemployment, when Octavius commissions them to cajole and deceiveCleopatra; Dolabella produces the pleasantest impression, just because,owing to a little natural manly feeling, he palters with his prescribedobligations to his master. But in none of them all is there a trace ofany liberal or generous conception of duty; they are human instruments,more or less efficient, more or less trustworthy, who make their careerby serving the purposes of Octavius’ personal ambition. Or turn to the court of Alexandria with its effeminacy, wine-bibbing,and gluttony. Sextus Pompeius talks of its “field of feasts,” its“epicurean cooks,” its “cloyless sauce” (II. i. 22, _et seq. _). Antonypalliates his neglect of the message from Rome with the excuse that,having newly feasted three kings, he did “want of what he was i’ themorning” (II. ii. 76). But even in the morning, as Cleopatra recalls,he can be drunk to bed ere the ninth hour, and then let himself be cladin female garb (II. v. 21). It is not indeed to Egypt that this intemperance is confined. Thecontagion has spread to the West, as we see from the picture of theorgy on board the galley at Misenum; a picture we may take in a specialway to convey Shakespeare’s idea of the conditions, since he had noauthority for it, but freely worked it up from Plutarch’s innocentstatement that Pompey gave the first of the series of banquets on boardhis admiral galley, “and there he welcomed them and made them greatcheere. ” But in the play all the boon companions, and not merely thehome-comers from the East, cup each other till the world goes round;save only the sober Octavius, and even he admits that his tongue“splits what it speaks. ” “This is not yet an Alexandrian feast,” saysPompey. “It ripens towards it,” answers Antony (II. vii. 102). Itripens towards it indeed; but more in the way of crude excess thanof curious corruption. In that the palace of the Ptolemies with itseunuchs and fortune-tellers, its male and female time-servers andhangers-on, is still inimitable and unchallenged. It is interestingto note how Shakespeare fills in the previous history of Iras andCharmian, whom Plutarch barely mentions till he tells of their heroicdeath. In the drama they are introduced at first as the products ofa life from which all modesty is banished by reckless luxury andsmart frivolity. Their conversation in the second scene serves toshow the unabashed _protervitas_ that has infected souls capable ofhigh loyalty and devotion. [203] And their intimate is the absolutelycontemptible Lord Alexas, with his lubricity, officiousness andflatteries, who, when evil days come, will persuade Herod of Jewry toforsake the cause of his patrons and will earn his due reward (IV. vi. 12). For there is no moral cement to hold together this ruinous world. After Actium the deserters are so numerous that Octavius can say: Within our files there are, Of those that served Mark Antony but late, Enough to fetch him in. (IV. i. 12. )[203] If the ideas were in Shakespeare’s mind that Professor Zielinskiof St. Petersburg attributes to him (_Marginalien Philologus_, 1905),the gracelessness of Charmian passes all bounds. “(Die) muntre Zofewünscht sich vom Wahrsager allerhand schöne Sachen: ’lass mich an einemNachmittag drei Könige heiraten, und sie alle als Wittwe überleben;lass mich mit fünfzig Jahren ein Kind haben, dem Herodes von Judaeahuldigen soll: lass mich Octavius Caesar heiraten, etc. ’ Das ‘Püppchen’dachte sich Shakespeare jünger als ihre Herrin: fünfzig würde siealso—um Christi Geburt. Ist es nun klar, was das für ein Kind ist,dem Herodes von Judaea huldigen soll. ’ Ἐπὰν εὕρητε, ἀπαγγείλατέ μοι,ὅπως κᾀγὼ ἐλθῶν προσκυνήσω αὐτῷ, sagt er selber, Matth. ii. 18. Undwem sagt er es? Den Heiligen drei Königen. Sollten es nicht dieselbensein, die auch in Charmian’s Wunschzettel stehen? Der Einfall ist einerMysterie würdig: Gattin der heiligen drei Könige, Mutter Gottes, undrömische Kaiserin dazu. ” Worthy of a mystery, perhaps! but more worthyof a scurrilous lampoon. It might perhaps be pointed out, that, iffifty years old at the beginning of the Christian era, Charmian couldonly be ten at the opening of the play: but this is a small point, andI think it very likely that Shakespeare intended to rouse some suchassociations in the mind of the reader as Professor Zielinski suggests. Mr. Furness is rather scandalised at the “frivolous irreverence,” butit fits the part, and where is the harm? One remembers Byron’s defenceof the audacities in _Cain_ and objection to making “Lucifer talk likethe Bishop of London, _which would not be in the character of theformer_. ”There is not even decent delay in their apostasy. The battle is hardlyover when six tributary kings show “the way of yielding” to Canidius,who at once renders his legions and his horse to Caesar (III. x. 33). Shakespeare heightens Plutarch’s statement in regard to this,for in point of fact Canidius waited seven days on the chance thatAntony might rejoin them, and then, according to Plutarch, merely fledwithout changing sides: but the object is to set forth the universaldemoralisation and instability, and petty qualifications like thatimplied in the week’s delay or abandonment of the post instead ofdesertion to the enemy are dismissed as of no account. In anotheraddition, for which he has likewise no warrant, Shakespeare clothes theprevalent temper in words. When Pompey rejects the unscrupulous deviceto obtain the empire, Menas is made to exclaim: For this, I’ll never follow thy pall’d fortunes more. (II. vii. 87. )Menas is a pirate, but