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CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 
IN  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

A  GUIDE  TO  THE  BETTER  UNDERSTANDING 
OF  THE  DRAMATIST 

BY 

LEVIN  L.  SCHUCKING 

PROFESSOR  AT    THE    UNIVERSITY  OF  BRESLAU 


GEORGE  G.  HARRAP  Gf  CO.  LTD. 

LONDON  CALCUTTA  SYDNEY 


Firsi  published  July  1922 
\  by  George  G.  Harrap  «&  Co.  Ltd. 

"I  2  S  3  Portsmouth  Street,  Kingsway,  London.  W.C.2 


PR 

S3  8 


Printed  in  Great  Britain  at  The  Ballantyne  Press  hy 

SpoTTiswooDE.  Ballantyne  &  Co.  Ltd. 

Colchester,  London  &  Eton 


CHARACTER  PROBLEMS 
IN  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction  :  The  Influence  of  Contem- 
porary Conditions  on  Shakespeare's 
Plays  7 

I.  Choice  of  plot.  2.  Collaboration.  3.  Anonymity. 
4.  The  rise  of  individualism.  5.  Shakespeare's  atti- 
tude toward  the  public.  6.  Older  dramatic  forms 
in  his  work.  7.  The  anachronisms.  8.  The  clown. 
9.  Conclusions. 

I.  Direct  Self-explanation  29 

I.  The  relations  between  actors  and  audience.  2.  Self- 
explanation  in  harmony  with  the  character.  3.  Am- 
biguous self-explanation. 

II.  The  Reflection  of  the  Characters  in  the 

Minds  of  Other  Persons  $2 

I.  The  reflection  of  the  characters  in  harmony  with 
the  real  character  of  the  speaker.  2.  Misleading  re- 
flection of  characters.  The  villains'  description  of  the 
heroes.  3.  The  question  of  a  subjective  element  in 
the  reflection  of  characters  in  other  minds. 

ill.  Character  and  Expression  87 

I.  Harmony  maintained  throughout  the  play.  2.  Lack 
of  harmony.    3.  Detached  scenes  and  inserted  episodes. 

IV.  Character  and  ActioV  iu 

I.  Independence  of  the  scenes.  2.  Tendency  to 
episodic  intensification.  3.  Difl^erent^  conceptions  of 
the  same  character  in  different  scenes.  4.  Parts  of  the 
original  historical  action  not  assimilated.  5.  The 
filling  in  of  the  given  outline  of  the  action.  6.  Action 
adjusted  to  the  development  of  character.  7.  The 
general  causes  of  disagreement  between  character  and 
action. 


CHARACTER    PROBLEMS 


PAGE 


V.  Motives  for  Action  203 

I.  Motives  explicitly  stated.      2.  Imputed  motives. 

VL  The  Question  of  Symbolical  Characters       (237\ 

I.  The  characters  in   The  Tempest.    2.  The  alleged 
symbolism. 

Index  of  Characters  267 

Index  of  Names  269 


CHARACTER  PROBLEMS  IN 
SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

INTRODUCTION 

THE    INFLUENCE    OF    CONTEMPORARY 
CONDITIONS  ON  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

WITH  the  exception  of  Dante,  no  poet  in  the  whole 
of  European  literature  has  called  forth  so  vast 
a  bulk  of  explanatory  comment  as  Shakespeare. 
Innumerable  are  the  diverse  views  that  have  been  put 
forward  of  the  characters,  the  action,  the  purpose  of  his 
plays.  Irreconcilable,  too,  are  the  differences  of  opinion 
that  have  arisen  as  to  the  true  interpretation  of  his  char- 
acters. Many  have  sought  in  vain  to  wrest  his  sec.  ct  from 
him — many  a  one,  like  Schiller,  has  contented  himself,  after 
ardent  toil,  with  the  conclusion  that  he  is  hidden  behind 
his  works  as  God  is  hidden  behind  His  creation;  not  a 
few  have  fashioned  for  themselves  a  god  after  their  own 
image.  This  subjective  interpretation  has  triumphed; 
even  those  who  regarded  its  conclusions  with  misgiving 
were  incapable  of  finding  any  other  point  of  view.  In 
his  masterly  book  on  Shakespeare  (1909)  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh  says  that  even  good  critics  often  permit  them- 
selves the  dangerous  assumption  that  Shakespeare's  mean- 
ing is  not  easily  recognized,  and  must  be  ascertained  by  a 
subtle  process  of  digging  out  all  sorts  of  hidden  signifi- 
cations. Yet,  he  says,  each  play  makes  a  distinct  and 
immediate  impression  by  which  it  should  be  judged; 
"the  impression  is  the  play.''  Unfortunately,  however, 
the  essential  point  is  overlooked  here,  that  the  impression 
itself  varies  according  to  the  peculiar  character  of  each 
reader.     The  question  arises  whether  it  is  not  possible 

7 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

to  stem,  to  a  certain  extent,  this  subjective  current  in  the 
contemplation  of  Shakespeare.  This  is  certainly  feasible 
as  soon  as  we  have  abandoned  an  obviously  false  point  of 
view  such  as  appears  in  the  effort,  peculiar  to  the  exegesis 
of  Shakespeare  since  the  Romantic  movement,  to  make 
his  art  as  palatable  as  may  be  by  reading  into  it  as  much 
of  modern  thought  and  feeling  as  possible.  In  this  way 
the  interpretation  of  Shakespeare  has  strayed  into  hope- 
lessly wrong  paths;  for  the  point  is  not  to  find  the  most 
beautiful — i.e.  the  most  modern — interpretation,  but  the 
one  which  is  most  probably  true.  We  can  arrive  at  that 
only  by  asking  ourselves :  What  was  the  probable  attitude 
of  Shakespeare's  contemporaries  to  such  questions  ? 

Looked  at  from  this  standpoint,  things  seem  to  change 
their  aspect.  At  first  sight,  it  is  true,  the  ambiguity  of 
his  art  appears  more  wonderful  than  ever.  This  is  not 
what  we  usually  find  in  the  dramatic  art  of  earlier  centuries. 
What  disturbs  us  in  a  play  like  Lessing*s  Minna  von  Barn- 
helm  or  Sheridan's  Rivals  is  rather  their  extreme  obvious- 
ness. We  are  almost  inclined  to  be  annoyed  at  the  low 
estimate  of  our  intelligence  implied  by  the  perpetual  ex- 
planatory *  asides  '  in  old  plays  like  these.  What,  then,  is 
the  cause  of  the  difficulties  existing  in  Shakespeare's  still 
older  art  }  We  might  imagine  that  they  originate  in  the  fact 
that  their  author  was  an  individualist  working  only  for  a 
small  circle,  a  poet  of  absolute  mental  independence,  who 
refused  to  consider  the  demands  of  the  time  and  was  not 
compelled  to  embody  his  thoughts  in  the  most  transparent 
form.  We  might  regard  him  as  a  writer  who,  certain  of  not 
being  rejected  if  he  became  obscure  and  unintelligible, 
addressed  himself  to  a  small  and  select  audience  who  were 
accustomed  to  intellectual  exercises,  familiar  with  all  kinds 
of  subtle  disquisitions,  trained  to  read  between  the  lines, 
and  quick  to  catch  the  faintest  undercurrent  of  thought — 
rejoicing,  like  an  Ibsen  audience  of  our  own  day,  whenever 
"  the  Master  offered  them  another  nut  to  crack."  But 
though  almost  nine-tenths  of  the  interpretations  of  Shake- 
speare are  based  on  the  assumption  of  such  a  poet  and 
such  an  audience,  conscientious  historical  research  shows 
8 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

us  that  a  view  of  this  kind  is  in  direct  contradiction  to  the 
real  facts.  In  the  first  place,  the  individuality  of  the  poet 
in  that  time  was  allowed  far  less  free  play  than  in  later 
centuries. 

I.  Choice  of  Plot. — Until  quite  recently  the  generally 
accepted  point  of  view  has  been  that  Shakespeare  con- 
ceived and  created  his  plays  in  the  same  manner  as  modern 
playwrights  do  theirs.  Even  Brandes  seems  to  imagine  that 
his  choice  ^f  certain  subjects  was  principally  conditioned 
by  personal  experience  or  by  the  suggestions  derived  from 
stories  he  had  read.  It  is  true  that  we  are  by  no  means 
acquainted  with  the  genesis  of  all  Shakespeare's  dramas, 
and  there  is  good  reason  to  think  that  it  was  not  the  same 
in  every  case;  still,  we  may  take  it  for  granted  that  our 
modern  demand  that  the  inspiration  of  the  artist's  work 
must  be  looked  for  in  his  own  innermost  experience  was 
almost  unknown  in  the  Elizabethan  era. 

The  truth  seems  rather  to  be  that  there  existed  keen 
competition  between  the  different  theatres  for  the  favour 
of  the  public,  whose  interest  is  always  chiefly  centred  in 
the  plot  of  a  play,  so  that  a  piece  which  *  draws  '  in  one 
theatre  is  sure  to  be  imitated  by  others.  The  situation 
was  not  very  different  from  that  of  the  cinemas  of  our 
day,  for  when  a  *  Cleopatra '  film  is  produced  in  one 
picture-house  of  a  town  the  others  are  sure  to  follow  suit, 
and  each  brings  out  its  own  '  Cleopatra.'  Shakespeare's 
theatrical  company  was  no  exception  to  the  others,  except 
that  **  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  servants  " — later.  King 
James's  own  company — as  being  the  most  respectable,  after 
the  manner  of  royal  theatres  showed  themselves  some- 
what more  conservative  and  cautious  than  the  others.  It  is, 
however,  perfectly  evident  that  a  drama  like  Richard  III 
was  only  one  among  many  which  treated*  of  that  great 
criminal,  while  the  Merchant  of  Venice  was  clearly 
meant  to  compete  with  his  near  relative,  Marlowe's  Jew 
of  Malta.  The  story  of  Troilus  and  Cressida^  at  the  time 
when  Shakespeare  used  it  (1601--2),  had  already  proved 
very  popular,  and  Hamlet  was  surely  intended  to  meet 
the  taste  of  a  public  whose  interest  in  a  new  form  of  the 

9 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

*  revenge-tragedy  *  had  just  been  revived.  In  these  matters 
we  can  discern  a  franker  endeavour  to  make  concessions 
to  the  public  than  is  customary  to-day.  The  little  stress 
laid  on  the  individuality  of  an  author  may  be  seen  in 
another  sign  of  the  times,  the  habit  of  collaboration. 

2.  Collaboration. — It  was  quite  common  at  that 
time  for  authors  to  collaborate  in  a  play,  much  as  to-day 
men  collaborate  on  a  newspaper.  The  extant  manuscript 
of  the  play  of  Sir  Thomas  More^  which  originated  in  the 
beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century,  when  a  change  had 
already  begun  to  take  place  in  the  state  of  things  just 
described,  yet  shows  the  handwriting  of  at  least  five 
clearly  distinct  collaborators.  I  have  later  on  endeavoured 
to  make  clear  how  this  must  affect  the  technique  of  the 
composition.  But  more  than  the  mere  technical  side  of 
drama  is  involved  here.  Where  more  than  half  a  dozen  are 
employed  in  creating  a  dramatic  work,  not  much  elbow- 
room  remains  to  the  individual  worker.  We  should 
therefore  be  inclined  to  wonder  that  this  tradition  could 
continue  so  long  did  we  not  perceive  how  nearly  connected 
this  art  is  with  the  art  of  the  Middle  Ages,  which  was  so 
often  the  result  of  the  united  efforts  of  many  anonymous 
workers.  Strangely  enough,  the  reformers  and  indivi- 
dualists of  the  time  who  set  their  backs  against  tradition 
submitted  to  this  custom.  Even  Ben  Jonson,  the  dramatist, 
altered  the  printed  edition  of  his  chief  work,  Sejanus^  by 
omitting  in  it  several  passages  written  by  another  hand  in 
the  stage  version.  It  is,  we  must  confess,  difficult  to  con- 
ceive why  the  system  of  collaboration  was  so  long  retained 
in  that  very  field  where,  according  to  our  idea,  "  the  strong 
man  is  mightiest  alone.**  As  is  well  known,  the  great 
Dutch  painters  often  worked  together  on  the  same  picture, 
one  who  had  specialized  in  landscape  putting  in  the  back- 
ground, while  the  figure-painter  contributed  the  figures 
of  men  or  animals.  A  similar  theory  has  been  put  forward 
to  explain  certain  collaborations  in   Shakespeare*s   time,^ 

*  Cf.  L.  Wann,  The  Collaboration  of  Beaumont.  Fletcher,  and  Massinger 
(Univ.  of  Wisconsin   Shakespeare  Studies),  Madison,   1916.     For  the  whole 
question  see  Creizenach.  Geschichte  des  Neueren  Dramas,  vol.  iv,  p.  76  seg. 
10 


I 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


but  it  is  certain  that  the  difficulties  of  this  problem  are 
not  to  be  solved  by  a  single  formula  of  this  kind. 

It  is  true  people  have  sought  to  exclude  Shakespeare 
j  from  a  practice  which,   as  may  be  proved,   was  almost 
i  universally  employed  by  his  contemporaries.     German  re- 
jiprch,  in  particular,  has  refused  to  accept  the  results  of 
I  fcriticism  based  to  a  large  extent  on  the  dictates  of  artistic 
judgment  and  a  feeling  for  style  instead  of  on  strict  tests. 
But  in  a  field  of  research  like  this  it  is  very  difficult  to  dis- 
cover any  safer  guide,  and,  considering  the  facts  of  the  case, 
fairly  good  external  evidence  has  been  found  to  support 
the  observations  which  it  will  never  be  possible  to  free  from 
every  trace  of  subjectivity.     Thus  we  are  enabled  to  say 
that  Shakespeare's  collaboration  with  others  in  the  three 
parts  of  Henry  VI^  if  not  also  in  Titus  Andronicus^  may  be 
looked  upon  as  highly  probable. 

But  also  in  later  dramas  we  seem  to  observe  here  and 

I  there  in  the  texture  of  dramatic  speech  the  rich  stuff  of 
fcakespeare's  metaphors  woven  into  the  simpler  home- 
made linen  of  other  workshops.  Undoubtedly  we  must  in 
many  cases  allow  for  the  possible  use  of  older  dramatic 
versions,  for  it  was  characteristic  more  especially  of  the 
earlier  period  of  the  Elizabethan  drama  that  a  work  became 
remoulded,  added  to,  and  completed  in  its  passage  from 
one  hand  to  another. 
JK3.  Anonymity. — This  work  of  collaboration  was  ren- 
)  Rred  easier  and  more  practicable  by  the  literary  anonymity 
customary  at  the  time.  In  attempting  to  interpret  Shake- 
speare rightly,  we  must  make  it  clear  to  ourselves  that  his 
art,  unlike  Goethe's  or  Ibsen's,  does  not  follow  a  course 
[■pscribed  by  its  own  limits,  but  is  merely  one  mighty 
1  wave  forming  part  of  a  great  river.  The  popular  theatre, 
for  which  he  wrote,  arises  out  of  an  anonymous  obscurity, 
like  the  cinematograph  of  our  days.  It  is  born  of  the 
people  and  suffers  from  the  want  of  curiosity  on  the  part 
of  the  uneducated  and  the  children  as  to  the  question  of 
authorship.  The  most  valuable  parts  of  the  mystery-plays 
have  been  handed  down  to  us  as  anonymous.  We  are 
unacquainted  with  the  name  of  the  man  who  in  his  splendid 

I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

delineation  of  Cain  as  a  surly  nilser,  in  the  **  Townele; 
Mysteries/*  displays  more  talent  than  almost  all  the  con 
temporary  poets  who  essayed  to  put  Pegasus  through  hi 
paces  amid  the  general  applause  of  the  Court  patrons  h 
the  arena  of  recognized  literature.  We  do  not  know  wh( 
the  poet  was  who  in  the  deeply  moving  mystery  of  Mra/ian, 
and  Isaac  displays  such  depth  and  fineness  of  feeling,  no:i 
the  author  or  adapter  of  the  newly  revived  morality-plaV 
of  Everyman y  two  pieces  which  might  almost  make  pre 
Shakespeareans  of  us,  just  as  the  tenderness  and  simple 
city  of  the  primitive  painters  created  the  Pre-Raphaelites, 
Shakespeare  himself  and  his  immediate  predecessors  an 
the  direct  heirs  of  this  anonymous  Cinderella  of  litera-j 
ture.  The  greater  part  of  the  pieces  which  he  saw  played 
in  his  youth  by  strolling  players  in  Stratford — farces,  worth* 
less  interludes,  moralities  still  loved  by  the  people  in  th<} 
sixteenth  century — bore  no  special  author's  name.  Thenj 
was  thus  not  much  space  for  the  development  of  literati 
ambition  in  this  sphere.  But  the  condition  of  things  wajj 
somewhat  different  where,  as  at  Court,  an  educated  audienc<i 
was  more  critical  in  its  demands,  and  at  the  same  tivca 
displayed  an  interest  in  certain  persons  as  poets.  Th< 
influence  emanating  from  this  quarter,  therefore,  must  nol 
be  undervalued.  Then,  too,  came  the  extraordinary  de- 
velopment of  the  London  theatres,  the  improvement  ir 
acting  and  scenery,  a  growing  interest  on  the  part  of  tht 
public,  so  that  the  once  so  despised  comedians  began  tc 
attract  dramatic  authors  who  had  to  write  up-to-date  plays 
for  them.  These  were  originally  not  people  moving  ir 
circles  favourable  to  the  development  of  pure  literature  ; 
they  were,  if  not  actually  actors,  often  failures,  or  wrecks 
of  men,  displeasing  to  the  honest  citizen,  suspected  of  the 
police,  Bohemians,  in  fact,  of  doubtful  repute  and  question- 
able calling.  But  shipwrecked  students  as  they  often  were, 
they  had  imbibed  the  mental  training  and  culture  of  their 
time,  which  was  invaluable  for  the  theatre,  and  occasion- 
ally, like  Peele,  drifting  from  the  stage  of  the  university 
to  that  of  the  Court,  and  finally  to  the  popular  theatre, 
they  everywhere  acquired  artistic  inspiration  for  use  later  on. 

12 


\r 

IP       IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

slf  Jut  none  of  their  various  writings  was  originally  intended 
:or,  or  print  ;  as  in  the  Middle  Ages,  the  author  still  remains 
\  lidden  behind  his  work,  and,  just  as  in  our  days  in  the 
'  i:  inema,  the  exact  title  of  a  piece  was  probably  unknown 
4  0  many  of  the  audience  in  Shakespeare's  time  and  very 
m  ew  were  familiar  with  the  name  of  the  author.^  Certain 
EC  ntries  made  in  diaries  which  now  form  our  chief  authority 
t  or  the  dates  of  certain  plays  are  equally  instructive. 
irt  Thus  Manningham,  the  lawyer,  writes  on  February  2, 
?!  :6oi,  "At  our  festival  we  had  a  play  called  Twelfth 
f  Vigkt,  or  What  you  JVill^*'  and  notes  the  things  in  it  that 
II  mpressed  him  most,  but  it  is  significant  that  the  writer, 
K  .  very  well  educated  man  of  literary  tastes,  takes  no  interest 
e  whatever  in  the  name  of  the  author.  It  is  precisely  the 
ii.  ;ame  case  with  the  diary  of  Dr  Simon  Forman  when  he 
i  vrites  out  the  plot  of  Macbeth^  which  he  had  seen  at  the 
;i  jlobe  Theatre.  The  same  thing  may  be  observed  in  the 
r  :atalogues  of  books.  The  poet  Drummond  of  Hawthorn- 
2  ien  in  drawing  up  a  list  of  his  books  enters  the  names  of 
Ci  lis  plays,  among  them  three  by  Shakespeare,  without  men- 

il^ing  the  name  of  their  authors,  a  thing  quite  contrary 
^Hiis  usual   practice.     It  is  thus  no  mere   accident  that 
Q  ^ne  of  the  names  of  the  authors  who  wrote  the  primitive 
i  earlier  works  used  by  Shakespeare  has  been  handed  down 
ii  0  us.    The  most  discriminating  researches  were  required 
]  ;o  prove  that  The  Spanish  Tragedy^  which  was  probably  the 
t  nost  influential  of  all  pre-Shakespearean  dramas,  was  the 
(vork  of  the  poet  Thomas  Kyd,   whose  name  had  long 
lince  sunk  into  oblivion.     This  state  of  things  naturally 
:reated  much  bitterness  among  the  playwrights  of  those 
lays.    The  public  is  never  over-grateful  to  its  benefactors. 
The   man   who   devoted   himself  to   high-class   literature 
jinjoyed  at  least  the  prospect  of  finding  a  patron  among 
jhe  aristocracy  and  of  being   preserved   from   starvation. 
But    the    popular    dramatist  was    not    so  well  off.      His 

Pks  were  accepted  by  a  theatre  for  a  miserable  sum,  and 
Vhen  the  '  Engrossing  Clerk '  of  the  Revels  Office  had  to  draw  up  a 
rery  carefully  written  list  of  the  several  plays  acted  before  King  James  at 
jVhitehall  in  the  winter  of  1604-5  he  spelled  the  name  of  the  author  of  Hamlet 
t  \  Shaxberd.' 