he speaks the thought of the time; for it isonly to fortune that the whole generation is faithful. Everywhere thecult of material good prevails, whether in the way of acquisition orenjoyment; and that can give no sanction to payment of service apartfrom the results. The corroding influence of the _Zeitgeist_ even on natures naturallyhonest and sound is vividly illustrated in the story of Enobarbus: andthe study of his character is peculiarly interesting and instructive,because he is the only one of the more prominent personages whois practically a new creation in the drama, the only one in whosedelineation Shakespeare has gone quite beyond the limits supplied byPlutarch, even while making use of them. Lepidus and Pompey, with whomhe proceeds in a somewhat similar fashion, are mere subordinates. Octavius and even Cleopatra are only interpreted with new vividnessand insight. Antony himself is exhibited only with the threads of hisnature transposed, as, for example, when a fabric is held up with itsright side instead of its seamy side outwards. But for Enobarbus,who often occupies the front of the stage, the dramatist found onlya few detached sentences that suggested a few isolated traits, andwhile preserving these intact, he introduces them merely as componentelements in an entirely original and complex personality. It istherefore fair to suppose that the character of Enobarbus will be ofpeculiar importance in the economy of the piece. Plutarch refers to him thrice. The first mention is not verynoticeable. Antony, during his campaign in Parthia, had on one occasionto announce to his army a rather disgraceful composition with theenemy, according to which he received permission to retreat in peace. But though he had an excellent tongue at will, and very gallant to enterteine his souldiers and men of warre, and that he could passingly well do it, as well, or better then any Captaine in his time, yet being ashamed for respects, he would not speake unto them at his removing, but willed Domitius Ænobarbus to do it. Thus we see Enobarbus designated for a somewhat invidious and tryingtask, and this implies Antony’s confidence in him, and his ownefficiency. Then we are told that when the rupture with Caesar came, Antonius, through the perswasions of Domitius, commaunded Cleopatra to returne againe into Ægypt, and there to understand[204] the successe of this warre,[204] Observe or await. a command, which, however, she managed to overrule. Here again inEnobarbus’ counsel we see the hard-headed and honest officer, whowishes things to be done in the right way, and risks ill-will to havethem so done. It is on this passage that Shakespeare bases the outburstof Cleopatra and the downright and sensible remonstrance of Enobarbus. _Cle. _ I will be even with thee, doubt it not. _Eno. _ But why, why, why? _Cle. _ Thou hast forespoke my being in these wars, And say’st it is not fit. _Eno. _ Well, is it, is it? (III. vii. 1. )More remotely too this gave Shakespeare the hint for Enobarbus’ othercensures on Antony’s conduct of the campaign. Thirdly, in the account of the various misfortunes that befell Antonybefore Actium, and the varying moods in which he confronted them,Shakespeare read: Furthermore, he dealt very friendely and courteously with Domitius, and against Cleopatraes mynde. For, he being sicke of an agewe when he went and tooke a little boate to goe to Caesars campe, Antonius was very sory for it, but yet he sent after him all his caryage, trayne and men: and the same Domitius, as though he gave him to understand that he repented his open treason, he died immediately after. This, of course, supplied Shakespeare with the episodes of Enobarbus’desertion and death, though he altered the date of the first, delayingit till the last flicker of Antony’s fortune; and the manner of thesecond, making it the consequence, which the penitent deliberatelydesires, of a broken heart. But this is all that Plutarch has to say about the soldier. He iscapable; he is honest and bold in recommending the right course; whenAntony wilfully follows the wrong one, he forsakes him; but, touchedperhaps by his magnanimity, dies, it may be, in remorse. Now see how Shakespeare fills in and adds to this general outline. Practical intelligence, outspoken honesty, real capacity for feeling,are still the fundamental traits, and we have evidence of them all fromthe outset. But, in the first place, they have received a peculiarturn from the habits of the camp. Antony, rebuking and excusing hisbluntness, says: Thou art a soldier only, speak no more. (II. ii. 109. )Indeed he is a soldier, if not only, at any rate chiefly andessentially; and a soldier of the adventurer type, carrying with himan initial suggestion of the more modern gentlemen of fortune like LeBalafré or Dugald Dalgetty, who would fight for any cause, and offeredtheir services for the highest reward to the leader most likely tosecure it for them. He has also their ideas of a soldier’s pleasures,and has no fancy for playing the ascetic. In Alexandria he has hada good time, in his own sphere and in his own way indulging in thefeasts and carouses and gallantries of his master. He tells Mecaenas,thoroughly associating himself with the exploits of Antony: We did sleep day out of countenance, and made the night light with drinking. (II. ii. 181. )He speaks with authority of the immortal breakfast at which the eightwild boars were served, but makes little of it as by no means out ofthe way. Similarly he identifies himself with Antony in their loveaffairs when Antony