13 


t/vnit( 
Shaj 

I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 


he  was  perhaps  granted  a  single  benefit  performance,  bu 

he  retained  no  further  rights.     Hence  the  embittered  play 

Wrights  not  unfrequently  direct  their  wrath  at  their  em 

ployers,  and  Greene,  one  of  the  most  productive  of  then 

all,  even  died  with  a  curse  at  the  actors  on  his  lips.     Thi: 

very  curse,  full  of  inexpressible  bitterness,  happens  to  b« 

the  first  mention  we  find  of  Shakespeare,  who  is  referrec 

to  as  **  an  upstart  crow  beautified  with  our  feathers.**     Ii 

later    centuries    we    have    seen    the    successful    dramatis 

surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  admirers  and  made  the  lion  o 

the   hour,  but  at  the  end   of  the  sixteenth   century  thi: 

was  only  the  case  to  a  very  limited  degree.  _ 

4.  The  Rise  of  Individualism. — The  efl?ect  of  sucM 

condition   of  things   on   individual   freedom   of  action  t 

obvious.     It  has  to  yield  absolutely  to  public  opinion 

against  this  it  is  often  impossible  to  attempt  any  resistance 

even  on  the  most  important  points.      If  in  the  nineteentl 

century  Ibsen,  a  fanatic  for  individualism,  was  obliged  at  th( 

first  performance  of  ^  Do/rs  House  to  make  the  preposterou: 

concession  to  the  public  of  allowing  his  heroine  to  returt 

to  her  *  doirs  house,*  what  could  we  expect  of  a  play 

Wright  living  at  a  time  when  the  individual  was  hamperec 

by  a  thousand  fetters  and   menaced  by  a  much   stronge: 

resistance  than  that  of  mere  tradition  ?     Faust*s  complaint 

Das  beste,  was  du  wissen  kannst 
Darfst  du  den  Buben  doch  nicht  sagen, 

may  aptly  be  applied  to  the  dramatic  activity  of  the  mori 
advanced  spirits  of  that  time. 

Marlowe  is  an  instructive  example  of  this.  What  w« 
know  of  him  is  enough  to  assure  us  that  he  was  a  bold 
critical  mind,  unfettered  by  any  dogma  or  tradition.  Whei' 
this  man  adapted  the  folk-tale  of  Dr  Faustus,  certainl] 
attracted  to  it  by  that  feeling  of  intellectual  affinity  am 
sympathy  with  the  subject  which  alone  ensures  poeti( 
success,  he  imparted  to  his  hero  an  audacity  of  speculatiori 
almost  amounting  to  criminality  which,  as  we  may  assum( 
from  external  evidence,  was  a  vital  part  of  his  own  nature 
The  idea  of  selling  one's  soul  to  the  devil,  which  made  evei 
14 


' 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

most  daring  spirits  of  that  time  tremble  in  their  inner- 

st  hearts,  had  no  terror  for  this  man  of  violent  passions. 

ad  I  as  many  souls  as  there  be  stars,  I'd  give  them 

for  Mephistopheles,'*  he   exclaims.     This   unheard-of 

sphemy   must   have   caused   shivers   of  horror   to   his 

Ludience,  and  impressed  on  them  the  certainty  of  a  fright- 

ul  end  for  such  an  evildoer.     And  the  poet  by  no  means 

lisappoints  his  hearers,   for  his  Titan   finally  shrinks  to 

omething  so  pitiably  small  that  even  the  most  pious  man 

the  pit  must  have  been  satisfied.     As  the  hour  approaches 

which  his  pact  must  be  fulfilled,  we  find  him  whimper- 

r  and  cowering  under  the  burden  of  his  sins,  convulsed 

:h  fear  at  his  approaching  end.     But  it  would  be  a  com- 

5te  misunderstanding  of  the  poet's  purpose  to  suppose 

t  this  represents  Marlowe's  personal  point  of  view.    His 

n  individual  conception  can  and  must  find  expression  only 

thin  the  limits  of  public  opinion ;  the  rest  he  keeps  to  him- 

'.    In  the  same  way  we  must  regard  the  problem  pre- 

ted  to  us  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice,     In  those  days  no 

e  would  have  thought  of  challenging  current  opinion  with 

lay  embodying  a  serious  thesis,  any  more  than  one  would 

it  in  a  cinema-theatre  to-day.     If  people  argue  that  the 

atment  of  the  character  of  Shylock  is  an  attempt  of  this 

re  they  misinterpret  not  only  the  text,  but  likewise 

5  prevailing  social  conditions  of  the  theatre,  just  as  those 

;rrate  the  freedom  of  thought  of  the  Elizabethan  stage 

o  read  into  the  play  of  Richard  II  all  sorts  of  ideas  which 

vould  have  been   considered  revolutionary  at  that  time 

jririci). 

■It  is  true  that  just  during  Shakespeare's  period  of 
■pduction  a  certain  important  change  took  place  in  this 
fcdition  of  things,  and,  what  is  most  significant  from  a 
Jciological  standpoint,  toward  the  middle  of  his  dramatic 
:areer  the  relations  of  the  poet  to  the  public  underwent 
I  remarkable  alteration.  A  social  revolution  which  had 
ong  before  invaded  other  departments  of  art — e,g.^  archi- 
ure — also  begins  to  take  place  in  the  drama :  individual 
sonages  struggle  out  of  the  anonymous  obscurity  of 
atrical   art,  cultivating   more   assiduously  their   artistic 

15 


atic 
hi 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

personality,  laying  stress  on  the  independence  of  their  own 
performances  to  the  very  last  letter,  and  even  making  a 
determined  stand  against  the  past  by  securing  the  admi<^- 
sion  of  the  drama  into  the  field  of  literature  proper.  Th: 
movement  is  aided  on  the  one  hand  by  the  inestimable 
efforts  and  personal  propaganda  of  Ben  Jonson;  on  the 
other  by  the  evident  rise  in  the  social  status  of  the  dramatic 
author. 

The  men  who  toward  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  centi 
and  at  the  beginning  of  the  next  devote  themselves  to 
theatre,  like  Marston,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Tournei 
etc.,  are  no  longer  mere  wrecks,  or  Bohemians,  as  they  hi 
been  ten  years  before,  at  the  beginning  of  Shakespeare's 
career,  but  for  the  greater  part  the  sons  of  good  families, 
who  occasionally  return  to  their  former  professions,  military 
or  civilian.  Such  a  change,  of  course,  has  its  influence  on 
the  art  itself ;  above  all,  it  may  be  noticed  in  the  new  atti- 
tude of  the  artist  to  the  public.  This  is  clearly  shown  in 
the  so-called  *  theatre-war,*  in  which  Dekker,  Marston, 
and  Jonson,  with  others,  attack  one  another  in  satirical 
pieces  on  the  stage,  jeering  at  and  making  fun  of  each 
other's  weak  points.  Here  is  presupposed  an  interest  in 
the  playwright  and  a  personal  knowledge  of  his  works  on 
the  part  of  the  public  which  ten  years  before  would  have 
been  impossible,  and  even  now  seems  astonishing  in  the 
face  of  the  general  indifference  exhibited  toward  the 
author,  described  above.  The  dramatist  has  evidently  risen? 
several  degrees  in  the  social  scale. 

In  consequence  of  this  innovation,  conflicts  with  public 
opinion,  which  had  so  far  gone  unchallenged,  were  not  tq 
be  avoided.  It  has  already  been  related  in  another  plac< 
{cf,  the  author,  Shakespeare  im  literarischen  Urteil  seiner 
Zeit)  how  Ben  Jonson,  the  most  radical  of  the  innovators,; 
summarily  denied  the  critical  qualification  of  the  public, 
which  had  rejected  the  more  classical  side  of  his  art.  The 
burning  question  after  this  seems  to  have  been  how 
far  the  public  is  entitled  to  follow  its  own  taste  and  ho^ 
far  the  artist  ought  to  make  concessions  to  it.  This  quesi 
tion,  which  in  the  course  of  the  centuries  is  constantl' 
i6 


I 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


propounded  in  ever  new  variations  whenever  some  small 
J ,  minority  zealously  essays  to  champion  new  ideals  of  art, 
'\l  obviously  plays  an  important  part  with  the  Elizabethans. 
S'  There  was  certainly  no  lack  of  people  to  take  the  side  of 
{ji  the  public.  The  conflict  turned  chiefly  on  the  *  rules,* 
i,  i.e.,  on  a  certain  leaning  to  the  side  of  classical  authority. 
i  But    as    Marston,   himself  an   important    dramatist,    not 

inaptly  objects  in  the  introduction  to  his  play  What  Ton 
'ill  (1601):  Why  this  contempt  of  public  opinion  ? 


Music  and  poetry  were  first  approved 
By  common  sense  ;  and  that  which  pleased  most. 
Held  most  allowed  to  pass  :   not  rules  of  art 
Were  shaped  to  pleasure,  nor  pleasure  to  your  rules- 
Think  you  that  if  his  scenes  took  stamp  in  mint 
Of  three  or  four  deemed  most  judicious 
It  would  inforce  the  world  to  current  them 
That  you  must  spit  defiance  on  dislike  ? 
Now,  as  I  love  the  light,  were  I  to  pass 
Through  public  verdict,  I  should  fear  my  form, 
Lest  aught  I  offered  were  unsquared  or  warped. 

I      Shakespeare  may  have  inclined  to  the  same  opinion  ; 
•  is  in  innumerable  other  questions,  his  wisdom  makes  him 
1^  take  up  a  more  conciliatory  position.     He  probably  did 
Iftt  share  Jonson's  intellectual   arrogance  toward   public 
5  pinion,  but  it  is  obvious  that  he  too  has  many  grievances 
se;i  igainst  the  public.     Still,  he  draws  distinctions.     His  own 
;  Dpinion  seems  to  find  utterance  in  Hamlet — attacks  on  the 
'    *  groundlings,**   the  frequenters  of  the  pit,  their  verdict 
cing  absolutely  rejected  as  that  of  an  uncomprehending 
Tiob,  who  care  only  for  **  inexplicable  dumb-shows  **  and 
:ioise.     Hamlet*s  bitter  words,  likewise,  on  the  play  that 
<  ivas  "  caviare  to  the  general  **  and  had  to  be  taken  off 
i:he  boards  as  not  pleasing  "the  million**  are  evidence  of 
[,  |5hakespeare*s  way  of  thinking.     Such  expressions,  how- 
ever, were  not  uncommon  in  the  literature  of  the  time, 
tid  his  contempt  for  the  masses  does  not  express  his  atti- 
de  to  public  opinion  on  the  whole  ;    this  is  more  clearly 
splayed  in  his  works  than  by  his  words.     In  the  former 

B  17 


I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

Shakespeare  shows  plainly  how  much  importance  he  attache u 
to  following  in  the  path  of  the  popular  drama. 

5.  Shakespeare's  Attitude  toward  the  Public. — 
Shakespeare's  attitude  to  the  public  has  often  been  debated. 
On  the  one  hand,  our  attention  has  been  called  to  the  fact 
that  the  troop  in  which  he  played  was  in  the  service  of  the 
Court  and  that  in  a  piece  like  Macbeth  he  shows  a  flattering 
consideration — to  say  the  least — for  the  personal  ancestors 
of  King  James.  On  the  other  hand,  we  cannot  get  away 
from  certain  pieces  of  evidence  offered  as  to  the  character 
of  the  theatre-going  public  of  the  time ;  of  these  the  most 
instructive  is  the  fact  that  the  inhabitants  of  a  district 
in  which  a  theatre  was  to  be  erected  lodged  a  complaint 
with  the  authorities,  stating  that  a  theatre  meant  only  an 
increased  opportunity  for  amorous  intrigues  of  the  lowest 
order,  and  would  bring  the  whole  neighbourhood  in 
disrepute. 

Obviously  here  too  we  must  to  a  certain  degree  d; 
criminate.  Shakespeare  by  no  means  always  writes 
the  same  public.  We  may  see  this,  for  example,  in  the 
Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream^  which  was  certainly  written  for 
a  wedding  in  the  house  of  some  great  personage.  How 
much  more  refined  the  tone  suddenly  becomes  in  con- 
trast to  that  of  other  pieces  I  No  coarse  word  is  uttered. 
When  Hermia  and  her  lover  Lysander  prepare  for  rest  in 
the  woods  of  Athens,  and  the  situation  becomes  some- 
what delicate,  with  what  subtle  roguery  and  grace  this? 
is  expressed  !  Every  suspicion  of  a  lascivious  thought 
is  avoided.  In  other  pieces,  on  the  contrary,  no  oppor- 
tunity is  lost  of  inserting  coarse  expressions.  "  We  have 
as  much  ribaldry  in  our  plays  as  can  be,'*  says  the  ironical 
*  Histrio  '  in  The  Poetaster, 

Now  it  is  perfectly  obvious  that  the  creations  of  Shake- 
speare would  have  been  impossible  had  the  deciding  vote 
been  left  to  the  noisy  mob,  known  to  us  from  so  many 
contemporary  descriptions.  There  must  have  been  spec- 
tators who  were  to  some  extent  capable  of  following  the 
elevated  flight  of  his  thought  and  measuring  the  depth 
and  delicacy  of  his  feelings.  They  could,  of  course, 
18 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

ong  to  the  middle  class,  even  when  the  views  expressed 
the  poet  were  of  an  aristocratic  nature.     For  the  chief 

HEng  is  always  the  view  of  life  prevailing  among  the  socio- 
<  logical  group  that  happens  to  predominate  in  the  theatre 
1j  at  the  time.  The  Weavers^  by  Gerhard  Hauptmann,  cer- 
1! ;  tainly  did  not  owe  its  success  to  an  audience  of  working 
\  men.  The  decisive  thing,  however,  is  that  Shakespeare 
■i  did  not  write  for  one  small  circle  ;  he  was  careful  always 
I  te  keep  the  general  public  before  his  eyes. 
IB^*  Older  Dramatic  Forms  in  his  Work. — His  art 
^  shows  this  tendency  clearly.  We  can  see  how  he  retains 
^1  just  those  more  popular  elements  which  some  of  the  con- 
s' temporary  playwrights,  even  when  writing  for  the  popular 
Ji  theatre,  were  beginning  to  reject.  Thus  he  retains,  or 
:si  returns  to,  the  old  popular  form  of  the  epic  drama,  which 
its  the  others  had  mostly  given  up.  For  example,  in  a  piece 
I  like  Antony  and  Cleopatra  the  ceaseless  changes  of  scene — 
■  in  the  third  act  there  are  no  fewer  than  twelve,  in  the  fourth 

even  fifteen — counteract  that  pulling  together  of  the  plot 
k  which  the  others,  not  unrightly,  regarded  as  an  important 
foii  improvement  in  dramatic  art. 

o»l  Only  hesitatingly  does  he  yield  to  the  taste  of  the  more 
t'  educated  part  of  the  audience,  which  since  the  commence- 
ec.  ment  of  the  seventeenth  century  had  begun  to  rebel  against 
;ir.  the  excessive  bloodshed,  the  noise  of  battle,  the  riotous 
ne  soldiery  on  the  stage,  and  the  practice  of  strewing  the  boards 
tiiii  with  corpses  at  the  end  of  the  piece.  In  a  play  like  Antony  and 
ga  Cleopatra^  for  example,  the  hostile  armies  alternately  cross 
)0!  and  recross  the  stage,  and  in  King  Lear  the  way  in  which 
lav;  the  eyes  of  the  aged  Gloster  were  trodden  out  in  view  of  the 
litt  public  was  but  a  survival  of  the  old  atrocity-plays,  and  not 

much  to  the  liking  of  the  more  advanced  taste  of  the  age. 
ikfij  There  is,  indeed,  one  detail  in  the  drama  of  the  period 

which  may  be  regarded  as  symbolical  of  the  whole  dramatic 
anltendency  of  the  time,  namely,  the  swinging  about  of  a 
peclhiuman  head,  cut  off  from  its  body,  on  the  stage.  This 
'tli|  :ut-off  head  was  a  stage-property  that  had  survived  from 
epi  che  time  of  the  mystery-plays,  when  it  was  meant  to  repre- 

j|nt  the  head  of  the  unfortunate  John  the  Baptist  at  the 

L 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

gruesome  crowning  point  of  the  dance  of  Salome.  It 
survived  in  several  specimens,  a  favourite  stage-property, 
in  the  popular  theatre,  certain,  as  we  may  presume,  at 
every  appearance  of  drawing  the  ironical  applause  of 
experienced  theatre-goers,  and  probably  known  to  the 
actors,  whose  sense  of  the  comic  was  at  all  times  keen,  by 
some  droll  nickname  now  forgotten.  In  the  three  parts 
of  the  old  drama  of  Henry  VI  this  head  appears  at  different 
times.  Queen  Margaret  (2  Henry  VI^  IV,  iv)  presses  it  to 
her  bosom  as  the  head  of  her  dead  lover,  Suffolk.  A  few 
scenes  later  it  appears  in  duplicate  and  with  a  different 
signification,  again  further  on  (V,  i)  as  the  head  of  the  rebel 
Cade.  In  Richard  HI  the  hero  brandishes  it  as  the  he*  ' 
of  the  Duke  of  Somerset,  in  King  John  it  has  to  sei 
as  that  of  the  Duke  of  Austria,  in  Measure  for  Measi 
it  is  supposed  to  be  Claudio^s  head,  in  Macbeth  it  h( 
to  symbolize  the  end  of  the  great  criminal,  while  Shal 
speare's  last  drama,  Cymheline^  once  more  gives  an  opp< 
tunity  for  the  appearance  of  this  venerable  relic  of  the 
in  order  to  bring  before  our  eyes  the  well-merited  end 
of  Cloten.  It  seems  almost  emblematic  of  Shakespeare*s 
unwillingness  to  relinquish — unlike  a  number  of  the  rising 
dramatists  of  this  time — the  close  connexion  with  certairi 
blunt  and  unrefined,  but  striking  and  effective,  features 
of  theatrical  tradition. 