announces his intention of setting out at once: Why, then, we kill all our women: we see how mortal an unkindness is to them: if they suffer our departure, death’s the word. (I. ii. 137. )And after the banquet on the galley, when the exalted personages,“these great fellows,” as Menas calls them, have retired more than alittle disguised in liquor, he, fresh from the Egyptian Bacchanals,stays behind to finish up the night in Menas’ cabin. Yet he has a certain contempt for the very vices in which he himselfshares, at least if their practitioners are overcome by them and cannotretain their self-command even in their indulgence. When Lepidussuccumbs, this more seasoned vessel jeers at him: There’s a strong fellow, Menas! [_pointing to the attendant who carries off Lepidus. _] _Men. _ Why? _Eno. _ A’ bears the third part of the world, man: see’st not? (II. vii. 95. )Nor does he suffer love to interfere with business: Under a compelling occasion, let women die: it were pity to cast them away for nothing: though, between them and a great cause, they should be esteemed nothing. (I. ii. 141. )His practical shrewdness enables him, though of a very differentnature from Cassius, to look, like Cassius, quite through the deedsof men. He always lays his finger on the inmost nerve of a situationor complication. Thus when Mecaenas urges the need of amity on theTriumvirs, Enobarbus’ disconcerting frankness goes straight to thepoint that the smooth propriety of the other evades: If you borrow one another’s love for the instant, you may, when you hear no more words of Pompey, return it again: you shall have time to wrangle in when you have nothing else to do. (II. ii. 103. )Antony silences him, saying he wrongs this presence; but Octavius seeshe has hit the nail on the head though in a somewhat indecorous way: I do not much dislike the matter, but The manner of his speech. (II. ii. 113. )Just in the same way he takes the measure of the arts and wiles andaffectations of Cleopatra and her ladies, and admits no cant into theconsolations which he offers Antony on Fulvia’s death: Why, sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice. . . . Your old smock brings forth a new petticoat; and indeed the tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow. (I. ii. 167. )Yet he is by no means indifferent to real charm, to the spell ofrefinement, grace and beauty. Like many who profess cynicism, andeven in a way are really cynical, he is all the more susceptible towhat in any kind will stand his exacting tests, especially if itcontrast with his own rough jostling life of the barracks and of thefield. It is in his mouth that Shakespeare places that incomparabledescription of Cleopatra on the Cydnus, and there could be no morefitting celebrant of her witchery. Of course the poetry of the passageis supposed in part to be due to the theme, and is a tribute toCleopatra’s fascinations; but Enobarbus has the soul to feel them andthe imagination to portray them. Indeed she has no such enrapturedeulogist as he. He may object to her presence in the camp and to herinterference in the counsels of war; but that is only because, likeBacon, he believes that “they do best, who if they cannot but admitlove, make it keep quarter, and sever it wholly from their seriousaffairs and actions of life”; it is not because he underrates herenchantment or would advise Antony to forego it. On the contrary, heseems to reproach his general when, in a passing movement of remorse,Antony regrets having ever seen her: O, sir, you then had left unseen a wonderful piece of work; which not to have been blest withal would have discredited your travel. (I. ii. 159. )And he not only sees that Antony, despite the most sacred of ties, themost urgent of interests, will inevitably return to her: the enthusiasmof his words shows that their predestinate union has his full sympathyand approval. _Mec. _ Now Antony must leave her utterly. _Eno. _ Never; he will not; 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. (II. ii. 238. )And this responsiveness to what is gracious, has its complement in hisresponsiveness to what is magnificent. He has an ardent admiration forhis “Emperor. ” He is exceeding jealous for his honour, and has no ideaof the mighty Antony stooping his crest to any power on earth. WhenLepidus begs him to entreat his captain “to soft and gentle speech”towards Octavius, he retorts with hot pride and zeal, like a clansman’sfor his chief: I shall entreat him To answer like himself: if Caesar move him, Let Antony look over Caesar’s head And speak as loud as Mars. By Jupiter, Were I the wearer of Antonius’ beard, I would not shave’t to-day. (II. ii. 3. )He glories even in Antony’s more doubtful qualities, his lavishness,his luxury, his conviviality, his success in love, for in all thesehis master shows a sort of royal exuberance; and they serve in theeyes of this practical but splendour-loving veteran to set off hismore technical excellences, the “absolute soldiership,” the “renownedknowledge” on which he also dwells (III. vii. 43 and 46). But with allhis enthusiasm for Antony, he is from the first critical of what heconsiders his weaknesses and mistakes, just as with all his enthusiasmfor Cleopatra he has a keen eye for her affectations and interferences. Knowing Antony’s real bent, he sees the inexpedience of the Romanmarriage, and foretells the result: _Men. _ Then is Caesar and he for ever knit together. _Eno. _ If I were bound to divine of this unity, I would not prophesy so. _Men. _ I think the policy of that purpose made more