A  similar  thing  may  be  observed  in  his  occasional  use 
of  parts  of  the  **  romances  of  chivalry."  It  is  true  tha 
very  little  of  these  remains  to  us  in  the  existing  remnant 
of  the  dramatic  literature  of  that  time.  We  must,  however, 
assume  that  such  plays  occupied  an  important  place  in  th( 
repertory  of  that  period.  Proof  of  this  is  not  so  much  t< 
be  found  in  the  printed  plays,  for  the  dramas  in  question; 
were  less  frequently  printed  than  the  others ;  still,  among  the 
works  extant  such  names  as  **  the  lonely  Knight,"  "  the  Irish 
Knight,"  "  the  Knight  of  the  Burning  Rock,"  etc.,  are  ofter 
met.  Another  proof  is  that  Hamlet  (II,  ii),  among  the  fe^^ 
typical  characters  which  he  enumerates,  makes  mention  oJ 
the  "adventurous  knight"  of  "foil  and  target."  We  car: 
see  how  he  is  at  home  in  this  fantastic  world  when  ho: 
20 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


ntions  the  name  of  the  Saracen  god  Termagant,  which 
often  appears  in  such  pieces,  together  with  that  of  Herod, 
universally  known  in  the  old  mysteries.  "  I  would  have  such 
a  fellow  whipped  for  o'erdoing  Termagant  ;  it  out-herods 
Herod''  {Hamlet^  III,  ii,  15).  But  above  all  we  may 
gain  an  impression  of  the  "  romances  of  chivalry  "  in 
the  theatres  of  Elizabeth's  time  when  we  read  the  witty 
sarcasm  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Knight  of  the  Burning 
Pestle^  a  caricature  in  the  style  of  Bon  Quixote  which  met 
gith  disfavour  from  a  public  not  yet  ready  for  it,  because 
was  just  the  wider  public  which  preferred  that  kind  of 
:,  Shakespeare's  genius,  it  is  true,  as  a  rule  soars  too 
|[h  for  them,  but  occasionally  he  seems  to  be  following 
the  steps  of  this  art,  as  when  in  King  Lear^  the  plot  of 
ich  is  laid  in  the  grey  dawn  of  history,  he  introduces  a 
:  combat,  fought  out  between  two  knights.  Here  (V,  iii) 
combatants  are  solemnly  challenged  to  fight  by  a 
aid  with  flourish  of  trumpets,  and  the  hostile  brothers, 
;  disguised,  the  other  with  visor  up,  fight  out  their 
jpute  strictly  according  to  'the  rule  of  knighthood.' 
ch  things  evidently  pleased  the  simpler  part  of  the 
bHc. 

7.  The  Anachronisms. — The  characteristic  traits  just 
jntioned,  however,  do  not  stand  alone.  The  popular 
idency  of  Shakespeare's  art  is  above  all  things  evident 
the  flagrant  and  intentional  anachronisms  which  he 
iploys  to  render  his  art  palatable  to  the  public.  Such 
"erences  to  the  immediate  present  form  part  of  the 
)ck-in-trade  of  popular  art  in  all  periods  of  history,  in 
akespeare's  as  well  as  in  our  time.  In  the  old  pre- 
akespearean  King  heir  the  watchmen  on  the  castle  of 
over  resolve  to  adjourn  to  a  tavern,  well  known  at  the 
Qe,  for  the  rest  of  their  watch,  and  in  the  same  piece 
)neril  abuses  her  sister  as  a  **  hypocritical  puritan," 
iile  the  other  sister  declares  Cordelia  to  be  best  suited 
r  a  pastor's  wife,  on  account  of  her  lack  of  a  dowry, 
first  reading  his  plays  it  is  not  always  clear  to  what  an 
mense  extent  Shakespeare  too  adheres  to  this  custom, 
hen  Cleopatra  plays  billiards  with  her  eunuch  Mardian 

21 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

the  anachronism  may  be  unintentional,  but  in  other  pas- 
sages the  intention  is  only  too  evident  {King  Lear^  I,  iv,  19). 
It  astonishes  us  when,  for  instance,  in  King  Lear  (I,  iv,  95) 
the  wrathful  Kent  calls  Oswald  "  an  evil  foot-ball  player," 
as  a  great  deal  of  indignation  had  at  that  time  been  caused 
by  idle  fellows  playing  football  in  the  principal  streets  of 
the  town.  It  is,  perhaps,  just  as  striking  when  the  mad 
King  remarks  of  Edgar's  costume  that  it  does  not  please 
him,  "  You  will  say  they  are  Persian  attire,*'  evidently  in 
allusion  to  a  Persian  embassy  which  was  at  that  time 
visiting  the  Court  of  King  James.  Even  in  moments  of 
pathos  he  does  not  despise  a  popular  allusive  anachronism. 
But  still  more  remarkable  is  the  insertion,  in  Hamlet^  of 
a  whole  passage  where  complaints  are  raised  against  the 
juvenile  theatrical  troops  then  playing  in  London  and 
forcing  the  regular  actors  to  tramp  the  provinces  for  bread. 
This  rude  interruption  of  the  illusion  has  no  parallel  in 
the  serious  drama  of  Ben  Jonson  and  his  followers.  Yet 
another  sort  of  anachronism  is  to  be  seen  in  Cymheline^ 
where  we  find  a  mixing-up  of  Roman  antiquity  with  the 
Italian  world  of  Boccaccio  which  called  forth  Dr  Johnson's 
criticism,  and  which  later  on  was  so  warmly  defended  by 
Schlegel  and  Hazlitt,  the  romanticists.  But  even  in  this 
early  time  such  anachronisms  must  have  seemed  unbea; 
able  to  people  who  were  proud  of  their  freshly  acquire 
humanistic  learning,  prouder,  in  fact,  than  those  of  lat 
periods.  It  is,  indeed,  a  distinguishing  feature  of  tl 
Renaissance  that  it  brought  forth  the  idea  of  a  corre 
historical  perspective,  and  one  of  its  chief  movements  w 
directed  against  the  simplicity  of  the  Middle  Ages,  which 
could  see  the  past  only  in  the  light  of  the  present.  This- 
was  certainly  a  characteristic  of  Shakespeare's  which  thei 
following  generation  thought  itself  entitled  to  treat  with^ 
derision. 

8.  The  Clown. — Shakespeare's  striving  after  popularity j 
is  most  clearly  visible  in  his  use  of  the  clown.  This  has 
indeed  been  disputed,  and  aesthetic  criticisin,  after  having' 
for  centuries  expurgated  all  the  comic  elements  from  hisi 
tragedies,  has  refused  in  the  nineteenth  century  to  perceive  1 
22 


II 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


In  them  concessions  made  to  an  ignorant  mob,  but  has 
regarded  them,  on  the  contrary,  as  an  admirable  artistic 
device  based  on  keen  psychological  insight.  This  sort  of 
interpretation,  however,  is  apt  to  dull  our  sense  of  the  actual. 
It  is  true  the  rigorous  laws  of  classicism  demanded  unity 
of  style  in  tragedy,  which  necessarily  excluded  all  elements 
of  the  comic  from  it.  This  demand  may  be  unnatural 
and  wrong.  But  what  we  have  here  is  a  blending  of  the 
comic  with  the  tragic  which,  instead  of  presenting  an 
ternation  of  different  emotional  hues  in  the  same  picture, 
tetroys  the  frame  of  the  illusion  altogether.  It  drags  in 
ings  which  have  no  relation  to  the  action,  and  therefore 

I  to  heighten  the  tragic  effect  by  force  of  contrast.     This 
no  relaxation,  but  merely  a  disturbance.     The  dramatic 

tire  of  the  Parnassus  plays  in  Shakespeare^s  time  was 
xticularly  aimed  at  this  employment  of  the  comic  in 
e  midst  of  a  tragical  scene  {cf,  the  author's  book.  Shake- 
are  im  literarischen  Urteil  seiner  Zeit^  p.  6i  seq^, 
lere,  for  example,  a  clown  is  suddenly  and  unexpectedly 
agged  on  to  the  stage  by  a  rope  and  is  told  :  **  Why, 
thou  canst  but  drawe  thy  mouth  awrye,  laye  thy  legg 
thy  staffe,  sawe  a  peece  of  cheese  asunder  with  thy 
gger,  lape  up  drinke  on  the  earth,  I  warrant  thee  they 

II  laughe  mightilie."     Whereupon  the  clown  replies  : 
This  is  fine,  y-faith  I    nowe,  when   they  have  nobodie 

leave  on  the  stage,  they  bringe  mee  up,  and,  which  is 
rse,  tell  mee  not  what  I  shoulde  saye  !  " 
Nobody  will  deny  that  this  kind  of  comic  acting  is 
irse  and  primitive  and  calculated  to  destroy  all  illusion, 
is  not  necessary  to  be  an  ardent  adherent  of  classicism 
feel  repelled  by  it ;  even  an  uncultivated  taste  will  find 
msupportable.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  in  many  cases 
Bse  things  strike  us  in  a  different  light  to-day,  since  such 
nes  have  either  been  handed  down  to  us  imperfectly,  or 
ve  acquired,  in  the  course  of  time,  a  certain  patina  of 
tiquity  which  has  toned  them  down  into  a  certain  har- 
pny  with  the  whole.  The  entire  perspective  has  become 
*fted.  To  the  educated  spectators  of  that  time  it  seems 
htly  to  have  been  an  occasion  for  annoyance  that  by 

23 


un 

] 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

some  silent  agreement  existing  between  the  stage  and  the 
audience  the  entrance  of  the  clowns  was  a  signal  that  the 
assumption  of  a  strange  country  and  a  different  period  of 
history  had  to  be  dropped.  Two  different  environments 
enter  into  an  irreconcilable  conflict.  Naturally  in  this 
blending  of  the  comic  element  with  the  action  of  the  play 
we  find  an  endless  variety  of  degrees.  But,  when  in 
Macbeth  (II,  iii)  the  clown  as  doorkeeper  makes  jokes  on 
the  trial  of  the  Jesuit  Garnet,  which  took  place  in  the  y 
of  the  performance,  or  on  the  over-abundant  harvest 
the  same  year,  or  again  when  he  makes  obscene  remari 
on  the  influence  of  drinking  on  sexual  desire,  it  is  impoi 
sible  for  ordinary  common  sense  to  discover  in  them  an^ 
profound  artistic  intention  of  heightening  the  tragi 
effect  by  the  law  of  contrast.  One  might  as  well  to- 
interrupt  the  performance  by  reading  the  latest  editi 
of  the  evening  papers  to  the  audience.  Similarly, 
can  well  understand  that  the  better-educated  part  of 
audience  was  disgusted  at  remarks  like  that  of  the  ^ 
gravedigger  in  Hamlet^  which  destroyed  every  illusion 
(V,  i,  67)  :  "  Go,  get  thee  to  Yaughan  [some  London  tavern, 
probably  that  of  the  Globe  Theatre  itself] ;  fetch  me  a  stoup 
of  liquor.*' 

Moreover,  the  clown  scenes  have  in  many  cases  been 
imperfectly  handed  down  to  us.  It  is  true  Hamlet  seeks 
to  prevent  the  usual  improvisation  in  such  cases  by  the 
words  :  "  And  let  those  that  play  your  clowns  speak  no 
more  than  is  set  down  for  them."  But  it  seems  doubtful 
whether  the  traditional  privilege  of  the  fool  to  go  beyond 
his  text  was  really  abolished  by  this  kind  of  prescription. 
It  would  be  worth  while  considering^  whether,  e.g,^  the 
fool  in  Othello  (III,  i)  really  took  care  to  restrict  himself 
to  the  few  words  he  had  to  say,  or  if  he  did  not  rather  seize 
on  the  opportunity  of  behaving  in  the  manner  reprimanded 
above. 

For  this  reason  the  most  important  dramatists  of 
time,  partly  under  Jonson's  influence,  prefer  summarily 
abandon  all  such  traditional  methods.     But  those  who 

*  C/.  Creizenach,  loc.  cit.,  p.  341  seq. 
24 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

>t  do  so,  like  Shakespeare,  are  obviously  guided  by  the 
wish  not  to  lose  all  intimate  contact  with  the  masses. 
Shakespeare's  contemporary,  the  playwright  Thomas  Hey- 
p>od,  expresses  this  in  a  few  plain  words,  in  which  he 
essays  an  apology  for  the  appearance  of  the  comic  figure  : 
^For  they  that  write  to  all  must  strive  to  please  all  and 
■  such  fashion  themselves  to  a  multitude  consisting  of 
Spectators  severally  addicted/* 

9.  Conclusions. — After  all  this  there  can  be  no  further 
doubts  as  to  the  popular  character  of  Shakespeare's  art. 
Indeed,  it  is  proved  by  sufficient  external  evidence.  For 
while  the  curve  of  the  literary  appreciation  of  Shakespeare 
plainly  reached  its  highest  point  shortly  before  the  end  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  and  then  was  depressed  by  the  appear- 
ice  of  newer  talents  and  movements  and  sank  so  low  that 
lakespeare's  name  was  no  more  prominently  mentioned 
long  the  other  dramatists  by  the  critics  of  the  day,  we 
ly  assume  that  his  favour  and  popularity  with  the  greater 
•t  of  the  public  remained  unshaken.  It  is  interesting 
see  what  the  eulogists  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  in 
;ir  laudatory  poems  in  the  introduction  to  their  com- 
ite  edition  (1646)  of  these  authors  have  to  say  about 
Sliakespeare.  They  reproach  him  with  the  use  of  old- 
Fashioned,  indecent  jokes,  "  trunk-hose  wit,"  as  they  call  it. 
All  these  things  we  must  keep  in  mind  in  order  to 
Jain  a  firm  foundation  on  which  to  base  our  judgment.  It 
s  remarkable  in  how  many  cases  conclusions  have  been 
drawn  without  attention  being  paid  to  this  standpoint.  An 
example  which  brings  this  fault  out  in  strong  relief  may 
be  found  in  the  treatment  of  Troilus  and  Cressida,  Here 
:he  element  which  was  for  the  most  part  unjustly  looked 
apon  by  the  critics  of  the  nineteenth  century  ^  as  the 
parodistic  tone '  of  the  piece  has  been  explained  by 
Brandes  as  follows  :  "  From  his  very  childhood  his  ears, 
is  well  as  every  one  else's,  had  been  filled  with  the 
;plendour  of  this  event  [/.^.,  the  Trojan  War].  Every  per- 
son who  had  taken  part  in  it  was  the  pattern  of  heroism, 

C/.  John  S.  P.  Tatlock,  Troilus  and  Cressida  (Publications  of  the  Mod. 
ig.  Assoc,  of  America,  30,  pp.  673-770). 

25 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

magnanimity,  wisdom,  venerableness,  friendship,  and  fidelity. 
As  if  such  persons  had  ever  existed  I  For  the  first  time 
in  his  Hfe  he  felt  the  keen  desire  to  caricature  as  much  as 
possible,  put  out  his  tongue,  make  a  grimace,  and  show  up 
the  seamy  side — the  real  side.'*  But  did  Shakespeare's 
company  act  before  an  audience  of  sixth-form  schoolboys  : 
What  an  absurdity  to  imagine  that  Shakespeare  ever  would 
or  could  have  desired  to  summon  the  spectators  of  the 
Globe  Theatre  to  a  critical  discussion  on  the  (supposedly) 
traditional  conception  of  the  ethical  value  of  the  heroes] 
of  classical  antiquity  I 

It  is  very  evident   that  until   this  anachronistic  p( 
of  view  has  been  abandoned  as  absolutely  untenable 
correct  historical  contemplation  of  Shakespeare's  art  is 
of  the  question.     To  read  and  interpret  the  Shakespean 
drama  in  the  light  of  the  same  standards  as  we  do  that] 
Ibsen  would  be  as  wrong  as  tacitly  to  identify  the  mei 
qualities  of  Shakespeare's  audience  with  Ibsen's. 

If  now,  in  spite  of  the  popular  tone  which  we  have  trace 
in  his  creations,  we  find  so  much  that  ofiFers  a  riddle  to  our 
intelligence,  we  must  ask  ourselves  whether  we  have  not, 
in  many  cases,  lost  a  key  to  these  riddles  of  which  Shake- 
speare's contemporaries  were  in  possession.  The  follow- 
ing exposition  will  make  it  clear  that  in  a  certain  sense  this 
is  actually  the  case.  Shakespearean  exegesis  has  hitherto 
started  almost  exclusively  with  the  most  advanced  side  of 
his  art,  and  has  sought  to  judge  all  the  rest  from  this. 
But  Shakespeare's  art-form  is  in  fact  a  mixture  of  the  most 
higixly  developed  with  quite  primitiv^e  elements  :  on  one 
side  an  inexpressible  delicacy  and  subtlety  in  the  por- 
traiture of  the  soul,  on  the  other  aids  and  props  to  thejl 
v^nderstanding  of  the  most  antiquated  description,  as  well  aS' 
elements  in  the  plot  uncritically  adopted  and  never  properly 
fused  into  the  play  of  character.  In  the  following  pages  I 
shall  endeavour  to  indicate  some  of  these,  and  so  do  away 
with  a  number  of  sources  of  error  in  Shakespearean  inter- 
pretation. Only  the  American  scholar  E.  E.  Stoll  has 
lately,  independently  of  the  author,  sought  to  promote  this 
view — i,e,y  that  an  historical  understanding  of  Shakespeare 
26 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

to  be  reached  only  by  taking  him  much  more  literally 
an  we  have  been  wont  to  do,  his  art  as  more  naive,  his 

tnethods  as  frequently  far  more  primitive. 
•Certainly  we  cannot  hope  in  this  way  to  disperse  all 
It  once  the  numerous  difficulties   confronting  us,  Shakc- 
jjeare*s  work  being  too  instinctive  and  his  methods  too 
■egular  for  that.     But  we  may  approach  him  consider- 
■ly  nearer  than  hitherto,  and  a  great  number  of  attempts 
P  explanation  by  the  most  renowned  commentators  will 
pear  untenable  from  the  very  outset. 
It  may,  therefore,  be  said  of  the  following  comments 
It  in  some  parts  they  represent  the  first  attempt  to  assist 
akespearean  exegesis  by  offering  it  a  method.     Who- 
sr  has  looked  with  horror  at  the  endless  caprices  to  be 
and  in    this    field  will  perhaps  regard  this  attempt  as 
t  having  been  made  in  vain. 

Thus  our  manner  of  contemplating  Shakespeare  is  in- 
ided  to  open  out  new  methods  for  an  historically  correct 
aception  of  his  characters  by  indicating  the  limits  of 
ilism  and  primitive  art  in  Shakespeare's  technique. 
1  the  other  hand,  it  does  not  intend  to  be  exhaustive. 
does  not  hunt  a  method  to  death,  and  it  refrains  from 
umerating  all  the  parallel  passages.  It  purposely  restricts 
If  to  certain  examples,  selecting  only  such  in  each  case 
allow  the  presentation  and  analysis  of  the  most  important 
aracter  problems  in  Shakespeare's  works,  so  that  in  this 
tise  also  the  contents  may  correspond  to  the  title. 
It  may  perhaps  be  objected  that  the  ultimate  result  of 
r  method  of  historically  correct  criticism  will  not  prove 
rourable  to  Shakespeare  in  the  conventional  sense.  In 
s  respect  it  is  no  mere  chance  that  the  name  of  Riimelin, 
B  author  of  Shakespeare-Studien  eines  Realisten^  will  often 
found  in  the  following  pages.  This  highly  gifted  and 
istic  critic  has  too  often  been  regarded  as  a  sort  of 
icifer  by  the  representatives  of  orthodox  Shakespearean 
earch,  a  rebel  who  in  arrogant  and  infatuated  delusion 

1e  against  the  divinity  of  Shakespeare,  thereby  meriting 
be  hurled  into  the  darkest  depths  of  oblivion.  But  to 
a  worshipper  of  the  letter  is  more  often  the  result  of 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

a  lack  of  judgment  than  of  real  piety.     The  man  who.  | 
like  the   latest  orthodox  Shakespeareans,  argues  that   tc  , 
us   Shakespeare  can  no  longer  be  an  object  of  criticism,  I 
but  only  a  standard  of  art,  will  be  little  likely  to  forwarc 
a   right  understanding  of  him.     Shakespearean  researc ' 
would  have  been  more  advanced  to-day  if  it  had  in  tin 
taken   up   Rumelin's   method   of  criticism   and   seriousl) 
dealt  with   the  valuable   suggestions   contained  in   it  b} 
means  of  historical  literary  investigation. 

In  adopting  this  attitude  the  author  does  not  wish  tc 
imply  that  he  starts  from  Rlimelin's  point  of  view,  thai 
he  subscribes  to  every  word  of  his  conception.     On  the 
contrary,  he  must  confess  to  having  met  with  him  some 
what  late  on  his  way,  and  to  holding  opinions  quite  dif-  , 
ferent  from  his  in  many  instances.     The  ultimate  result  ! 
however,  be  it  as  it  may,  can  certainly  not  be  decisive  ir 
regard  to  the  correctness  of  the  method  in  this  case.     Nc  i 
matter  if  in  some  cases  our  judgment  of  passages  which  I 
we  have  been  accustomed  to  regard  as  containing  unspok' 
hints  of  profound  meaning  and  representing  special  artistic  j 
perfections  should  prove  to  be  historically  untenable  and  due  I 
to  our  own  subjective  imagination  :  Shakespeare's  incor 
parable  genius  is  rich  enough    to  stand  in   no  need 
borrowed  renown. 


28 


DIRECT  SELF-EXPLANATION 


J  HE  Relations  between  Actors  and  Audience. — 
The    primitive    and    popular    features    of    Shake- 
spearean art  described   in    the    Introduction   have 
lonstrated  the  close  connexion  which  existed  between 
stage  and  the  audience.     It  is  necessary,  however,  to 
:ome  quite  clear  on  this  point,   in   order  properly  to 
[mate  its  influence  on  dramatic  technique.     We  must 
lember  that  our  illusion  in  the  theatre  is  entirely  different 
that  of  the   Elizabethans,   as  has   been   excellently 
>wn  by  Kilian  {Shak.  Jahrhuch^  39,  p.  xiv  seq^.      Our 
la  is  enacted  under  the  tacit  agreement  that  there  are 
spectators  present.     Only  one  wall,  that  in  front  of 
audience,   is  wanting  to  the  scene.     In   contrast  to 
Shakespeare's  stage  is  surrounded  by  the  spectators 
three  sides.     The  actor  may  be  said  to  stand  in  the 
1st  of  the  audience ;    he  is  always  mindful  of  this  while 
[is  acting,  and  evidently  in  many  cases  directly  addresses 
spectators.     Kilian  proves  how  strikingly  this  relation 
idenced  by  the  monologue,  in  which  the  speaker,  so 
fsay,  fraternizes  with  the  audience,  and  how  the  whole 
latic  composition  and  the  illusion  connected  with  it 
in  this  manner  be  absolutely  destroyed.     It  is  no 
[ger  a  monologue  in  the  proper  sense — /.^.,  the  expres- 
of  an  individual  who,  thinking  aloud,  renders  account 
lis  most  intimate  thoughts  and  feelings — but  a  means 
Ich  the  author  uses  in  order  to  instruct  his  audience 
>ut  the  events,  or  about  the  plans  and  character  of  the 
jonage  speaking.     Such  instruction  and  explanation  is 
ther  emphasized  by  the  form  in  which  the  actor  deliver- 
the  monologue  addresses  the   audience  ;  e,g,^  **  And 

29 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

mark  how  well  the  sequel  hangs  together,"  or  "  To  say  the 
truth,"  or  "  Mark  me  now."  Kilian  shows  how  this  use  \ 
of  elements  which  according  to  our  present  view  con-| 
tradict  the  essence  of  the  monologue  forms  a  peculiar 
feature  of  Shakespeare's  monologues  in  every  period  of 
his  art,  and  most  clearly  appears  in  the  latest  products  of 
his  riper  years.  ; 

2.  Self-explanation  in  Harmony  with  the  Char- 
acter (Remarks  on  the  Characters  of  Hamlet,  Fal-i 
STAFF,  ETC.). — In  drawing  attention  to  the  simplicity  of 
the  soliloquizing  actor  who  allows  his  audience  to  look 
behind  his  mask,  we  have  taken  only  a  partial,  though 
very  characteristic,  aspect  of  this  technical  device.  It  is 
not  true  that  the  Shakespearean  drama  shows  the  traces 
of  a  more  primitive  time  only  in  this  one  respect,  while 
closely  resembling  the  modern  drama  in  all  others.  The 
primitiveness  and  a  certain  childishness  manifested  in  the 
traits  with  which  we  have  so  far  become  acquainted  is 
apparent,  less  distinctly,  perhaps,  but  recognizable  on 
closer  scrutiny,  in  the  whole  mechanism  of  the  Shake- 
spearean drama.  All  the  details  of  the  technique  are 
more  harmless,  simple,  unsophisticated,  than  we  are  in- 
clined to  imagine.  The  monologue  is  not  the  only  and 
not  the  most  important  among  the  naive  devices  used  for 
enlightening  the  audience.  In  the  course  of  the  play — 
that  is,  in  the  actual  dialogue — the  characters  on  the  stage 
supply  the  audience  with  the  most  important  information 
about  themselves  and  reveal  the  innermost  secrets  of  their 
nature.  In  a  number  of  cases,  it  is  true,  most  people 
will  not  regard  this  practice  as  a  clumsy  technical  device, 
but  rather  look  upon  it  as  a  tendency  of  the  author 
to  endow  his  figures  with  an  inclination  toward  intro- 
spection, most  probably  without  any  conscious  intention 
of  throwing  light  upon  the  mental  features  of  his  per- 
sonages for  the  spectators*  benefit.  Where  this  inclination 
is  unobtrusive  and  incorporated  in  other  similar  traits, 
as,  for  example,  the  habit  of.  self-reproach,  it  will  at  once 
escape  the  suspicion  of  being  merely  a  primitive  and 
intentional  device.  Nevertheless,  these  instances  also  are 
30 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

rthy  of  note.  A  case  in  point  is  to  be  found  in  Hamlet, 
e  great  majority  of  serious  critics  are  agreed  on  the 
essity  of  conceiving  Hamlet  not  as  a  man  of  action, 
but  essentially  as  a  man  of  reflection.  This  reflection^ 
however,  is  not  only  directed  upon  the  world  but  also 
upon  himself.  The  utterances  of  Hamlet  in  this  latter 
respect  are  usually  regarded  as  chiefly  characterizing  the 
subjective  state  of  his  soul.  Indeed,  who  would  take  the 
railings  and  self-accusations,  the  insults  with  which  he 
tries  to  spur  himself  to  action,  the  doubts  of  himself,  for 
Gospel  truth  ?  But  while  taking  this  view,  we  must  not 
overlook  that  in  this  character  too  we  can  discern  Shake- 
speare's tendency  to  make  his  figures  explain  themselves 
in  a  manner  which  must  be  taken  very  seriously  and  which 
far  transcends  mere  self-accusation  and  doubt. 

A  fundamental  feature  of  Hamlet's  character,  is...  a 
fanatical  sense  of  truth.  The  reference  to  this  quality 
contained  in  one  of  Hamlet's  first^  utterances  in  the  play, 
^*  I  know  not  *  seems  *  '*  (I,  ii),'*^may  be  regarded  as  a 
necessary  product  of  the  situation  and  a  proper  and 
natural  detail  of  the  dialogue.  This  explanation,  however, 
will  not  hold  good  in  regard  to  the  passage  where  he 
mentions  his  weakness.  He  describes  it  by  saying  that 
King  Claudius  is  **  no  more  like  my  father  than  I  to 
Hercules  "  (I,  ii).*'  This  means  that  he  is  the  very  oppo- 
site of  the  embodiment  of  bodily  strength.  Further,  when 
he  speaks  of  "  my  weakness  and  my  melancholy  "  (II,  ii, 
toward  the  end),  these  allusions,  according  to  the  more 
or  less  clearly  outlined  conceptions  which  his  contem- 
poraries had  of  the  *  melancholy  '  type  of  character  in  the 
drama,  point  to  a  group  of  qualities  not  in  any  way  contra- 
dictory to  those  of  which  he  accuses  himself  in  other  places. 
Especially  of  his  ambition  he  speaks  on  various  occasions, 
once  mentioning  it  in  plain  words  (III,  i,  126),  and  also 
later  on  showing  several  times  that  the  accession  of  his 
uncle  has  disappointed  his  hopes  (V,  ii,  (>^^  etc.).  His 
pride,  which  he  mentions  to  Ophelia  in  the  same  passage, 
often  appears,  and  who  would  deny  that  his  behaviour 
shows  some  of  that  vindictiveness  of  which_Jie_accuses_ 

31 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

himself  on  the  same  occasion  ?  This  trait  too  is  clearly' 
worked  out^  especially  by  contrasting  Hamlet  with  hisj 
friend.  When  he  explains  to  Horatio  the  clever  trick, 
which  has  helped  him  to  get  rid  of  Rosencrantz  and' 
Guildenstern  for  ever,  the  good  fellow,  otherwise  accus- 
tomed to  go  with  him  through  thick  and  thin,  is  unable 
to  suppress  a  certain  uneasiness,  and  replies  :  **  So 
Guildenstern  and  Rosencrantz  go  to  *t."  Hamlet,  almost 
offended,  makes  a  firm  stand  against  all  scruples:  "  Why, 
man,  they  did  make  love  to  this  employment."  Whoever 
allows  himself  to  be  employed  against  him  must  suffer  the 
consequences;  he  feels  no  pity  for  him,  as  Polonius  also 
was  to  find  out. 

The  effect  of  self-explanation  is  thoroughly  natural  in 
all  cases  where  it  is  put  into  the  mouth  of  an  introspective 
character  like  Hamlet.  He  strives  for  truth  at  any.  cost, 
and  his  state  of  mind  makes  it  conceivable  that  in  his 
self-revelation  he  shoixld  not  shrink  even  from  cruelty 
against  his  own  personality.  Being  so  natural  and  com- 
prehensible, this  trait  in  the  Prince's  character  does  not 
attract  any  undue  attention  in  this  passage.  Indeed,  there 
can  be  no  denying  that  the  question  as  to  the  respective 
claims  of  self-explanation  and  self-reproach  occasionally 
requires  a  careful  investigation.  This  trait,  however,  has 
evidently  become  so  much  second  nature  to  Shakespeare  in 
his  dramatic  work  that  he  bestows  it  even  upon  characters 
who  are  anything  but  fanatical  worshippers  of  truth. 
This  applies  to  a  certain  extent  even  to  Falstaff  himself. 
It  is  true  a  great  part  of  the  comic  effect  which  radiates 
from  this  figure  is  due  to  the  opposite  trait,  viz.,  the 
endeavour  of  the  fat  knight  to  create  for  himself  a 
character  which  he  does  not  possess,  as,  for  instance,  when 
he  makes  himself  out  to  be  a  hero  or  succeeds  in  wrapping 
himself  up  in  an  atmosphere  of  uprightness  which  is  of  only 
very  doubtful  quality  and  is  excellently  fitted  for  inducing 
the  kind-hearted  hostess  to  part  with  her  last  penny.  In 
case  of  need,  when  driven  into  a  position  of  self-defence, 
he  changes  his  character  as  he  might  do  a  mask,  and  on  being 
driven  from  one  cover  he  immediately  finds  another  just 
32 


I 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


favourable.  The  masks,  of  course.,  fit  him  so  ill  and 
protect  him  so  little  that  everybody  st:^  through  them  at 
f  Dnce,  and  he  himself  dares  only  to  put  them  on  with  a 
^^  humorous  twinkle  of  his  eye.  The  comic  effect  is  all  the 
:  s^reater  when  the  stupidity  of  Justice  Shallow  prevents 
■'hiim  from  recognizing  the  bad  moral  disguise  and  makes 
'  tiim  regard  the  fat  knight  as  an  influential  lord  at  Court, 
I  Dr  when  the  hostess,  after  having  been  cheated  a  thousand 
j  jjmes,  is  once  more  taken  in  by  his  protestations. 
I  Hpalstaff,  though  his  is  a  character  not  at  all  given  to 

■  ielf-analysis,  nevertheless  finds  very  shrewd  and  apt  expres- 
'  sions  to  throw  light  upon  certain  sides  of  his  personality 

md  its  relation  to  his   environment  :    "  I   am   not  only 
1  witty  in  myself,  but  the  cause  that  wit  is  in  other  men  " 

■  'i  Henry  IV ^  II,  i).  These  words  give  the  briefest  pos- 
I  iible  formula  for  the  part  he  has  to  play  in  the  drama, 
i  ind  clearly  describe  the  category  to  which  he  belongs. 
'  To  be  witty  himself  and  to  stimulate  laughter  and  wit  in 

■  Dthers  is  the  business  of  the  clown.  Indeed,  Falstaff  is  not 
W  principally  a  swaggerer  and  blusterer,  as  certain  misguided 
:  literary  critics  would  have  him  be,  but  is  the  prince 
:  md  grand  master  of  all  dramatic  clowns,  and  belongs  to 

:he  dramatic  tradition  which  makes  the  clown  the  centre 
:  Df  the  comic  underplot  in  the  serious  drama.  Falstaff*s 
1  definition  of  himself  also  suggests  an  excellent  reason  for 
5  ;he  magic  attraction  exerted  by  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern  : 
.  le  is  a  witty  carouser  and  boon  companion  who  indulges 
.  2very  one  of  his  whims,  and  whose  humour  irresistibly  infects 
;  lis  company,  calls  forth  their  good  spirits,  and  provides 
?  :hem  with  an  inexhaustible  source  of  merriment  by  allowing 
I  :hem  to  use  him  with  impunity  as  the  target  of  their  wit. 
The  fact  that  he  is  old  and  they  are  young  makes  no 

difference,  for — here  again  his  own  remark  throws  light 
^japon  the  character — **  The  truth  is,''  he  says  to  the  Lord 

3hief  Justice,  "  I  am  only  old  in  judgment  and  under- 

fding  "  (2  Henry  IV^  I,  ii). 
'his  hits  the  nail  on  the  head.     Falstaff,  while  possess- 
ng  the  soundest  experience  of  old  age,  is  also  endowed 

i*  h  the  mercurial  versatility,  the  unbounded  elasticity, 
■ 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

the  light-heartedness  and  power  of  enjoyment  found  onl) 
in  the  young  man  of  eighteen  who  takes  no  thought  of  th(.> 
morrow,  and  in  the  blind  confidence  of  youth  pays  litth 
heed  to  the  consequences  of  his  actions.  ^  The  old  grey- 
beard utters  only  his  most  heartfelt  conviction  when  on  th( 
occasion  of  the  robbery,  whipping  up  his  own  courage  witt 
violent  words,  he  roars  at  the  frightened  travellers  :  **  What 
ye  knaves,  young  men  must  live  "  (i  Henry  IV ^  II,  ii). 

The  objection  may  be  made  that  this  youth  is  artificia 
and  owes  its  origin  to  drink,  the  indispensable  stimulan- 
to  FalstafF's  humour.  Certainly  no  actor  would  give  j 
correct  representation  of  FalstafF  who  did  not  use  thi{ 
sort  of  drunken  good-humour  as  a  key  to  his  character 
Moreover,  the  meekness  and  the  cheap  compassion  fo] 
his  own  condition  is  that  of  the  old  toper.  There  is  { 
vein  of  youthfulness  in  him,  however — the  hilarious  mooc 
of  the  eighteen-year-old  student  on  the  spree,  itching  foi 
practical  jokes.  It  breaks  out  when,  in  an  advanced  stag( 
of  jollity,  his  riotous  imagination  prompts  him  to  im- 
personate the  King  in  a  "  comedy  extempore,'*  making 
the  armchair  his  throne,  the  leaden  dagger  his  sceptre, 
clapping  a  "cushion"  on  his  head  for  a  crown,  anc 
mimicking  with  stilted  pomposity  and  ridiculous  affectatior 
of  pathos  the  reproachful  father  and  King. 

A  similar  importance  must  be  attached  to  the  assertions 
which  King  Lear  makes  about  himself.  All  Shakespeare's 
kings,  even  his  crowned  rascals,  are  surrounded  by  a  certaic 
halo  of  prestige.  Shakespeare's  fervent  royalism  is  seen  ir 
his  preference  for  one  in  particular  of  all  the  forms  of  the 
sentiment  of  veneration — namely,  reverence  for  superiors 
and  its  obverse,  princely  pride.  Pride,  in  Shakespeare's 
eyes,  is  a  necessary  attribute  of  the  great.  In  AlVs  Well  thai 
Ends  Well  an  eminent  man  is  praised  for  possessing  pride 
without  contempt,  and  although  his  "humility"  is  lauded 
he  is  admired  because 

who  were  below  him 
He  us'd  as  creatures  of  another  place. 

So  the  idea  of  "service"  has  nothing  repugnant  to  him, 
"  You  have  that  in  your  countenance,"  Kent  says  to  Lear, 
34 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PI  AYS 

hich  I  would  fain  call  master."     His  Lear  has  a  greater 
i  ^fcdowment  of  this  kind  of  majesty  than  any  other  figure 
^H  his  plays.     For  this  reason  the  blows  of  Fate  that  inflict 
\  Kch  cruel  wounds  on  his  pride  are  infinitely  more  painful 
I H  him  than  acts  of  ingratitude  and  baseness  would  be  to  an 
■^^dinary  mind.     But  the  more  his  pride  is  wounded,  the 
re  clearly  does  it  show  its  unconquerable  nature ;    it 
11  perish  only  with  the  life  of  the  King  himself.     Even  in 
madness  this  pride  remains  unshaken.     He  arises  more 
LJestic  where  others  would  be  in  danger  of  lapsing  into 
icule.     Thus  we  may  indeed  say  of  Lear,  applying  the 
akespearean  conception  of  kingliness,  that  he  is  **  every 
ch  a  king.**     This  characteristic  phrase,  again,  is  uttered 
the  King  with  reference  to  himself  (IV,  vi,   no).    The 
nificance  of  these  words  is  not  greatly  affected  by  the 
t  that  they  are  spoken  in  a  state  of  madness. 
3.  Ambiguous  Self-explanation  (Rascals  and  Heroes; 
Lius  C^sar). — On  proceeding  further  in  our  inquiry, 
begin  to  see  certain  difficulties  in  the  application  of 
this  technical  device.     It  must  be  admitted  that  this  trait, 
according  to  our  modern   conceptions,  can  be  approved 
only  in  passages  where  the  action  gives  warrant  for  it  and 
where  it  has  no  disturbing  influence  on  the  characteriza- 
tion.    In  most  cases,   however,   it  will   prove  unsuitable 
because  of  its  psychological  impossibility  or  because  of 
the  conflict  which  it  produces  between  the  direct  and  the 
direct  methods  of  characterization. 

As  regards  the  first  difficulty,  it  would  clearly  be  an 
absolute  self-contradiction  if,  for  instance,  anybody  were 
to  explain  in  long-winded  speeches,  and  with  a  great 
wealth  of  vocabulary,  that  he  is  remarkable  for  his  gift  of 
silence,  and  it  would  be  equally  absurd  to  endeavour  to 
prove  stupidity  by  a  great  display  of  clever  arguments,  or 
superficiality  ^  by  means  of  heartrending  complaints,  or 
to  express  a  matter-of-fact  disposition  in  highly  poetical 
language.  Common  experience  will  show  that  cleverness 
jconsists  in  properly  recognizing  what  is  stupid,  that  nobody 
lii? 

^  Like  Browning's  Andrea  del  Sarto,  who  deeply  moves  us  by  confessing  that 
^  anlortunately  his  superficial  character  prevents  him  from  being  a  good  painter  I 

35 


II 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

can  be  superficial  who  suffers  from  a  sense  of  his  own 
deficiencies,  and  that  beauty  of  language  is  a  sure  sign  of 
artistic  talent.  Shakespeare^s  transgressions  of  this  law  will 
be  dealt  with  later  on. 