in the marriage than the love of the parties. _Eno. _ I think so too. But you shall find, the band that seems to tie their friendship together will be the very strangler of their amity. (II. vi. 122. )He is as contemptuous of Antony’s easy emotionalism as of Octavius’politic family affection. At the parting of brother and sister,Enobarbus and Agrippa exchange the asides: _Eno. _ Will Caesar weep? _Agr. _ He has a cloud in’s face. _Eno. _ He were the worse for that, were he a horse; So is he, being a man. _Agr. _ Why, Enobarbus, When Antony found Julius Caesar dead, He cried almost to roaring: and he wept When at Philippi he found Brutus slain. _Eno. _ That year, indeed, he was troubled with a rheum; What willingly he did confound he wail’d, Believe’t, till I wept too. (III. ii. 51. )It is therefore not hard to understand how, when Antony wilfullysacrifices his advantages and rushes on his ruin, his henchman’sfeelings should be outraged and his fidelity should receive a shock. After the flight at Actium, Cleopatra asks him: “Is Antony or we infault for this? ” And Enobarbus, though he had opposed the presence andplans of the Queen, is inexorable in laying the blame on the rightshoulders: Antony only, that would make his will Lord of his reason. (III. xiii. 3. )He is raised above the common run of the legionaries by his devotionto his master; but his devotion is half instinctive, half critical;and, as a rational man, he can suppress in his nature the faithful dog. For the tragedy of Enobarbus’ position lies in this: that in that eviltime his reason can furnish him with no motive for his loyalty exceptself-interest and confidence in his leader’s capacity; or, failingthese, the unsubstantial recompense of fame. He is not Antony’s manfrom principle, in order to uphold a great cause,—no one in the playhas chosen his side on such a ground; and fidelity at all costs to aperson is a forgotten phrase among the cosmopolitan materialists whoare competing for the spoils of the Roman world. So what is he to do? His instincts pull him one way, his reason another, and in such an oneinstincts unjustified by reason lose half their strength. At first hefights valiantly on behalf of his inarticulate natural feeling. WhenCanidius deserts, he still refuses in the face of evidence to acceptthe example: I’ll yet follow The wounded chance of Antony, though my reason Sits in the wind against me. (III. x. 35. )But Antony’s behaviour in defeat, his alternations between the supineand the outrageous, shake him still more; and only the allurement offuture applause, not a very cogent one to such a man in such an age,wards off for a while the negative decision: Mine honesty and I begin to square. The loyalty well held to fools does make Our faith mere folly: yet he that can endure To follow with allegiance a fall’n lord Does conquer him that did his master conquer, And earns a place i’ the story. (III. xiii. 41. )The paltering of Cleopatra however is a further object lesson: Sir, sir, thou art so leaky, That we must leave thee to thy sinking, for Thy dearest quit thee. (III. xiii. 63. )Then the observation of Antony’s frenzy of wrath and frenzy of couragefinally convinces him that the man is doomed, and he forms hisresolution: Now he’ll outstare the lightning. To be furious Is to be frighted out of fear: and in that mood The dove will peck the estridge; and I see still A diminution in our captain’s brain Restores his heart: when valour preys on reason, It eats the sword it fights with. I will seek Some way to leave him. (III. xiii. 195. )There is something inevitable in his recreancy, for the principle thatMenas puts in words is the presupposition on which everybody acts; andAntony himself can understand exactly what has taken place: O, my fortunes have Corrupted honest men! (IV. v. 16. )Enobarbus’ heart is right, but in the long run it has no chance againstthe convincing arguments of the situation. And yet his heart has shownhim the worthy way, and, in his despair and remorse, it recovershold of the truth that his head had made him doubt. Observe howeverthat even his revulsion of feeling is brought about by the appealto his worldly wisdom; it is not by their unassisted power that thediscredited whispers of conscience make themselves heard and regaintheir authority. Enobarbus’ penitence, though sudden, is all rationallyexplained, and is quite different from the miraculous conversions ofsome wrong-doers in fiction, who in an instant are awakened to gracefor no conceivable cause and by no intelligible means. He is madeto realise that he has taken wrong measures in his own interest, byOctavius’ treatment of the other deserters. Alexas did revolt; and went to Jewry on Affairs of Antony; there did persuade Great Herod to incline himself to Caesar And leave his master Antony: for this pains Caesar hath hang’d him. Canidius and the rest That fell away have entertainment, but No honourable trust. I have done ill: Of which I do accuse myself so sorely, That I will joy no more. (IV. vi. 11. )Then the transmission to him of his treasure with increase, makeshim feel that after all loyalty might have been a more profitableinvestment: O Antony, Thou mine of bounty, how would’st thou have paid My better service, when my turpitude Thou dost so crown with gold! (IV. vi. 31. )But he does not stop here. It is only in this way that his judgment,trained by the time to test all things by material advantage, can beconvinced. But when it is convinced, his deeper and nobler nature findsfree vent in self-recrimination and self-reproach. He