The  second  difficulty  may  be  regarded  as  almost  more 
important  than  the  first  one.  In  ordinary  life  an  utterance 
of  a  person  made  in  order  to  draw  attention  to  supposedly 
praiseworthy  or  reprehensible  sides  of  his  character 
allows  us  to  infer  his  real  character  by  way  of  indirect 
characterization;  and  we  believe  we  can  apply  the  same 
kind  of  reasoning  to  persons  in  a  play,  since  we  know  that 
to  recognize  the  good  or  evil  in  oneself,  and  even  to  go 
so  far  as  to  show  them  in  the  presence  of  others,  requires 
special  characteristics.  Most  interpreters  following  the 
traditional  method  have  seen  no  difficulties  here.  Utter- 
ances of  criminal  personages  in  which  they  openly  describe 
their  deeds  as  wicked  were  unquestioningly  taken  for 
Gospel  truth  and  hardly  ever  regarded  as  serving  as  a 
means  of  indirect  characterization.  Lady  Macbeth  (I,  v), 
looking  at  her  own  behaviour  from  an  outside  point  of 
view,  calls  it  "  cruelty,**  and  describes  her  murderous 
intentions  as  "  fell.'*  A  man  like  lago,  for  example, 
terms  his  own  behaviour  villainy.  "  *Tis  here,  but  yet 
confused,**  he  says,  after  hatching  the  devilish  plot  of 
destroying  Othello,  his  master ;  **  Knavery's  plain  face  is 
never  seen  till  used**  (II,  i,  320).  Cloten,  in  Cymbeliney 
the  villain  of  the  piece,  quite  glibly  talks  of  the  villainous 
orders  he  has  given  (III,  v,  113).  A  person  who  is  so 
little  weighed  down  with  the  recognition  of  his  own  wicked- 
ness we  usually  style  a  cynic.  This  appellation  might 
possibly  fit  a  real  rascal  like  Edmund  in  King  Lear^  who 
describes  himself  as  "  rough  and  lecherous  **  (I,  ii,  145). 
But  this  would  be  to  regard  these  matters  from  an  entirely 
erroneous  point  of  view.  This  kind  of  self-characteriza- 
tion should  not  be  considered  as  in  any  way  an  attempt 
at  realism.  Wetz  (Z)/V  Menschen  in  Shakespeares  Bramen^ 
p.  1 84)  seriously  states  that  ''Shakespeare's  wretches 
and  villains  are  perfectly  clear  about  the  criminal  nature  of 
their  actions.*'  This  flatly  contradicts  the  truth  of  life. 
36 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

A  more  recent  investigator,  WoliF,  tries  to  explain  this 
trait  by  observing  that  in  the  Renaissance  period  people 
were  far  more  frank  and  open,  whereas  "  under  the  stronger 
pressure  of  modern  public  morality  they  never  abandon 
their  hypocrisy  and  refuse  to  lift  the  mask  of  dissimula- 
tion even  in  their  own  private  thoughts."  In  point  of 
probability  we  should  rank  this  line  of  argument  about 
as  highly  as  an  attempt  to  explain  the  five-legged  lions  of 
the  Assyrians  by  asserting  that  lions  with  five  legs  had 
actually  existed  at  that  time,  or  to  account  for  the  primitive 
drawings  of  prehistoric  men,  in  which  faces  are  represented 
in  profile,  yet  having  two  eyes,  by  declaring  that  in  those  days 
a  man's  two  eyes  were  both  on  the  same  side  of  his  face. 
The  source  of  the  error  here  is  a  misconception  of  the  art- 
form,  which  itself  is  primitive.  The  Assyrians  wished  the 
lion  to  have  four  legs  from  whichever  side  it  was  looked 
at.  In  the  drama  the  villain  is  to  be  a  villain,  the  noble 
character  is  to  appear  noble,  from  whichever  side  we  look 
at  them.  This  mode  of  representation  has  never  been  true 
to  facts,  neither  in  the  Renaissance  nor  before  ;  in  all 
probability  even  Cain  did  not  lack  a  very  good  reason  for 
killing  Abel  (though  this  may  not  have  been,  as  Byron 
asserts,  his  extreme  dullness).  The  reason  for  this  de- 
parture from  reality  is  to  be  looked  for  in  the  careful  regard 
which  Shakespeare  everywhere  pays  to  the  limited  mental 
capacity  of  the  public.  The  poet  desires  above  all  to  avoid 
misapprehension  of  the  main  outlines  of  the  action  and  the 
characters,  to  prevent  the  spectators  from  confusing  the 
ethical  values  and  from  taking  pleasure  in  the  vices  repre- 
sented and  the  situations  produced  by  them.  In  short,  the 
public  was  an  influential  factor  in  determining  the  art-form. 
We  have  long  been  accustomed,  by  a  tacit  agreement, 
not  to  take  offence  at  this  aspect  of  Shakespearean  technique, 
but  to  regard  it  as  a  primitive  trait,  impossible  nowadays, 
and  therefore  not  exposed  to  misinterpretations.  When 
the  villains  talk  of  their  villainy  we  do  not  on  that  account 
consider  them  as  cynics.  Numerous  critics  of  Othello^ 
for  example,  find  in  certain  speeches  of  lago,  in  spite 
of  the  utterance  cited  above,  an  endeavour  to  palliate  his 

37 


II 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

wickedness,  a  thing  which  no  cynic  ever  does.  This  kind 
of  characterization  turns  out  to  be  entirely  traditional. 
Just  in  the  same  way  the  Jew  of  Malta,  notwithstand- 
ing the  very  special  reasons  for  his  action,  says  of  him- 
self, on  entering  upon  his  villainous  course  :  "  Now  will 
I  show  myself  to  have  more  of  the  serpent  than  the 
dove  ;  that  is,  more  knave  than  fool." 

In  this  inquiry  v/e  are  too  apt  to  overlook  the  question 
that  might  be  raised  :  What  are  we  to  think  of  utterances 
just  the  opposite  of  these,  containing  references  to  praise- 
worthy qualities  ?  If  Shakespeare^s  art-form  is  still  so 
imperfect  that  it  does  not  allow  us,  as  we  do  nowadays,  to 
interpret  the  calm  description  given  by  a  person  of  his  own 
baseness  as  a  sign  of  cynicism,  are  we  then  forbidden  to 
perceive  in  self-revelations  regarding  the  possession  of 
valuable  moral  qualities  nothing  but  conceit,  boastfulness, 
or  arrogance  ?  Here  we  may  remember  the  ghost  of 
Hamlet's  father,  who  thinks  himself  so  superior  to  his 
brother  Claudius,  a  person  "  whose  natural  gifts  were  poor 
to  those  of  mine*'  (I,  v,  51  seq,).  This  description  in 
point  of  fact  perfectly  agrees  with  that  which  Hamlet 
gives  of  his  father ;  nevertheless,  spoken  by  the  father  him- 
self, these  words  strike  us  as  somewhat  self-complacent. 
Did  Shakespeare  mean  this  ?  There  does  not  seem  to  be 
any  sense  in  thus  showing  up  a  weak  side  in  the  character 
of  the  ghost.  Let  us  further  consider  the  account  which 
Prospero  in  The  Tempest  gives  of  himself,  how  he  designates 
himself  as 

the  prime  duke,  being  so  reputed 
In  dignity,  and  for  the  liberal  arts 
Without  a  parallel.  I,  ii,  73 

Cordelia,  too,^  in  King  Lear  may  serve  as  an  illustration. 
In  the  exposition  she  describes  herself  as  wanting 

that  glib  and  oily  art 
To  speak  and  purpose  not,  since  what  I  well  intend, 
ril  do*t  before  I  speak,    .    .    . 
•    •    •    [I  lack]  that /or  which  I  am  richer , 
A  still-soliciting  eye,  and  such  a  tongue 
That  I  am  glad  I  have  not. 

38 


I 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


\i  Here  her  air  of  knowing  perfectly  well  what  she  is  doing 
ii,  in  presenting  her  advantages  in  their  true  light  strikes  a 
iJ  false  note  in  the  infinite  harmony  of  her  being,  so  that 
>l  Kreyssig  (p.  127)  thinks  he  can  discover  a  ring  of  some- 
11  thing  like  "  sauciness  '*  in  "  the  reply  with  which  the 
le'  daughter  of  the  old  Lear  cannot  quite  disguise  her  race." 
We  may  regard  it  as  absolutely  certain,  however,  that 
I]  Shakespeare  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  endowing 
;s  with  any  trait  of  vanity  the  touching  figure  of  Cordelia, 
K  whom  we  see  on  other  occasions,  overpowered  by  her 
;  emotions,  standing  speechless,  unable  to  articulate  a  word 

Itf  even  to  produce  a  single  sound. 
^  We  may  also  think  of  Brutus  in  Ju/ius  C^sar,  a  personage 
0  much  given  to  self-characterization,  which,  however,  is 
adroitly  interwoven  with  the  action.  Sometimes  we  seem 
to  perceive  traits  in  him  which  make  us  doubt  whether 
they  are  intentional  or  not.  It  does  sound  like  a  boast 
when  he  describes  himself  as  **  arm'd  so  strong  in  honesty." 
It  is  evident,  however,  that  this  was  not  Shakespeare's 
intention.  He  merely  overdoes  the  emphasis  in  order  not 
to  miss  being  clearly  understood  ;  hence  the  false  impres- 
j^ion  we  receive.  Brutus  acts  without  any  selfish  motives 
Khis  morality  seems  even  to  surpass  that  of  his  model  in 
Butarch — he  only  follows  his  duty,  obeying  that  which 
he  calls  his  **  honour."  He  is  meant  to  possess  dignity, 
self-esteem,  and  well-merited  pride.  In  expressing  these 
qualities,  however,  he  seems  to  us  to  transgress  the  limit 
which  divides  self-esteem  from  vanity  and  boastfulness. 
Any  other  personage  might  say,  for  example,  that  it  would 
be  an  honour  to  be  slain  by  Brutus  ;  from  his  own  mouth 
(V,  i,  59)  this  remark  strikes  us  as  in  bad  taste,  and  as  a 
sign  of  arrogance. 

The  attempt  may  be  made  to  explain  this  practice  here 
as  due  to  Shakespeare's  opinion  that  this  manner  of  prais- 
ing oneself  was  a  Roman  custom.  There  is  little  ground, 
however,  for  this  supposition.  We  find  the  same  trait 
in  other  characters  who  are  not  Romans  ;  for  example, 
when  Henry  V,  giving  audience  to  the  French  ambassadors 
^d  seeing  them  hesitate  to  deliver  the  arrogant  message 

■  39 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

of  their  Dauphin,  praises  his  kingly  self-command  in  the. 

words  : 

We  are  no  tyrant,  but  a  Christian  king. 

Unto  whose  grace  our  passion  is  as  subject  i 

As  are  our  wretches  fetter'd  in  our  prisons. 

Henry  V^  I,  ii,  241 

It  is  just  this  monarch  who  proves  himself  to  be  anything 
but  a  braggart. 

A  more  difficult  question  is  presented  by  the  objection 
that  possibly  at  that  time  self-praise  was  not  considered 
as  1  moral  defect,  at  least  so  long  as  it  did  not  overstep  the 
limits  of  truth,  that  the  expression  of  pride  in  one*s  own 
achievements  and  ability  was  less  hampered  by  moral  re- 
straint than  in  later  times.  In  that  case  the  dramatist's 
conception  would  be  true  to  the  life  of  his  time,  and  ours 
would  be  based  upon  a  false,  anachronistic  conception. 
One  glance,  however,  into  the  history  of  the  manners  of 
that  time,  a  short  perusal  of  some  of  those  modest  speeches 
with  which  high  functionaries,  like  the  Speakers  of  Eliza- 
beth's Parliament,  entered  upon  their  offices,  suffice  to 
show  us  that  here  we  are  no  longer  in  the  Homeric  age, 
and  that  modesty  in  speaking  of  one's  own  person  is 
by  no  means  foreign  to  Elizabethan  times.  So  we  shall 
probably  have  to  be  satisfied  with  the  conclusion  that  we 
are  here  face  to  face  with  a  mere  dramatic  tradition,  very 
liable  to  misinterpretation.  On  the  other  hand,  Shake- 
speare may  have  been  influenced  in  endowing  his  figures 
of  sovereigns  with  this  trait  by  the  pompous  style  in  which 
the  crowned  dignitaries  of  his  as  well  as  of  our  own  time 
speak  of  themselves  in  royal  edicts,  though  no  personal 
qualities  are  implied  here. 

All  this  is  much  less  significant  for  the  characterization 
of  Brutus  than  of  Julius  Casar  himself.  Caesar  is  one  of 
those  Shakespearean  figures  who  have  almost  without  ex- 
ception been  misunderstood  by  an  anachronistic  school  of 
criticism,  most  flagrantly  perhaps  by  Brandes.  In  the  light 
of  his  investigation  Shakespeare's  Caesar  has  become  a  con- 
temptible wretch  ;  he  goes  so  far  as  to  call  him  a  carica- 
ture, "  the  sum-total  of  all  unpleasant  qualities.  He  makes 
40 


KP         IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

fe  Ithe  impression  of  an  invalid.     Stress  is  laid  on  his  suffering 

from  falling-sickness.     He  is  deaf  of  one  ear.     He  is  no 

longer  in  possession  of  his  old  vigour.     He  swoons  when 

the  crown  is  offered  to  him.     He  envies  Cassius,  who  is  a 

better  swimmer  than  himself.     He  is  as  superstitious  as 

'  any  old  crone.     He  enjoys  flattery,  talks  pompously  and 

^  haughtily,  boasts  of  his  firmness,  and  is  changeable  and 

inconsistent.     He  acts  imprudently,  unreasonably,  and  does 

ot  not  recognize  the  dangers  threatening  him,  whereas  all  others 

e;  jsee  them"  (2nd  ed.,  p.  431   seg,).     In  another  passage 

Ji  .Brandes   calls  him  puffed  up  with   conceit,  always  cere- 

f'  ^monious,  starched,  and  stilted,  and  adds  that  nobody  really 

e  believes  his  assertion  that  he  is  ignorant  of  fear.     Other 

IHtics  have  further  reproached  him  with  being  theatrical. 
JP  It  is  undoubtedly  true  that  for  a  number  of  these  traits 
D.  evidence  can  be  found  in  the  play.  When  Caesar,  for 
3i  example  (I,  ii),  asks  Antony  to  touch  his  wife  at  the  feast  of 
;s  I  the  Lupercal  because  **  our  elders  say  "  that  this  is  a  cure 
for  barrenness  he  shows  himself  to  be  superstitious.  This 
trait,  however,  Shakespeare  found  in  Plutarch,  where  it  is 
referred  to  as  a  common  Roman  belief,  and,  reading  in 
the  same  source  of  Caesar^s  belief  in  omens,  he  rightly 
transferred  it  to  Caesar.  Moreover,  this  is  one  of  those 
small  touches  which  he  employs  to  produce  in  the  drama 
the  true  colour  of  antiquity.  Plutarch  also  tells  us  of 
the  imperator^s  epilepsy  and  headache  ;  Shakespeare  con- 
verts these  diseases  into  the  falling-sickness  and  deafness 
of  one  ear.  As  regards  this  last  point,  we  must  admit 
that  we  cannot  explain  why  he  has  represented  Caesar  as 
deaf.  There  is  no  authority  either  for  his  description  of 
Caesar's  ambiguous  attitude  toward  flattery,  and  his  con- 
viction that  he  himself  is  inaccessible  to  it  (MacCallum, 
p.  223).  Brandes'  reproach,  however,  that  Caesar  is 
"  always  changeable  and  inconsistent  "  greatly  overshoots 
the  mark.  The  scene  which  Brandes  chiefly  uses  to 
justify  this  accusation  is  the  one  in  Plutarch  where  Caesar, 
on  the  morning  of  his  assassination,  moved  by  the  prayers 
his  wife,  who  is  frightened  by  her  dream,  has  decided 
t  to  go  to  the  senate-house,  and  is  induced  to  change 

41 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

his  mind  by  the  cunning  interpretation  which  Declus,  one, 
of  the  conspirators,  gives  of  the  dream.  It  is  impossible, 
however,  to  infer  from  this  scene  that  Caesar  is  inconsistent ' 
or  timid  ;  only  when  his  wife  goes  down  on  her  knees', 
to  implore  him  does  he  yield  and  abandon  his  decision. 
After  her  fears  have  been  lulled  and  silenced  by  the  trea- 
cherous eloquence  of  Declus  there  is  no  further  reason  to 
prevent  him  from  going.^  The  other  traits  also,  with 
the  exception  of  Caesar^s  boastfulness,  are  all  in  a  very 
similar  manner  drawn  from  Plutarch. 

The  fact  that  Shakespeare  borrowed  these  traits  from 
his  source  would  not  suffice  in  itself  to  disprove  Brandes'  > 
representation.  Supposing  each  of  them  to  be  historically 
correct,  their  combination  might  nevertheless  be  effected  ; 
in  a  one-sided  and  biased  manner  amounting  almost  to  a  \ 
falsification.  By  methodically  utilizing  less  sympathetic 
traits  related  by  Plutarch  the  figure  of  Brutus  too  might 
have  been  radically  altered.  We  must  ask  ourselves, 
however,  what  reason  Shakespeare  could  have  had  for 
giving  such  a  caricature  of  Julius  Caesar.  This  would  be 
all  the  more  astonishing  as  in  various  passages  of  his 
dramas  he  speaks  of  him  with  the  greatest  respect,  and 
unswervingly  follows  the  well-known  tradition  which  saw 
in  him  one  of  the  greatest  of  men,  perhaps  the  greatest 
of  al\  Umes.  Most  Shakespearean  critics  have  answered 
this  question  by  asserting  that  he  found  it  advisable  not 
to  make  Caesar  too  great,  as  otherwise  the  conspirators 
would  have  appeared  too  insignificant  in  comparison. 
Dramatic  necessities,  therefore,  above  all  the  prominent 
importance  assigned  to  Brutus,  the  moral  hero  of  the  play, 
are  said  to  have  thrown  the  figure  of  Caesar  into  the  back- 
ground. This  explanation  has  been  rejected  by  Brandes, 
who  saw  its  unsoundness  without  himself  being  able  to 

*  It  may  also  be  that  even  before  5delding  to  his  wife  he  has  been  a  little 
unnerved  by  her  terrible  anxiety.  But  the  way  in  which  some  critics,  and 
especially  M.  W.  MacCallum  in  his  excellent  book,  Shakespeare's  Roman  Plays 
and  their  Background  (London,  1910,  p.  221  seq.),  construe  a  disagreement 
between  this  scene  and  Caesar's  declaration  in  the  senate  that  his  resolutions 
are  as  unshakable  as  the  polar  star  strikes  one  as  almost  ludicrous.  Caesar 
in  no  way  loses  his  character  by  doing  his  wife  a  favour  which,  after  all,  is 
very  insignificant. 

42 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


°f'  substitute  a  better  one.     He  flatly  denies  the  necessity  of 
elittling  Caesar,  and  insists  that  Shakespeare  might  have 
^^'^  improved  the  play  by  representing  him  as  great ;    indeed, 
as  the  conflict  is  based  on  a  political  contrast,  the  drama 
jcould  only  have  been  rendered  more  tragic  by  the  purely 
human  greatness  of  the  person  sacrificed.     There  are  thus 
important  dramatic  reasons  why  the  limitations  to  which 
the  part  of  Caesar  is  subjected  can  afl^ect  only  the  amount 
of  space  allotted  to  it  and  its  share  in  the  action,  not  the 
human    proportions    of  his    personality.     We    must    not 
lightly  suppose  that  Shakespeare,  who  knew  very  well  how 
to  represent   historical   or   legendary   poetic   figures,   like 
Henry  V,  Cressida,  and  Cleopatra,  of  whom  his  contem- 
poraries had  a  vivid  impression,  would  have  dared  to  put 
before  them  a  Julius  Caesar  whose  great  qualities  had  been 
ic  j  consciously  and  purposely  suppressed.     This  being  ruled 
It  I  out  as  quite  impossible,  why  then  should  such  an  inflated 
**  invalid,*'  as  Brandes  styles  him,  be  shown  on  the  stage 
in  the  place  of  Julius  Caesar  ? 

The  answer  is  not  difficult.  Shakespeare's  Caesar,  if 
we  refuse  to  read  the  drama  with  the  eyes  of  the  critics 
mentioned  above,  will  appear  to  us  in  a  very  different  light. 
It  is  true  many  of  the  enumerated  traits  are-  actually  there, 
but  they  do  not  show  much.  That  they  obtrude  so  little 
is  due  to  the  impression  which  we  receive  of  Caesar.  His 
greatness  is  shown  less  in  his  own  person  than  in  the 
enormous  influence  which  he  exercises  upon  his  environ- 
ment. He  is  the  centre  of  everything.  The  very  first 
scene  shows  the  town  full  of  jubilation  over  his  triumph, 
which  entices  even  the  artisan  from  his  honest  work.  His 
enemies  are  seen  to  be  possessed  by  a  kind  of  impotent  fury 
I  against  the  gigantic  power  of  that  influence  which  lays  the 
I  world  at  his  feet.  Even  the  words  uttered,  with  gnashing 
of  teeth,  by  the  most  relentless  of  his  enemies,  the  irrecon- 
cilable Cassius,  echo  the  admiration  of  the  whole  world  : 

This  man 
Is  now  become  a  god. 
...  he  doth  bestride  the  narrow  world 
Like  a  colossus.  I,  ii,  114 

43 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

Also  the  reverence  which  Brutus  feels  for  him  in  his  sou] 
is  boundless:  **  We  all  stand  up  against  the  spirit  ol 
Csesar  "  (II,  i,  1 67).  They  all  know,  even  when  killing  him, 
that  he  is  "  the  foremost  man  of  all  this  world  ''  (IV,  iii,  22).;. 
In  this  manner  an  atmosphere  is  created  in  which  Caesar 
appears  surrounded  by  a  magic  light,  which  after  his  fall 
adds  a  still  greater  lustre  to  his  memory.  It  is  therefore 
quite  absurd  to  suppose  that  Shakespeare  diminishes  the 
importance  of  Caesar.  Rather  must  we  say  that  the  vastness 
of  his  figure  is  tacitly  or  openly  presupposed  in  all  the  happenings 
of  the  play. 

The  question  now  arises  whether  his  demeanour  in  the 
play  corresponds  to  the  great  opinion  generally  entertained 
of  him.  We  know  that  occasionally  in  Shakespeare's 
works  a  contradiction  may  appear  between  these  two 
things,  as,  for  example,  in  the  characterization  of  King 
Claudius  (vide  infra).  But  here  we  can  speak  only  very 
conditionally  of  such  a  contradiction.  Caesar  is  represented 
as  a  born  ruler  of  men,  an  imperious  character  in  every 
sense  of  the  term.  His  very  first  speeches  consist  of  a 
succession  of  commands.  One  after  the  other  Calpurnia, 
Antony,  the  procession,  the  soothsayer,  the  musicians,  etc., 
are  given  their  orders  ;  even  Antony,  himself  an  important 
personage,  is  at  his  beck  and  call  like  a  schoolboy.  When 
he  is  furious  his  entourage,  even  if  a  Cicero  be  among 
them,  look  "  like  a  chidden  train  *'  (I,  ii,  182),  and  they 
dwindle  down  to  the  size  of  mere  retainers  the  moment 
he  shows  himself.  With  unerring  penetration  he  reads 
their  characters  ;  of  the  lean  Cassius  especially  he  expects 
nothing  good.  But  though  he  professes  to  be  ignorant 
of  fear  he  yields  to  the  urgent  requests  of  his  wife,  who  is 
anxious  to  keep  him  at  home  on  that  fateful  morning  until 
her  care  is  dispelled  ;  nevertheless,  he  goes  out  with  the 
conspirators,  chatting  gaily  with  them.  On  his  way  he 
encounters  the  last  chance  of  saving  himself  in  the  person 
of  a  well-wisher  who  tries  to  warn  him.  But  as  the  con- 
spirators at  the  same  time  present  him  with  a  petition 
the  attempt  to  warn  him  fails,  chiefly  because  of  the  clumsi- 
ness of  his  friend,  who,  urged  by  the  fullness  of  his  heart, 
44 


r 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


soil  ipresses  his  paper  upon  him  with  the  remark  that  it  contains 
t  i  la  matter  touching  him  personally.  This  is  only  a  reason, 
iiV  however,  for  Caesar  in  his  sublime  impartiality  to  defer  the 
;:  perusal  until  the  other  matter  has  been  transacted,  and  he 
ssa.  angrily  rebukes  the  petitioner,  who,  in  his  anxiety,  refuses 
faf  to  obey.  No  trace  of  small-mindedness  is  perceivable  in 
or;  all  these  actions,  nothing  that  could  lower  his  dignity  or 
til  be  at  variance  with  his  greatness.  Some  of  his  words, 
•c    like  the  famous  and  profound  remark. 

He  thinks  too  much  ;  such  men  are  dangerous, 

I,  ii,  192 

ec  bear  the  stamp  of  genius.  Moreover,  his  behaviour  in 
1';  the  assassination  scene  does  not  betray  the  "  invalid  '*  of 
ro  Brandes.  No  cry  of  fear,  no  lamentation  from  his  lips, 
Iff  interrupts  the  terrible  catastrophe. 

I  &  This  being  the  true  picture  of  Cassar,  how  did  the  critics 
I  fcme  by  the  impression  described  above  ?      The  reason 
I  Bri^^^^tly  is  that  Shakespeare  has  endowed  his  hero  with  a 
3  :  number  of  small  human  traits  which  are  indispensable  for 
enlivening  the  portrait  and  rendering  it  truly  individual. 
The  excessive  reverence  in  which  he  is  held  by  all  prob- 
[    ably  assured  the  dramatist  that  by  making  him  human  he 
I  '  did  not  risk  destroying  that  impression  of  greatness  on 
which  the  whole  play  rests.     Thus  he  gave  him  the  histori- 
cally interesting  traits  of  the  falling-sickness,  of  a  certain 
juperstition,  allowed  his  mortal  enemy  sneeringly  to  relate 
I  ^ke  story  (invented  by  Shakespeare,  but  here  to  be  taken 
jWs  true  to  the  character  of  Caesar)  about  his  bodily  weak- 

K;ss,  and  made  another  conspirator  remark  that  he  was  not 
accessible  to  flattery.  All  these  details,  however,  are  of 
tie  significance.  They  show  him  to  be  human  after  all, 
but  they  do  not  reduce  the  gigantic  dimensions  of  his 
personality.  Shakespeare  even  makes  him  appear  nobler 
than  does  Plutarch,  who,  for  example,  expressly  states 
^hat  his  reasons  for  not  wishing  to  go  to  the  senate- 
^kuse  on  the  day  of  assassination  were  suspicion  and  appre- 
nension.  In  the  drama,  however,  it  is  only  Calpurnia  for 
whose  sake  he  decides  to  remain  at  home.     Much  the  same 

45 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

may  be  said  of  the  coronation  scene,  which  fails  in  such 
a  curious  manner.  Here  Shakespeare,  true  to  his  usual 
practice,  almost  exactly  reproduces  what  is  related  in 
Plutarch,  and  thus,  in  a  way,  makes  him  responsible  for 
the  psychological  probability  of  the  whole  occurrence. 
The  importance  of  this  scene,  however,  is  not  so  great 
as  to  merit  closer  attention. 

We  have  now  shown  that  the  traits  mentioned  are 
no  way  at  variance  with  Caesar*s  greatness.  It  would  be 
too  much,  however,  to  maintain  that  they  all  serve  to  ex- 
press it  in  the  best  possible  manner.  We  witness  none 
of  the  deeds  which  render  Caesar  immortal,  or  which  only 
he  can  perform.  To  represent  them  was  certainly  not 
Shakespeare's  intention,  because  Caesar's  greatness  appears 
sufficiently  without  them.  The  play  does  not  treat  of 
the  "  famous  victories  of  Julius  Caesar,"  and  according 
to  its  original  plan — it  is  probable  that  this  external  plan 
is  not  due  to  Shakespeare  himself,  but  was  taken  over 
by  him — it  can  represent  him  as  crowned  with  laurel 
wreaths,  but  cannot  show  how  these  were  gained.  His 
Coriolanus  later  on  is  arranged  according  to  an  essentially 
different  plan,  and  begins  by  showing  the  hero  engaged  in 
the  greatest  undertaking  of  his  life,  so  that  we  are  not 
required,  during  the  whole  succession  of  scenes,  to  trust 
implicitly  to  the  author  for  the  hero's  greatness.  Corio- 
lanus was  unknown  to  his  audience.  In  the  case  of  Julius 
Caesar  such  a  procedure  was  unnecessary  ;  his  greatness 
was  proclaimed  loudly  enough  in  universal  history. 

All  objections  raised  against  the  characterization  of 
Caesar  have  now  been  dealt  with  and  refuted,  with  one 
exception.  That  which  remains  is  apparently  the  strongest 
of  them  all,  and  the  only  one  which  explains  our  treatment 
of  this  whole  question  in  this  connexion.  It  is  the  opinion 
that  Caesar  is  drawn  as  the  type  of  the  braggart,  a  theatrical, 
bombastic,  pompous,  pufFed-up,  conceited,  and  boastful 
person.  Here  we  encounter  a  gross  misunderstanding 
of  Shakespeare's  art-form  which  characterizes  all  Shake- 
spearean criticism  of  the  last  hundred  years.  It  is  true 
people  of  our  times  who  read  or  hear  Caesar's  words  without 
46 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

ing  a  connected  idea  of  Shakespeare's  methods  of  char- 

icterization   will    undoubtedly  receive    an   unsympathetic 

impression  of  the  kind  just  described.     Thus,  for  example, 

live  are  astonished  by  the  frequent  repetition  of  his  assurance 

Lt  he  is  ignorant  of  fear.     Of  Cassius  he  says  : 

...  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,  195 

remarks  to  Calpurnia  : 

Of  all  the  wonders  that  I  yet  have  heard. 

It  seems  to  me  most  strange  that  men  should  fear  ; 

Seeing  that  death,  a  necessary  end. 

Will  come  when  it  will  come. 


.nd  again  : 

.  danger  knows  full  well 
That  Caesar  is  more  dangerous  than  he 
We  are  two  lions  litter'd  in  one  day. 
And  I  the  elder  and  more  terrible. 


II,  ii,  34 


II,  ii,  44 


The  same  high  opinion  of  himself  which  animates  these 
last  words  he  voices  in  the  linesi: 


...  the  things  that  threaten'd  me 
Ne'er  look'd  but  on  my  back  ;  when  they  shall  see 
The  face  of  Caesar,  they  are  vanished. 

II,  ii,  10 


tThe  scene  which  best  shows  his  self-esteem  is  that  in  the 
pitol,  before  his  assassination.  When  Metellus  Cimber, 
according  to  the  arrangement  of  the  conspirators,  kneels 
before  him  and  addresses  his  entreaties  to  him,  Caesar, 
without  the  least  suspicion  of  the  danger  which  is  now 

Bng  immediately  over  his  head,  indignantly  replies  : 
These  couchings  and  these  lowly  courtesies. 
Might  fire  the  blood  of  ordinary  men. 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

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. 

Ill,  i,  36 

Still  more  clearly  he  draws  a  line  between  the  otherj 
and  himself  in  the  last  words  which  are  directed  toward 
the  whole  body  of  the  conspirators  : 

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  does  shine,  j 

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.  .  .  . 

HI,  i,  58 

When  the  petitioner,  regardless  of  all  refusals,  once 
more  besieges  him  with  solicitations,  he  sums  up  all  that 
he  has  said  of  himself,  rising  to  a  climax  in  his  angry 
exclamation  : 

Hence  !    Wilt  thou  lift  up  Olympus  ? 

Ill,  i,  74 

The  answer  is  given  by  the  daggers  of  the  conspirators. 

Those  are  the  words  on  which  the  accusation  against 
Caesar  is  founded  that  he  is  a  pufFed-up,  theatrical  boaster. 
**  With  too  much  levity  of  mind  and  without  scruples  in 
his  very  deficient  knowledge  of  the  facts  he  set  out  to 
portray  Caesar,"  says  Brandes,  "  and  as  he  made  Jeanne 
d'Arc  a  witch,  he  made  Caesar  a  braggart  !  **  We  have 
already  indicated  that  in  a  modern  play  this  kind  of  self- 
contemplation,  rising  almost  to  self-worship,  could  justify 
48 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

Ks  inference.  We  also  know  that  he  who  talks  so  much 
his  courage  generally  arouses  the  suspicion  of  being 

:oward. 

Against  this  view,  even  if  for  the  moment  we  leave  out 
consideration   Shakespeare's  specific  kind  of  dramatic 

ihnique,  which  all  this  is  intended  to  point  out,  we  must 
pse  the  objection  that  it  does  not  explain  how  Shakespeare 

lid  represent  the  great  Caesar  as  a  vain  and  cowardly 

Lster  while  making  the  world  resound  with  his  praises. 

)r  his  arrogance,  which  critics  have  also  found  in  the 

What  is  now  amiss 
That  Caesar  and  his  senate  must  redress  ? 

Ill,  i,  ^2 
passage  of  Plutarch  has  been  adduced  which  tells  of 
sar's  occasionally  treating  this  body  with  disdain  ;  and 
or  the  self-assurance,  bordering  on  conceit,  which  appears 
in  his  words  about  his  sublime  position  among  men  a 
remark  made  by  Suetonius — whom  Shakespeare  never 
drew  upon — has  been  held  responsible  which  says  that  he 
had  declared  "  his  words  should  be  regarded  as  laws  "  {cf, 
Mich.  MacMillan's  introduction  to  the  **  Arden  *'  Shake- 
speare, p.  XXV  seq.).  But  what  is  the  significance  of  these 
scanty  data  in  comparison  with  the  information  about 
Caesar  which  Shakespeare  could  gather  from  Plutarch  } 
Still  less  importance  can  we  attach  to  the  reference  to 
Caesar  (already  brushed  aside  by  Brandes)  made  by  Rosalind 
in  As  Ton  Like  It^  where  in  her  usual  roguish  manner 
she  calls  the  famous  "  I  came,  saw,  and  overcame  "  **  Caesar's 
'hrasonical  brag,"  for  this  remark  is,  of  course,  made  in 
\  quite  jocular  sense  knd  connexion.  We  might  as  well 
acre  throw  into  the  balance  the  words  of  good  old  Falstaff 
'2  Henry  IV ^  III),  who,  having  had  a  success  quite  unexpected 
3y  himself  on  the  field  of  battle  in  capturing  a  live  prisoner, 
expresses  his  pride  in  the  words  :  "  I  may  justly  say  with 
jj^he  hook-nosed  fellow  of  Rome  :  I  came,  saw,  and  over- 
ye  :ame  "  (2  Henry  IV^  IV,  iii).  Further,  we  shall  have  to 
[.  tsk  why  Shakespeare,  if  he  really  intended  to  depict 
f  Caesar  as  a  coward  or  boaster,  does  not  make  a  single  one 

D  49 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

of  the  conspirators  (who  are  so  eager  to  discover  his  weak- 
nesses) utter  the  slightest  word  about  these  qualities. 
Why  does  even  Cassius,  his  most  deadly  enemy,  call  him 
a  lion  (even  though  he  uses  this  expression  only  because 
his  hatred  makes  him  regard  the  others  as  deer)  ?  Brutus 
goes  so  far  (II,  i)  as  to  testify,  in  plain  words  : 

...  to  speak  truth  of  Caesar 
I  have  not  known  when  his  affections  sway'd 
More  than  his  reason. 

II,  i,  19 

This,  coming  from  Shakespeare's  own   mouth,  is  extra- 1 
ordinary  praise,  as  many  parallel  passages  show.  1 

All  these  circumstances  seem  to  indicate  that  we  are' 
on  the  right  tack  in  regarding  the  self-characterization  of 
Julius  Caesar  as  not  dissimilar  to  the  other  cases  in  which 
the  dramatic  self-explanation  bears  a  much  more  primitive 
character  than  the  more  advanced  sides  of  Shakespearean 
art  would  at  first  make  us  inclined  to  suspect.  In  these 
instances  we  may  even  see  survivals  of  the  primitive  con- 
ventionalized art,  in  which  the  figures  have  scrolls  with 
the  so-called  *  legend'  ('I  am  .  .  .')  hanging  out  of  their 
mouths.  In  this  case  there  was  a  special  reason  for  relap- 
sing so  signally  from  a  realistic  to  a  conventionalized  art- 
form.  The  American  scholar  Ayres  ^  has  shown  that  there 
exists  a  dramatic  tradition  in  the  representation  of  Julius 
Caesar  which  originates  from  a  Caesar-drama  in  Latin  by 
Muret  (i  544).  In  it  Caesar  is  clearly  drawn  after  the  figure 
of  the  Hercules  CEtaeus  of  Seneca.  The  vainglorious 
language  is  the  same  in  both  cases.  Muret's  example  has 
been  followed  by  the  later  Caesar-dramas,  of  which  that  by 
the  Italian  Pescetti  (Verona,  1594)  contains  such  striking 
analogies  to  Shakespeare's  play  that  a  connexion  between 
them  by  means  of  a  common  source  is  clearly  recognizablcj 
We  may  therefore  assume  that  Shakespeare  had  before  him' 
an  older  play  which  also  followed  the  tradition  just  men- 
tioned, and  which  made  Caesar  use  the  same  kind  of  language. 

*  Publications  of  the  Modem  Language  Assoc,  of  America,  xxv  (1910). 
p.  183  seq. 

50 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

lakespeare,  by  accepting  it,  intermingled  with  the  realism 
H  his  representation  an  alien  element,  which  at  least  in  his 
'^*fee  should  not  be  interpreted  realistically,  for  the  reasons 
ready  adduced.     No  doubt  the  information  which  Caesar 
res  of  himself  is  meant  by  Shakespeare  to  correspond 
ictly  with  his  real  character.      It  would  not  surprise  us 
we  heard  it  uttered  by  another  person  about  Cassar. 
jit  perfectly  agrees  with  what  we  are  told  in  other  passages 
ibout  the  man  who  has  become  a  god,  the  **  colossus  '*  who 

should  get  the  start  of  the  majestic  world, 
And  bear  the  palm  alone. 