goes on: This blows my heart: If swift thought break it not, a swifter mean Shall outstrike thought: but thought will do’t, I feel. I fight against thee! No: I will go seek Some ditch wherein to die; the foul’st best fits My latter part of life. (IV. vi. 35. )And this too is most natural. Antony’s generosity restores to him hisold impression of Antony’s magnificence which he had lost in these lastsorry days. With that returns his old enthusiasm, and with that awakesthe sense of his own transgression against such greatness. He is readynow in expiation to sacrifice the one thing that in the end made himstill shrink from treason. He had tried to steady himself, as we haveseen, with the thought that the glory of loyalty would be his, if heremained faithful to the last. Now he demands the brand of treacheryfor his name, though he fain would have Antony’s pardon for himself: O Antony, Nobler than my revolt is infamous, Forgive me in thine own particular: But let the world rank me in register A master-leaver and a fugitive. (IV. ix. 18. )Thus he dies heart-broken and in despair. Personal attachment toan individual, the one ethical motive that lingers in a world ofself-seekers to give existence some dignity and worth, is theinspiration of his soul. But even this he cannot preserve unspoiled: onaccepted assumptions he is forced to deny and desecrate it. He succumbsless through his own fault than through the fault of the age; and thisis his grand failure. When he realises what it means, there is no needof suicide: he is killed by “swift thought,” by the consciousness thathis life with this on his record is loathsome and alien, a “very rebelto his will,” that only “hangs on him” (IV. ix. 14). Among the struggling and contentious throng of worldlings and egoistswho to succeed must tread their nobler instincts underfoot, and even sodo not always succeed, are there any honest and sterling characters atall? There are a few, in the background, barely sketched, half hid fromsight. But we can perceive their presence, and even distinguish theirgait and bearing, though the artist’s purpose forbade their portrayalin detail. First of these is Scarus, the simple and valiant fightingman,who resents the infatuation of Antony and the ruinous influenceof Cleopatra as deeply as Enobarbus, but whose unsophisticatedsoldier-nature keeps him to his colours with a troth that the lessnaïf Enobarbus could admire but could not observe. It is from hismouth that the most opprobrious epithets are hurled on the abscondingpair, the “ribaudred nag of Egypt, whom leprosy o’ertake,” and “thedoting mallard,” “the noble ruin of her magic” who has kissed awaykingdoms and provinces. But as soon as he hears they have fled towardPeloponnesus, he cries: ’Tis easy to’t; and there will I attend What further comes. (III. x. 32. )He attends to good purpose, and is the hero of the last skirmish; whenAntony’s prowess rouses him to applause, from which he is too honest toexclude reproach: O my brave emperor, this is fought indeed! Had we done so at first, we had droven them home With clouts about their heads. (IV. vii. 4. )Then halting-bleeding, with a wound that from a T has been made an H,he still follows the chase. It is a little touch of irony, apt to beoverlooked, that he, who has cursed Cleopatra’s magic and raged becausekingdoms were kissed away, should now as grand reward have his meritscommended to “this great fairy,” and as highest honour have leave toraise her hand—the hand that cost Thyreus so dear—to his own lips. Doubtless, despite his late outbreak, he appreciates these favours asmuch as the golden armour that Cleopatra adds. Says Antony, He has deserved it, were it carbuncled Like holy Phoebus car. (IV. viii. 28. )He has: for he is of other temper than his nameless and featurelessoriginal in Plutarch, who is merely a subaltern who had fought well inthe sally. Cleopatra to reward his manlines, gave him an armor and head peece of cleene gold: howbeit the man at armes when he had received this rich gift, stale away by night and went to Caesar. Not so Scarus. He is still at his master’s side on the disastrousmorrow and takes from him the last orders that Antony as commander evergave. In this Roman legionary the spirit of military obligation still assertsits power; and the spirit of domestic obligation is as strong in theRoman matron Octavia. Shakespeare has been accused of travestyingthis noble and dutiful lady. He certainly does not do that, and thestrange misstatement has arisen from treating seriously Cleopatra’sdistortion of the messenger’s report, or from taking that report, whenthe messenger follows Cleopatra’s lead, as Shakespeare’s deliberateverdict. If the messenger says that she is low-voiced and not so tallas her rival, is that equivalent to the “dull of tongue, and dwarfish”into which it is translated? And finding it so translated, is itwonderful that the browbeaten informant should henceforth adopt thesame style himself, and exaggerate her deliberate motion to creeping,her statuesque dignity to torpor, the roundness of her face todeformity—which Cleopatra at once interprets as foolishness—the lownessof her forehead to as much as you please, or, in his phrase, “as shewould wish it. ” Agrippa, on the other hand speaks of her as one, whose beauty claims No worse a husband than the best of men: Whose virtue and whose general graces speak That which none else can utter. (II. ii. 130. )Mecaenas, too, pays his tribute to her “beauty, wisdom, modesty” (II. ii. 246). And if the praises of the courtiers are suspect, they arenot more so than the censures with which Cleopatra flatters herself oris flattered. But if we dismiss, or at least discount, both sets ofoverstatements, and with them Antony’s own phrase, “a gem of women,”uttered in the heat of jealous contrast, there are other conclusiveevidences of the opinion in which she is held. Enobarbus speaks of her“holy, cold, and still conversation” (II. vi. 131). Antony thinks ofher as patient, even when he threatens Cleopatra with her vengeance bypersonal assault (IV. xii. 38). Cleopatra, with her finer intuition,even when recalling Antony’s threat, conjectures more justly what thatvengeance would be: Your wife Octavia, with her modest eyes And still conclusion, shall acquire no honour Demuring upon me. (IV. xv. 27. )And elsewhere she asserts that she will not once be chastised with the sober eye Of dull Octavia. (V. ii. 54. )It is easy to construct her picture from these hints. Calm, pure,devout, submissive; quite without vivacity or initiative, shepresents the old-fashioned ideal of womanhood, that finds a spheresubordinate though august, by the domestic hearth. And this is in themain Plutarch’s conception of her too. But there are differences. Thesacrifices of the lady to the exigencies of statecraft is emphasisedby the historian: “She was maryed unto him as it were of necessitie,bicause her brother Caesars affayres so required it,” and that even inher year of mourning, so that a dispensation had to be obtained; sinceit was “against the law that a widow should be maried within tennemonethes after her husbandes death. ” Nevertheless her association withAntony is far more intimate in Plutarch than in Shakespeare; she is themother of his children, feels bound to him, and definitely takes hisside. When relations first become strained between the brothers-in-law,and not, as in the drama, just before the final breach, she plays thepeace maker, but successfully and on Antony’s behalf. She seeks outher brother; tells him she is now the happiest woman in the world; ifwar should break out between them, “it is uncertaine to which of themthe goddes have assigned the victorie or overthrowe. But for me, onwhich side soever victorie fall, my state can be but most miserablestill. ” In Shakespeare this petition, eked out with reminiscences ofthe appeal of Blanch in _King John_, and with anticipations of theappeal of Volumnia in _Coriolanus_, is addressed to Antony, and theeven balance of her sympathies is accented and reiterated in a way forwhich Plutarch gives no warrant. In the _Life_ again, even when Antony has rejoined Cleopatra, hasshowered provinces on her and his illegitimate children, and, after theParthian campaign, is living with her once more, Octavia insists onseeking him out and brings him great store of apparell for souldiers, a great number of horse, summe of money, and gifts, to bestow on his friendes and Captaines he had about him: and besides all those, she had two thowsand souldiers chosen men, all well armed, like unto the Praetors bands. She has to return from Athens without seeing Antony, but, despiteCaesar’s command, she still lives in her husband’s house, still triesto heal the division, looks after his children and promotes thebusiness of all whom he sends to Rome. Howbeit thereby, thinking no hurt, she did Antonius great hurt. For her honest love and regard to her husband, made every man hate him, when they sawe he did so unkindly use so noble a Lady. And finally, when Antony sent her word to leave his house, she tookwith her all his children save Fulvia’s eldest son who was with hisfather, and instead of showing resentment, only bewailed and lamented“her cursed hap that had brought her to this, that she was accomptedone of the chiefest causes of this civill warre. ”Her even more magnanimous care for all Antony’s offspring withoutdistinction, when Antony is no more, belongs of course to a later date;but all the previous instances of her devotion to his interest fallwell within the limits of the play, and yet Shakespeare makes no use ofthem. It does not suit him to suggest that Antony ever deviated from hispassion for Cleopatra or bestowed his affection elsewhere: indeed, onthe eve of his marriage, he reveals his heart and intentions clearlyenough. But Shakespeare also knows that without affection to bring itout, there will be no answering affection in a woman like Octavia. Shewill be true to all her obligations, so long as they are obligations,but no love will be roused to make her do more than is in her bond. And of love there is in the play as little trace on her part as onAntony’s. It is brother and sister, not husband and wife, that exchangethe most endearing terms: “Sweet Octavia,” “My dearest sister,” and “mynoble brother,” “most dear Caesar”; while to Antony she is “Octavia,”“gentle Octavia,” or at most “Dear Lady,” and to her he is “Good mylord. ” At the parting in Rome Caesar has a cloud in his face and hereyes drop tears like April showers. At the parting in Athens there isonly the formal permission to leave, on the one hand, and the formalacknowledgment on the other. Evidently, if, as she says, she has her heart parted betwixt two friends That do afflict each other, (III. vi. 77. )or if Antony describes her equipoise of feeling as the swan’s down-feather, That stands upon the swell at full of tide, And neither way inclines, (III. ii. 48. )it is not because she regards them both with equal tenderness. Herbrother has her love; her husband, so long as he deserves it, has herduty. But when he forfeits his claim, she