Evidently,  however,  there  is  no  intention  of  charging 

sar  with  the  odium  of  vanity  or  vainglory  because  he 

ys  these  things.     There  is  as  little  reason  for  regarding 

Caesar  as  a  braggart  on  account  of  the  praises  he  applies  to 

himself  as  there  is  to  style  lago  or  Cloten  in  Cymbeline 

(III,  V,  113)  cynics  merely  because  they  talk  of  their  own 

behaviour  as  "knavery'*  or  "villainy.'*      Here  again  we 

reach  the  limits  of  realism  and  are  faced  by  a  dramatic 

tradition  of  an  unrealistic  type  similar  to  that  which  allows 

e  villain  to  take  the  audience  into  his  confidence.     At 

same  time  there  is  no  denying  that  Caesar  is  meant  to 

ow  self-esteem  and  pride.     Above  all,  Shakespeare  can- 

t  imagine  this  great  figure  without  a  great  measure  of 

hos  in  his  speeches,  the  same  kind  of  pathos  which  is 

quently  associated  in  his  mind  with  the  idea  of  classical 

tiquity.       Here  it  appears  in  a  peculiarity  of  Caesar's 

'  ciiction  in  passages  which  undoubtedly  are  due  to  Shake- 

:;  speare's  own  invention.     He  likes  to  speak  of  himself  in 

;  the  third  person  ("  Caesar  shall  forth,"  and  other  similar 

expressions).     This    circumstance    has    induced    serious 

students   of  Shakespeare    to   regard   it   as    possible    that 

Shakespeare  has  naively  followed    Caesar's  book  on    the 

Gallic  War,  where  he  always  speaks  of  himself  in  the  third 

iperson  and  calls  himself  by  name.      A  glance  into  the 

l^  historical  plays,   however,  would  have  been  sufficient  to 

how  that   Shakespeare   also   makes   other  great   figures, 

ho  have  not  written  any  historical  treatises  in  the  third 

51 


bho 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

person,  speak  of  themselves  in  the  same  manner  whenever 
they  grow  pathetic,  as,  for  example,  Richard  II  : 

What  must  the  king  do  now  ?     Must  he  submit  ? 
The  king  shall  do  it :  must  he  be  deposed  ? 
The  king  shall  be  contented  :  must  he  lose 
The  name  of  king  ? 

in,  3,  143 

Or: 

Long  mayst  thou  live  in  Richard's  seat  to  sit. 
And  soon  lie  Richard  in  an  earthy  pit  ! 

IV,  i,  218 1 

The  difference  between  these  cases  and  that  of  Caesar 
is  that  in  him  this  trait  is  more  strongly  emphasized,  just 
as  his  self-characterization,  compared  with  the  instances 
mentioned  above,  is  more  obtrusive.  We  may  perhaps  add 
that  from  this  trait  we  can  infer  the  manner  in  which 
Caesar  ought  to  be  acted.  He  is  not  conceivable  without 
an  extraordinary  display  of  pathos.  This  adherence  to 
tradition  can  in  many  cases  be  secured  only  by  avoiding 
the  realistic  style,  a  departure  which  would  strike  us 
nowadays  as  highly  artificial.  But  be  this  as  it  may,  the 
example  shows  that  if  we  wish  to  know  how  the  author 
himself  wants  us  to  understand  his  characters  we  must  in 
every  case  look  closely  at  what  they  say  about  themselves, 
and  we  ought  to  take  these  utterances  far  more  seriously,, 
and  see  in  them  a  more  direct  expression  of  the  author's 
intention  than  our  modern  dramatic  technique  woul( 
allow  us  to  do. 

*  Similarly,  King  Lear  (I,  iv,   276  seq.),  Antony  and  Cleopatra  (IV,  xiiij 
i^seq.),  etc. 


52 


II 

HE  REFLECTION  OF  THE  CHARACTERS 
IN  THE  MINDS  OF  OTHER  PERSONS 

HE  Reflection  of  the  Characters  in  Harmony 
WITH  THE  Real  Character  of  the  Speaker 
(Coriolanus  ;  Troilus). — Of  even  greater  im- 
tance  for  the  dramatist  than  the  direct  analysis  of 
racter  is  the  device  of  throwing  light  upon  the  nature 
the  dramatis  person^^  especially  of  the  central  figure, 
yy  means  of  the  statements  made  by  the  other  actors. 
This  side  of  Shakespeare's  art  has  no  special  interest  for 
IS  so  far  as  it  comprises  technical  details  which  are  more 
Dr  less  used  by  all  dramatists.  We  are  not  surprised, 
for  example,  when  in  the  exposition  of  Coriolanus  a 
tnob  of  seditious  citizens  appears  on  the  stage  (I,  i)  and 
makes  the  titular  hero  the  principal  object  of  its  wrath, 
50  that  we  at  once  learn  from  its  words  that  **  Caius 
Marcius  is  a  very  dog  to  the  commonalty"  (I,  i,  23);  that 
I  be  has  undoubtedly  rendered  his  country  great  services, 
''\  but  that  his  pride  is  beyond  belief.  We  even  find  nothing 
i  extraordinary  in  being  at  once  informed  about  that  character- 
ii  istic  which  in  the  later  development  of  events  is  to  assume 
such  importance,  his  uncommon  devotion  and  tenderness 
::oward  his  mother.  The  play  agrees  with  many  others, 
30th  old  and  new,  good  and  bad,  in  this  kind  of  informa- 
:ion  about  the  figure  which  is  soon  to  occupy  the  central 
place  in  the  drama.  This  form  may  be  more  or  less  artistic- 
j^y  utilized,  presenting  a  fully  developed  dramatic  struc- 
S:e,  as  in  this  case,  or  it  may  degenerate  into  a  kind  of 
■scriptive  introductory  speech,  which  saves  a  good  deal  of 
Itual  character  revelation,  an  artistic  device  conspicuously 

I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

employed,  for  example,  by  Shakespeare's  contemporaries, 
Ben  Jonson  and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

What  specially  distinguishes  Shakespeare  from  these 
authors,  however,  is  that  he  applies  this  method  of  charac- 
terization to  figures  whom  he  wishes  to  be  properly  under- 
stood in  all  parts  of  the  drama,  not  merely  in  the  exposition. 
The  fact  itself  has  often  been  noticed.  But  the  great 
importance  which  this  technical  device  has  in  many  cases 
for  the  correct  explanation  of  the  character  has  been 
ignored  because  the  realistic  element  in  its  application, 
as  is  shown  later  on,  was  overestimated,  and  things  which 
really  form  part  of  the  careful  characterization  of  the  central 
figure  were  considered  as  serving  to  throw  light  upon  the 
secondary  speaker  himself  or  merely  to  enliven  the  dialogue. 
We  must  admit  that  Shakespeare,  in  this  feature  as  in 
many  others,  is  not  quite  consistent  with  his  own  practice. 
In  some  of  his  plays  he  makes  an  extraordinary  use  of  this 
device,  in  others  he  has  little  of  it.  In  all  cases,  however, 
a  judicious  interpretation  of  his  characters  will  have  to 
start  not  with  the  action  (cf.  Chapter  IV,  5),  but  with  the 
questions  What  do  the  characters  say  about  themselves  ?  and 
What  do  the  others  say  about  them  ? 

We  shall  see  that  in  this  manner  we  obtain  a  more 
objective  method  of  explanation  than  was  possible  before. 

The  case  of  Troilus  is  especially  instructive.  Here 
Shakespeare  represents  the  story  of  the  love  of  the  Trojan 
prince  for  the  frivolous  daughter  of  Calchas,  whom  he 
wins  by  the  help  of  her  officious  uncle  Pandarus.  After 
the  very  first  night,  however,  he  loses  her  through  her 
being  handed  over  in  an  exchange  of  hostages  to  the  Greeks, 
in  whose  camp  the  fickle  lady  too  quickly  transfers  her 
favour  to  Diomedes.  Now  it  is  true  that  Troilus  in  the 
beginning  of  his  courtship  makes  a  very  youthful  im- 
pression, being  over  head  and  ears  in  love,  violent  in  his 
excitement,  full  of  feverish  sensuality,  and  immoderate  in 
his  anticipated  rapture.  When  the  beloved  is  left  alone 
with  him  his  lack  of  experience  makes  him  unable  to 
achieve  his  end.  While  every  fibre  of  his  body  is  trembling 
to  possess  her  his  excitement  suggests  to  him  only  stilt 
54 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


L —..-.«,...... 

"  innermost  nature  finds  no  expression,  so  that  it  is  she  who 

ji  must  break  the  ice  by  offering  him  her  mouth  to  be  kissed. 

Ipfter  he  has  come  to  himself,  however,  his  real  character 

"  appears.     It  is  severely  put  to  the  proof  by  the  unexpected 

der*  which,  on  the  morning  after  their  night  of  love, 

oves  Cressida  to  the  Grecian  camp.     It  is  the  fate  of 

omeo  which  befalls  him.     But  Romeo  shows  on  this  occa- 

:    sion  how  weak  and  sentimental  is  the  core  of  his  nature. 

He  throws  himself  on  the  ground,  tears  out  his  hair,  and 

behaves  like  a  madman.      Friar  Laurence  has  to  prevent 

1    him   from    committing   suicide.     Troilus    acts   quite   dif- 

:    ferently.     He  is  a  man.     It  is  true  he  is  thunderstruck  by 

c    the  news,  and  rudely  shaken  out  of  his  dreams  of  rapture. 

i:   But  he  does  not  indulge  in  profitless  complaints,  and  envy 

'.    the  flies,  as  Romeo  does,  which  still  may  kiss  "  the  white 

::   wonder  "  of  his  beloved's  hand.     He  sets  his  teeth  and 

:    looks  the  inevitable  in  the  face,  though  at  the  time  the 

sacrifice  he  has  to  make  cuts  him  to  the  quick.     All  the 

:    more  does  he  suffer  when  the  fear  begins  to  trouble  him 

Ljhat  he  may  lose  Cressida's  heart  also.     It  is  not  actual 

I  fclousy  which  moves  him,  though  in  reality  he  has  more 

^   reason   to   be  jealous   than   his   unsuspecting   nature   can 

y  ^agine.     His  distrust  of  her  is  derived  only  from  the  low 

I  Bltimation  which  he  has  of  himself.     He  shows  his  noble 

i:    modesty  in  fearing  that  he  cannot  rival  the  elegant  culture 

and  the  high  social  artsjof   the  Greeks  in  whose  midst 

.    she   must   now  live.     A   childish   simplicity   and   unpre- 

:  I  tentiousness  lies  in  this  thought  of  a  man  who  in  council 

lis  regarded  by  his  friends  as  equal  to  any  one  of  them, 

and  in  battle  is  admired  as  a  lion  by  all. 

Chance  then  leads  him  sooner  than  he  could  expect 
into  the  Grecian  camp.  Here  his  heart  draws  him  to 
Cressida.  But  he  is  compelled  to  witness  a  scene  wiiich 
freezes  the  blood  in  his  veins.  In  the  sultry  night  he 
sees  and  hears  the  infatuated  woman  engaged  in  certain 
love-passages  with  the  coarse  and  experienced  Diomedes, 
about  the  conclusion  of  which  there  can  be  no  doubt. 
I^e  greedily  takes  in  the  whole  scene,  which  is  enacted 

i 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

in  close  proximity  to  him,  until  he  starts  trembling.  His 
disillusion  is  so  overwhelming  that  he  requires  a  certain 
time  to  grasp  it  all.  The  foundation  of  his  ideal  world 
is  so  firmly  laid  that  it  refuses  to  come  tumbling  down,  but, 
after  exploding,  remains  suspended,  as  it  were,  in  mid-air. 
At  last,  however,  when  he  is  no  longer  able  to  shut  out  the  I 
testimony  of  his  own  eyes,  all  his  dreams  come  crashing 
down  with  a  tremendous  upheaval  of  his  whole  emotional 
life.  He  is  seized  by  an  inexpressible  disgust,  which 
spreads  even  to  things  he  had  so  far  regarded  as  his  most 
sacred  possessions  :  **  Think  we  had  mothers  I  *' 

No  more  sentimental  thoughts  awake  in  him.  A  letter 
from  her,  which  is  brought  to  him,  he  tears  up  without 
compunction.  He  is  done  with  her.  A  change  has  been 
effected  in  him  which  will  last  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 
To  Cressida  this  event  is  only  the  first  of  many  similar 
experiences,  to  Troilus  it  will  remain  final  and  decisive, 
at  any  rate  as  regards  his  emotional  life.  Whatever  was 
still  youthful  in  him  has  been  matured  by  this  experience, 
which  has  made  a  man  of  him.  The  last  sentimental 
stirrings  have  been  silenced,  and  upon  his  boyish  face 
the  inner  revolution  has  imprinted  a  touch  of  hardness 
which  will  never  again  disappear  from  it.  On  the  field 
of  battle  all  shall  see  this  new  quality  of  his  character. 
When  Hector  falls  he  steps  into  his  place. 

It  is  very  curious  that  a  number  of  critics  do  not  take 
this  figure  quite  seriously.  Even  Kreyssig  in  his.  lectures 
on  Shakespeare  (3rd  ed.,  Berlin,  1877,  p.  409  seq,) 
thinks  that  the  hero  in  his  love  must  become  an  object  of 
derision  and  pity,  and  Brandes,  who  speaks  of  him  as  **  the 
good  fellow,  the  simpleton  **  (pp.  713,  746),  appears  to  look 
down  ironically  upon  the  whole  misfortune  of  Troilus  from 
the  high  standpoint  of  his  experience  as  a  man  of  the  world 
as  though  he  were  dealing  with  a  story  by  Compton 
Mackenzie. ^  Shakespeare,  he  thinks,  just  coldly  describes 
the  awakening  of  Troilus  from  his  intoxication,  but  is 
utterly  unable  to  interest  us  in  it,  and  does  not  even  want 
to  do  so.  Just  as  remarkable  is  the  view  of  Wolff,  who 
sees  Troilus  almost  exclusively  from  the  comic  side.     He 


f 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


finds  that  in  the  love  of  the  Trojan  the  line  between  the 
'  sublime  and  the  ridiculous  has  been  overpassed,  compares 
if  him  with  Don  Quixote  because  of  his  infatuated  disregard 
If  of  actuality,  and  pours  out  the  vials  of  his  derision  over 
^'  the  "  unpretentious  youth  **  who  allows  himself  to  be  de- 
irt  ceived  by  a  woman  like  Cressida  (ii,  311  se^,).     We  may 

■  ■fely  assert,  however,  that  this  interpretation  is  wide  of 
?  me  mark.  All  these  critics  have  in  mind  only  the  be- 
::  ginning  of  the  love-affair  and  the  wooing,  which  are  treated 
^'   somewhat  ironically  by  the  author.     But  these  are  only 

the  first  steps,  and  we  have  to  ask  ourselves  how  far  this 
::  characterization  belongs  to  the  category,  treated  later  on 
[;  (Chapter  IV,  3),  of  the  conception  of  character  differing 
::  in  different  scenes.  The  real  nature  of  Troilus  appears 
L  ^ly  after  Cressida  has  become  his  own,  and  it  is  seen 
I  Bost  clearly  in  the  great  disillusion.  That  a  man  should 
t>  DC  deceived  because  of  his  idealistic  and  trusting  character 
I  is  in  itself  neither  comical  nor  a  disgrace — rather  the  con- 
IBary;  for  the  cold  and  calculating  realist  will  never  be 
*  amicted  in  this  manner.     Whoever  regards  as  ridiculous 

!^man  lacking  experience  in  intercourse  with  dissolute  or 
■anton  women  gives  himself  a  character  which  nobody 
J  will  envy  him.  Further,  to  be  blinded  by  passion  and 
u  jjcndered  incapable  of  true   judgment  is   not  a   sign   of 

■  ■upidity.  And,  finally,  we  may  doubt  the  psychological 
:v '  capacity  of  a  critic  who  regards  a  disillusion  like  that  of 

■  Troilus  as  too  trivial  to  attribute  any  great  effect  to  it. 

Other,    especially  Anglo-Saxon,  investigators  (cf,   John 

S.  P.  Tatlock,  in  the  Publications  of  the  Mod.  Lang.  Assoc. 

L^  America,  30,  p.  673  se^,)  place  the  love  between  Troilus 

llhd  Cressida  in  too  low  a  sphere,  and  the  openly  expressed, 

3  strong  ingredient  of  sensuality  in  it  evidently  offends  their 

*  refined  '    taste.      No    arguing   is    possible   against   this 

attitude.     Quite  the  contrary  view  is  upheld  by  Volkelt, 

who    has    rightly  compared    in    his   Msthetics   of  Tragedy 

isl  (3rd  ed.,   p.   278)   "  the  pitiable    destruction  of  Troilus* 

it!  boundless  love  by  Cressida's  shameful  faithlessness  "  with 

l^e  tragic  fate  of  Othello,  and  with  Hebbel's  Judith. 

B  But  is  there  no  imaginable  possibility  of  finding  material 

I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

to  prove  how  Shakespeare  himself  wished  this  character 
to  be  understood  ?  There  is,  in  fact,  an  unassailable 
method,  offering  a  double  way  of  approach  to  the  problem, 
namely,  from  the  side  of  direct  self-explanation  as  well 
as  from  that  of  reflection  of  character.  As  regards  tl 
first  of  these  ways,  we  find  Troilus  replying  to  the  questi( 
of  Cressida,  whether  he  will  remain  faithful  to  her,  in 
following  detailed  contemplation  of  his  own  self ; 

Alas  !  it  is  my  vice,  my  fault  : 
Whiles  others  fish  with  craft  for  great  opinion, 
I  with  great  truth  catch  mere  simplicity  ; 
Whilst  some  with  cunning  gild  their  copper  crowns. 
With  truth  and  plainness  I  do  wear  mine  bare. 
Fear  not  my  truth  ;  the  moral  of  my  wit 
Is  :  *  plain  and  true  ';  there's  all  the  reach  of  it. 

IV,  iv,  10 1 

This  characterization  must  be  taken  quite  seriously,  jui 
like  the  above-mentioned  parallel  passages,  and  if  rightly 
understood  ought  to  induce  even  a  critic  like  Brandes  to 
abandon  his  impression  that  here  we  have  to  do  with  a  mere 
simpleton ;  for  it  is  plain  what  great  stress  is  laid  on  the  in- 
tegrity and  sterling  quality  of  this  character.  Fortunately, 
the  general  features  of  this  character  as  given  here  are 
completed  in  the  clearest  possible  manner  by  its  reflection 
in  the  minds  of  others.  The  following  words  are  put  into  i 
the  mouth  of  Ulysses  (IV,  v,  96),  whose  voice  throughout 
the  play  is  the  voice  of  wisdom  itself.  To  the  question  of 
Agamemnon,  "What  Trojan  is  that  same  that  looks  so 
heavy  ?''  he  replies  : 

The  youngest  son  of  Priam,  a  true  knight ; 
Not  yet  mature,  yet  matchless  ;    firm  of  word. 
Speaking  in  deeds,  and  deedless  in  his  tongue  ; 
Not  soon  provok'd,  nor  being  provok'd  soon  calm'd  : 
His  heart  and  hand  both  open  and  both  free  j 
For  what  he  has  he  gives,  what  thinks  he  shows  ; 
Yet  gives  he  not  till  judgment  guide  his  bounty. 
Nor  dignifies  an  impure  thought  with  breath. 
Manly  as  Hector,  but  more  dangerous  ; 
For  Hector,  in  his  blaze  of  wrath,  subscribes 
58 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

To  tender  objects  ;  but  he  in  heat  of  action 
Is  more  vindicative  than  jealous  love. 
They  call  him  Troilus,  and  on  him  erect 
A  second  hope,  as  fairly  built  as  Hector. 
Thus  says  ^neas  ;  one  that  knows  the  youth 
Even  to  his  inches,  and  with  private  soul 
Did  in  great  Ilion  thus  translate  him  to  me. 

It  is  difficult  to  see  how  a  conception  which  regards 
him  as  "  an  honest  fellow  '*  and  "  an  unpretentious  youth  " 
can  be  made  to  agree  with  this  minute  psychological  analysis, 
which  purposely  and  carefully  endeavours  to  give  a  clear 
and  firm  outline  to  the  spectator's  idea  of  Troilus.  We 
perceive  that  some  of  the  highest  human  qualities  known 
to  Shakespeare  are  united  in  this  picture — nay,  it  is  not 
difficult  to  see  in  these  words  the  description  of  an  ideal 
figure.  Can  we  therefore  suppose  that  Shakespeare  would 
treat  with  coldness  a  hero  whom  he  so  highly  praises  and 
respects,  or  that  he  would  go  the  length  of  making  him 
a  comic  figure  in  love  ? 