has done with him, unlikePlutarch’s Octavia, who pursues him to the end, and beyond the end,with a self-forgetfulness that her mere covenant could never callforth. Of all this there is nothing in the play. Her appeal to Antonyin defence of Caesar is far warmer than her appeal to Caesar on behalfof Antony, and when she definitely hears that Antony has not onlyjoined Cleopatra against her brother but has installed Cleopatra in herown place, she merely says, “Is it so? ” and falls silent. No wonder. She is following Antony’s instructions to the letter: Let your best love draw to that point, which seeks Best to preserve it. (III. iv. 21. )And again: When it appears to you where this begins, Turn your displeasure that way; for our faults Can never be so equal that your love Can equally move with them. (III. iv. 33. )But this tacit assumption, fully borne out by her previous words, thatthe claims of husband and brother are equal in her eyes, and that theprecedence is to be determined merely by a comparison of faults, showshow little of wifely affection Octavia felt, though doubtless she wouldbe willing to fulfil her responsibilities to the smallest jot andtittle. The hurried, loveless and transitory union, into which Antony hasentered only to suit his convenience, for as Enobarbus says, “hemarried but his occasion here,” and into which Octavia has enteredonly out of deference to her brother who “uses his power unto her,”has thus merely a political and moral but no emotional significance. This Roman marriage lies further apart from the love story of Antonythan the marriage in Brittany does from the love story of Tristram. This diplomatic alliance interferes as little with Octavia’s sisterlydevotion to Octavius as the political alliances of Marguerited’Angoulême interfered with her sisterly devotion to Francis I. Andmuch is gained by this for the play. In the first place the hero nolonger, as in the biography, offends us by fickleness in his grandidolatry and infidelity to a second attachment, on the one hand, orby ingratitude to a longsuffering and loving wife on the other. Butjust for that reason Octavia does not really enter into his life,and claims no full delineation. She is hardly visible, and does notdisturb our sympathies with the lovers or force on us moral regards bydemuring on them and chastising them with her sober eyes. Neverthelessvisible at intervals she is, and then she seems to tell of another lifethan that of Alexandrian indulgence, a narrower life of obligationsand pieties beside which the carnival of impulse is both glorifiedand condemned. And she does this not less effectually, but a greatdeal less obtrusively, that in her shadowy form as she flits from themourning-chamber to the altar at the bidding of her brother, and fromAthens to Rome to preserve the peace, we see rather the self-devotedsister than the devoted wife. For in the play she is sister first andessentially, and wife only in the second place because her sisterlyfeeling is so strong. Still more slightly sketched than the domestic loyalty of Octavia oreven than the military loyalty of Scarus, is the loyalty of Eros theservant; but it is the most affecting of all, for it is to the death. Characteristically, he who obtains the highest spiritual honours thatare awarded to any person in the play, is one of a class to which inthe prime of ancient civilisation the possibility of any moral lifewould in theory have been denied. Morality was for the free citizen ofa free state: the slave was not really capable of it. And indeed itis clear that often for the slave, who might be only one of the goodsand chattels of his owner, the sole chance of escape from a conditionof spiritual as well as physical servitude would lie in personalenthusiasm for the master, in willing self-absorption in him. But in aworld like that of _Antony and Cleopatra_ such personal enthusiasm, aswe have seen, is almost the highest thing that remains. So it is thequondam slave, Eros the freedman, bred in the cult of it, who bearsaway the palm. Antony commands him to slay him: When I did make thee free, sworest thou not then To do this when I bade thee? Do it at once; Or thy precedent services are all But accidents unpurposed. Draw, and come. (IV. xiv. 81. )But Eros by breaking his oath and slaying himself, does his mastera better service. He cheers him in his dark hour by this proof ofmeasureless attachment: Thus do I escape the sorrow Of Antony’s death. (IV. xiv. 94. )CHAPTER IVTHE POLITICAL LEADERSSo much for the freedman whom Antony hails as his master, thrice noblerthan himself. But what about his betters, the “great fellows” as Menascalls them, his rivals and associates in Empire? Let us run through the series of them; and despite his pride of placewe cannot begin lower than with the third Triumvir. Lepidus, the “slight unmeritable man, meet to be sent on errands,” ashe is described in _Julius Caesar_, maintains the same character here,and is hardly to be talked of “but as a property. ” In the first scenewhere he appears, when he and Octavius are discussing Antony’s absence,he is a mere cypher. Even in this hour of need, Octavius unconsciouslyand as a matter of course treats Antony’s negligence as a wrong not tothem both but only to himself. The messenger never addresses Lepidusand assumes that the question is between Caesar and Pompey alone. Atthe close this titular partner “beseeches” to be informed of what takesplace, and Octavius acknowledges that it is his “bond,” but clearly itis not his choice. No doubt on the surface he pleases by his moderate and conciliatoryattitude. When Octavius is indicting his absent colleague, Lepidus isfrank in his excuse: I must not think there are Evils enow to darken all his goodness: His faults in him seem as the spots of heaven, More fiery by night’s blackness. (I. iv. 10. )Knowing the zeal and influence of Enobarbus, he recommends hismediation as a becoming and worthy deed, and tries to mitigate hisvehemence: Your speech is passion: But, pray you, stir no embers up. (II. ii. 12. )And when the Triumvirs meet, the counsels of forbearance, whichShakespeare assigns to him and which in Plutarch are not associatedwith his name, are just in the right tone: Noble friends, That which combined us was most great, and let not A leaner action rend us. What’s amiss May it be gently heard: when we debate Our trivial difference loud, we do commit Murder in healing wounds: then, noble partners, The rather, for I earnestly beseech, Touch you the sourest points with sweetest terms, Nor curstness grow to the matter. (II. ii. 17. )But all this springs from no real kindliness or public spirit. Pompeyunderstands the position: Lepidus flatters both, Of both is flatter’d: but he neither loves, Nor either cares for him. (II. i. 14. )It is mere indolence and flaccidity of temper that makes him readyto play the peace-maker, and his efforts are proof of incompetencerather than of nobility. He is so anxious to agree with everybody andingratiate himself with both parties, that he excites the ridicule notonly of the downright Enobarbus, but of the reticent and diplomaticAgrippa: _Eno. _ O, how he loves Caesar! _Agr. _ Nay, but how dearly he adores Mark Antony! _Eno. _ Caesar? Why, he’s the Jupiter of men. _Agr. _ What’s Antony? The god of Jupiter. _Eno. _ Spake you of Caesar? How! the nonpareil! _Agr. _ O Antony! O thou Arabian bird! _Eno. _ Would you praise Caesar, say “Caesar”: go no further. _Agr. _ Indeed, he plied them both with excellent praises. (III. ii. 7. )He will be all things to all men that he himself may be saved; and hislove of peace runs parallel with his readiness for good cheer. He likesto enjoy himself and soon drinks himself drunk. The very servants seethrough his infirmity: _Sec. Serv. _ As they pinch one another by the disposition, he cries out “no more”; reconciles them to his entreaty and himself to the drink. [205] (II. vii. 6. )[205] I take this much discussed passage to refer to the frictionthat inevitably arises in such a gathering. The guests are of suchdifferent disposition or temperament, that especially after theirlate misunderstandings they are bound to chafe each other. We have anexample of it. Pompey plays the cordial and tactful host to perfection,but even he involuntarily harks back to his grievance: O, Antony, You have my father’s house,—But, what? we are friends. I think the meaning of the second servant’s remark is that when suchlittle _contretemps_ occur, as they could not but do in so ill-assorteda company, Lepidus in his role of peace-maker interferes to check them,and drowns the difference in a carouse. But the result is that hebefuddles himself. And they proceed to draw the moral of the whole situation. Lepidus’ineptitude is due to the same circumstance that brings Costard’scriticism on Sir Nathaniel when the curate breaks down in the pageant. “A foolish mild man; an honest man, look you, and soon dashed. He isa marvellous good neighbour, faith, . . . but, for Alexander,—alas,you see how ’tis,—a little o’erparted. ” Lepidus too is a marvellousgood neighbour, but for a Triumvir,—alas, you see how ’tis,—a littleo’erparted. He is attempting a part or role that is too big for him. He is in a position and company where his nominal influence goes fornothing and his want of perception puts him to the blush. _Sec. Serv. _ Why, this it is to have a name in great men’s fellowship: I had as lief have a reed that will do me no service as a partizan I could not heave. _First Serv. _ To be called into a huge sphere, and not to be seen to move in’t, are the holes where eyes should be, which pitifully disaster the cheeks. (II. vii. 12. )In his efforts at _bonhomie_, he becomes so bemused that even Antony,generally so affable and courteous, does not trouble to be decentlycivil, and flouts him to his wine-sodden face, with impertinentschool-boy jests about the crocodile that is shaped like itself, andis as broad as it has breadth, and weeps tears that are wet. Caesar,ever on the guard, asks in cautious admonition: “Will this descriptionsatisfy him? ” But Antony is scornfully aware that he may dismisspunctilios: With the health that Pompey gives him; else he is a very epicure. (II. vii. 56. )His deposition, which must come in the natural course of things, ismentioned only casually and contemptuously: Caesar, having made use of him in the wars ’gainst Pompey, presently denied him rivality: would not let him partake in the glory of the action: and not resting here, accuses him of letters he had formerly wrote to Pompey: upon his own appeal, seizes him: so the poor third is up, till death enlarge his confine. (III. v. 7. )Accused of letters written to Pompey! So he had been at his oldwork, buttering his bread on both sides. His suppression is one ofthe grievances Antony has against Caesar, who has appropriated hiscolleague’s revenue; and it is interesting to note the defence thatCaesar, who never chooses his grounds at random, gives for his apparentarbitrariness: I have told him, Lepidus was grown too cruel; That he his high authority abused, And did deserve his change. (III. vi.