2.  Misleading  Reflection  of  Characters.  The 
Villains'  Description  of  the  Heroes  (Oliver,  Edmund, 
Iago). — In  cases  like  the  one  just  discussed  we  notice  how 
careful  the  dramatist  is  to  throw  the  brightest  possible 
light  upon  his  principal  figures,  especially  when  they  are, 
or  seem  to  be,  in  danger  of  appearing  in  a  false  light.  We 
cannot  fail  to  see,  however,  that  in  other  instances  this 
endeavour  must  lead  directly  to  psychological  inconsisten- 
cies. An  explanation  of  character  of  the  kind  described 
has  its  narrow  natural  limits  ;  these  are  determined  by 
what  Otto  Ludwig,  who  has  already  noted  this  device  in 
Shakespeare*s  work,  called  **  their  characteristic  points  of 
view."  It  seems  to  be  self-evident  that  everyone  regards 
people  and  things  as  they  must  appear  to  his  individual 
vision,  that  the  clear  and  sober  reasoner  judges  impartially, 
that  passion  warps  the  judgment,  that  lovers  idolize  the 
bject  of  their  affection,  and  that  hatred  makes  a  monster 

the  opponent.     Instances  of  this  could  be  found  in 
hakespeare^s  writings  also.     The  representation  of  Julius 
Caesar,  for  example,  as  given  by  Cassius  under  the  influence 

59 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

of  his  deadly  hatred  may  to  a  certain  extent  be  regarded 
as  such  a  caricature.  But  on  looking  closer  we  again 
recognize  a  certain  primitive  side  of  Shakespearean  art  in 
the  fact  that  this  necessary  and  indispensable  point  of  view 
is  not  consistently  maintained,  that  the  statements  in  this 
respect  need  not  necessarily  be  in  harmony  with  the  character, 
that  the  degree  of  impartiality  does  not  always  depend  on 
the  peculiarity  of  the  character.  Here  again  we  touch 
the  limits  of  Shakespearean  realism.  Just  as  he  maintains 
the  fiction  that  the  villains  are  all  perfectly  aware  of  their 
wickedness  and  look  at  it  from  an  outside  point  of  view, 
as  he  makes  his  heroes  give  descriptions  of  themselves 
which  are  true  to  fact,  so  he  makes  his  villains  frequently 
do  justice  to  their  victims  in  quite  impartial  judgments. 
This  clearly  appears  in  three  cases  which  are  very  similar 
to  one  another.  In  As  You  Like  It  there  are  two  brothers, 
an  elder  one,  the  wicked,  treacherous  Oliver,  and  a  younger 
one,  the  noble  Orlando.  The  elder  brother  compasses 
the  younger  one*s  death  and  lays  a  cunning  plot  to  entrap 
him.  In  King  Lear  the  situation  is  almost  exactly  the 
same  :  Gloster  has  two  sons,  the  high-minded  Edgar  and 
the  bastard  Edmund.  The  latter  hatches  a  wicked  plot 
to  destroy  his  brother.  In  Othello^  finally,  I  ago,  the 
ensign,  invents  a  devilish  intrigue  in  order  to  deprive 
his  superior,  the  noble-hearted  Moor,  of  his  happiness 
and  position.  In  all  these  three  cases  we  are  presented 
with  abject  creatures  who  shrink  from  no  mean  action 
which  can  further  their  wicked  designs.  Oliver  and  the 
Bastard  are  unsuccessful,  and  fortune  favours  their  foul 
practices  only  for  a  little  while,  whereas  lago's  wickedness 
really  triumphs  over  the  unsuspecting  nature  of  his  oppo- 
nent. The  greater  the  meanness  of  these  villains,  the  more 
remarkable  we  must  consider  the  manner  in  which  they 
acknowledge  the  worth  of  their  victims.  Oliver,  who 
with  hypocritical  and  calumnious  words  tries  to  get  men 
to  murder  his  brother,  and  even  seeks  to  burn  him  alive, 
yet  says  of  him  :  **  Yet  he*s  gentle,  never  schooled  and  yet 
learned,  full  of  noble  desire,  of  all  sorts  enchantingly 
beloved  .  .  .**  (I,  i,  172). 
60 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

At   once  the  spectator  feels   inclined   to  object :    this 
no  longer  true  to  reality.     We  can  hardly  imagine  that 
yone  who  persecutes  another  with  so  ungovernable  a 
tred  and  gladly  calls  every  kind  of  treachery  and  iniquity 
his  aid  is  able  to  pass  such  an  impartial  judgment  upon 
and   praise  him   so  highly.     It  must   be  admitted, 
wever,  that  in  this  case  an  attempt  is  made  to  give  a 
psychological  justification  for  this  behaviour,  the  hatred 
IS  of  the  villain  being  explained  by  his  recognizing  superior 
ir  qualities  in  the  other  person  which  rouse  his  envy.     For 
^,  Oliver  goes  on  to  say  :    "He  [i.e.,  Orlando]  is  so  much 
s  in  the  heart  of  the  world  and  especially  of  my  own  people, 
Ij  who  best   know  him,   that   I   am  altogether  misprised." 
s.  So  plausible,  indeed,  is  this  motive  that  a  critic  like  Wetz 
ir  (p.  i8i)  has  not  been  able  to  find  any  fault  in  the  psycho- 
s,  logical  analysis  here.     He  thinks  that  the  reason  for  the 
;r  knavish   intrigues   is  to    be    sought    finally  in    Orlando's 
;si  virtues,  and  he  finds  a  confirmation  in  the  fact  that  his 
pi  villainous  brother,  according  to  the  author's  express  state- 
ti  ment,  is  not  driven  to  his  actions  by  avarice.     This  explana- 
d;  tion   might,   indeed,   pass   muster.     But  what  makes  us 
)tj  regard  it  with  suspicion  is  the  exact  parallel  in  King  Lear 
e]  (I,  ii,  199).     There  we  recognize  in  Edmund  a  thoroughly 
e  unscrupulous  villain,   who   hardly  thinks   it   necessary   in 
any  way  to  palliate  his  baseness.     Perceiving  that  custom- 
ary morality,  which  slights  him  because  of  his  supposedly 
inferior   origin,   is   unjust   and   senseless,   he   disdains   no 
means,  not  even  the  most  infamous,  which  will  help  him 
to  thrust  aside  all  obstacles  in  the  way  of  his  rise  to  power. 
As  Fr.  Th.  Vischer  aptly  remarks,  "  he  revenges  himself 
on   his   father   by   taking    for   his   guide    that   unbridled 
instinct  which  called  him  into  being,  and  so  turning  him- 
self into  an  out-and-out  villain."     Of  attractive  personal 
appearance  and  dangerous  to  women,  his  callousness  is 
equalled  only  by  his  cunning.     He  begins  his  criminal 
career  by  forging  a  letter  which  serves  to  oust  his  noble 
brother  from  the  heart  and  home  of  his  father  and  to  make 
him  a  hunted  fugitive.     Next,  his  treachery  draws  down 

» still  more  terrible  fate  upon  his  father  himself,  that  of 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

having  his  eyes  put  out  and  being  sent  into  exile.  But 
here  too  Shakespeare  introduces  the  trait  which  Oliver  in 
As  Tou  Like  It  shows  of  being  quite  impartial  toward  his 
victim.     He  expressly  states  that  Edgar  is 

A  brother  nobie,  v 

Whose  nature  is  so  far  from  doing  harms  ^ 

That  he  suspects  none. 

I,  ii,  199 

We  may  be  certain  that  an  abject  rascal  like  Edmund 
would  never  make  this  confession  of  admiration,  the  false 
impartiality  of  which  is  but  little  modified  by  the  addition, 

on  whose  foolish  honesty 
My  practices  ride  easy, 

which  is  more  correct  from  a  psychological  point  of  view. 
We  ask  ourselves  why  Shakespeare  has  put  this  impar- 
tiality, which  is  quite  inconsistent  with  the  rest  of  the 
character,  into  the  mouth  of  the  villain.  It  cannot  be 
explained  here,  as  in  the  preceding  case,  by  the  fact  that  he  is 
made  envious  and  wicked  principally  by  his  recognition  of 
the  other  man's  virtues,  for  the  Bastard  does  not  persecute 
his  good  brother  on  account  of  his  virtues  or  his  popularity, 
but  merely  through  envy  of  his  possessions  and  because 
of  his  priority  of  birth.  The  significance  of  the  explan- 
atory statements  in  both  cases  is  more  easily  understood 
if  we  consider  the  places  in  which  they  occur  in  the  plays. 
They  are  made  at  the  very  moment  when  the  intrigue  is 
being  set  on  foot,  and  form  part  of  the  monologue  which  sums 
up  the  resolution  of  the  villain — in  As  Tou  Like  It  toward 
the  end  of  the  first  scene  of  the  first  act,  in  the  other  play 
in  the  last  lines  of  the  second  scene  of  the  first  act.  They 
may  thus  be  considered  as  belonging  to  the  exposition. 
Evidently  the  dramatist  has  thought  it  necessary  at  this 
stage  once  more  to  place  before  his  audience  a  clear  state- 
ment of  the  whole  case.  In  comparison  with  this  aim 
the  slight  distortion  of  the  mental  physiognomy  of  the 
villain  was  of  no  great  moment  ;  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it 
hardly  disturbs  us. 

Of  much  greater  importance  to  the  reader  is  the  case  of 
62 


i 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


lago,  because  it  is  much  more  apt  to  be  misinterpreted, 
lago  in  Othello  is  the  blackest  of  all  Shakespeare's  villains. 
Here   the  ability   of  the   dramatist — which    in   other  in- 
stances is  his   strongest  point — to   raise  his  figures  to  a 
superhuman    level   threatens  to   become  the  cause  of  his 
failure  ;   the  effect  borders  on  the  inhuman.     Shakespeare 
apparently  found  in  his  original  material — so  much  we 
can  see  from  the  Italian  tale  of  Cinthio — a  low  scoundrel 
who  falls  in  love  with  his  fair  and  virtuous  mistress,  and 
^  can  explain  her  resistance  to  his  affection  only  by  suspect- 
•  ing  that  she  loves  another,  whom  he  guesses  to  be  the  captain 
^  in  her  husband's  regiment,  and  that  these  two  people  are 
united  in  a  guilty  attachment.     He  resolves  to  make  away 
with  his  rival,  and,  his  love  changing  to  fierce  hatred,  he 
'  skilfully  directs  all  the  resources  of  his  quick  and  energetic 
\  mind  to  the  task  of  destroying  the  Moor's  love  by  arousing 
':  his  jealousy.     Various  accidental  happenings  favour  him, 
^j  and  he  attains  his  end,  assisting  the  Moor  to  murder  the 
'1  innocent  woman  with  his  own  hands.     After  this  deed, 
\  however,  the  hatred  of  the  Moor,  who  has  recovered  from 
\  his  blind  fury,  turns  against  him  ;    he  reduces  him  to  the 
°;  ranks  and  tries  to  kill  him.     The  villain   forestalls  him 
'  and   informs   the   captain,   who   is   still   alive,    suspecting 
',  nothing,  though  he  himself  has  mutilated  him  in  an  un- 
\  successful  attempt  upon  his  life  which  he  had  been  ordered 
I  to  make  by  the  Moor.     On  being  told  that  he  is  a  victim 
^  of  the  Moor,  the  captain  reports  the  murder,  which  had 
'^  so  far  escaped  detection,  to  the  senate  and  thus  carries  out 
\  the  revenge  of  the  villain.     The  Moor  has  to  suffer  torture 
'i  and  banishment,  and  is  finally  killed  by  the  relations  of 
\  Desdemona,   whereas  the  villain  himself  is  thrown   into 
prison  on  account  of  this  and  other  crimes  and  there  comes 
to  a  miserable  end.     Already  in  this  story  certain  funda- 
mental traits  of  the  psychological  picture  of  lago  were 
contained,  the  coarseness  of  his  view  of  life,  which  throws 
suspicion  upon  everything  that  is  noble,   his  utter  lack 
of  compassion,  his  masterly  skill  in  intrigue,  his  devilish 
malignity  towards  a  harmless   victim.      In   the   tale  the 
motive  for  his  criminal  actions  against  his  environment  is 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

unquestionably  his  wounded  vanity.  In  Shakespeare's' 
drama,  though  in  many  parts  changes  have  been  introduced 
into  the  action,  the  character  of  lago  has  remained  pretty 
much  the  same.  No  humane  quality  has  been  added  to 
soften  the  picture.  lago  is  a  devil,  inexpressibly  mean  in  his 
detraction  of  everything  that  is  noble,  a  scoffer,  and  com- 
parable to  Thersites  in  his  rejoicing  over  every  kind  of 
wickedness.  Employing  the  device  of  self-explanation 
already  well  known  to  us,  Shakespeare  makes  him  say  that 
he  is  "  nothing  if  not  critical  " — /.f.,  censorious  (II,  i,  1 19). 
He  is  malicious,  and  pleased  at  the  misfortunes  of  others, 
envious,  hard,  and  unmoved  by  pity,  at  the  same  time 
cunning,  shrewd,  and  calculating,  a  master  of  dissimula- 
tion, in  every  way  a /^«;^  honhomme.  In  all  circumstances 
he  successfully  acts  the  old  soldier  with  the  rough  outside 
and  the  honest  heart.  The  poet,  as  we  see,  has  from  the. 
outset  painted  his  character  in  such  colours  that  there  isl 
hardly  any  necessity  to  supply  him  with  special  motives 
against  Othello.  Shakespeare,  however,  shows  these  to  be 
frustrated  ambition,  envy,  and  desire  for  revenge.  lago 
believes  himself  entitled  to  the  position  of  Cassio,  who  has 
been  preferred  to  him,  and  is  indignant  at  finding  himself 
slighted;  he  also  suspects  the  Moor  of  having  seduced 
Emilia,  his  wife,  and  wishes  to  be  revenged  on  him. 

Now  it  is  remarkable  that,  though  lago  is  such  an 
abject  and  monstrous  villain,  though  he  actually  suspects 
the  Moor  of  misconduct  with  his  wife,  he  still  takes  up 
exactly  the  same  attitude  toward  his  victim  as  Oliver  does 
toward  Orlando  in  As  Ton  Like  It  and  Edmund  toward 
Edgar  in  King  Lear ;  /.^.,  he  testifies  in  one  of  his  mono- 
logues that 

The  Moor  is  of  a  free  and  open  nature, 

I,  iii,  405 
and  further  : 

The  Moor,  howbeit  that  I  endure  him  not, 
Is  of  a  constant^  loving^  noble  nature ; 
And  I  dare  think  he'll  prove  to  Desdemona 
A  most  dear  husband. 

II,  i,  296 


64 


I 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


I  appears  in  its  old-fashioned  and  naive  form.  It  is  abso- 
lutely impossible  that  lago  could  believe  Othello  to  have 

■tceived  him  and  at  the  same  time  describe  him  as  loving, 
upright,  true,  and  noble.  Brandes,  recognizing  this  im- 
possibility, tries  to  explain  lago's  reflections  on  the  Moor's 
adultery  as  belonging  to  the  class  of  "  partly  disingenuous 
attempts  to  understand  himself,  being  nothing  but  self- 
explanations  which  serve  to  palliate  his  own  wickedness." 
We  know,  however,  from  the  other  cases  which  we  have 
studied  how  rightly  to  estimate  this  reference  to  the  central 

,  figure  of  the  play.  We  have  seen  that  it  does  not  justify 
any  conclusions  whatever  as  to  the  character  of  the  speaker. 
On  the  contrary,  its  only  purpose  is  to  characterize  the 
person  to  whom  it  refers. 

What  we  have  learnt  from  these  passages  will  help  us 
further  to  form  a  better  judgment  of  another  case  in  which 
a  villain  makes  remarks  about  his  victim.  This  is  Macbeth. 
The  murderer  here  pays  this  tribute  to  King  Duncan: 

.  .  .  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. 

I,  vii,  17 

The  view  may  be  taken  here  that  there  is  no  psychological 
improbability  in  Macbeth  making  the  character  of  his 
victim  one  of  the  warring  motives  in  his  struggle  with 
his  own  resolve.  Much  less  convincing,  however,  is  the 
ungrudging  recognition  and  boundless  admiration  which 
he  expresses  in  his  monologue  of  Banquo,  his  other  victim, 
praising  in  him  his  "  royalty  of  nature  '*  and  the  "  dauntless 
—tonper  of  his  mind "  (III,  i,  48).  As  Macbeth  is  a 
^problematic  nature  *  engaged  in  conflicts  even  within  his 
own  soul,  we  might  possibly  regard  this  praising  of  his 
opponents  as  a  subtle  trait  intentionally  added  to  his  por- 
trait ;  but  the  comparison  with  the  other  cases  distinctly 
shows  that  the  real  purport  of  this  passage  is  the  same  as 

U those.     We  clearly  see  that  the  villains  in  Shakespeare  are 


,a5! 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

not  allowed  to  appear  as  honest  characters  even  in  their  own  eyes^ 
and  that  the  noble  characters  must  be  noble  even  in  the  eyes  of  their 
wicked  enemies.  This  is  an  astonishing  example  of  the  great 
contrasts  between  which  the  art  of  Shakespeare  oscillates. 
The  pendulum  is  ever  swinging  from  the  side  of  a  highly 
advanced  realism,  unfettered  by  any  tradition,  which  allows 
characters  instinctively  conceived  to  work  out  their  relations 
in  unrestricted  liberty,  to  the  side  where  there  exists  an 
almost  childish  primitiveness  and  a  submission  to  traditional 
practice  utterly  regardless  of  the  actual  facts  of  life. 

3.  The  Question  of  a  Subjective  Element  in  the 
Reflection  of  Characters  in  other  Minds  (Laertes 
ON  Hamlet's  Love,  Lady  Macbeth  on  the  Character 
of   her    Husband  ;    the   Principle   of   the   Objective 
Appropriateness  of  Dramatic  Testimony). — We   have 
now  gained  an  impression   of  the  primitive  and   utterly 
unrealistic    devices    which    Shakespeare    allows    himself 
whenever  he  wishes  to  attain  a  certain  end.     Our  eyes  are 
therefore  opened  to  perceive  a  similar  state  of  affairs  in 
other  places.     Above  all  we  observe  that,  as  a  rule,  the  poet 
is  very  careful,  especially  in  the  exposition,  not  to  mislead 
us  about  the  behaviour  and  the  character  of  the  hero  by 
the  remarks  of  persons  who  have  a  wrong  or  biased  con-j 
ception  of  him  and  who  by  expressing  it  might  put  the 
spectator  on  the  wrong  tack.     A  contradiction    of   this 
view  may  be  found  in  the  passage,  already  referred  to, 
at   the   beginning  of  Julius  Caesar  (I,  ii)  where  Cassius 
gives    instances    of    the    imperator    miserably    failing    m 
certain    tests    of    his     physical     endurance — how    in    z 
swimming-match  he  had  saved  his  life  only  by  a  piteou 
appeal  to  the  man  whom  he  himself  had  challenged  t( 
the  adventure,  and  how  during  an  attack  of  fever  in  Spair 
he  had  whined  like  a  sick  girl.     A  further  transgressior 
of  this  principle  seems  to  occur  in  the  first  mention  we  hav« 
of  Othello  from  the  mouth  of  lago,  who  most  slanderous!; 
represents  him  (I,  i)  as  full  of  presumption  and  bombast 
On  looking  closer,  however,  it  is  seen  that  no  one  amon|. 
the  spectators  can  possibly  have  any  doubt  from  the  ver 
beginning  about  the  true  characters  of  these  two  speakt 
66 


Ker 

I 


H  the  nature  of  their  remarks.  As  was  shown  above, 
ne  presupposition  in  the  case  of  Julius  Caesar  is  his 
uperhuman  greatness,  and  Cassius  so  clearly  breathes  his 
■  latred  against  him  in  every  syllable  that  his  words,  even 
hough  they  must  be  substantially  correct,  cannot  seriously 
nfluence  the  spectator  against  Caesar.  As  for  lago,  we 
lear  him,  the  moment  after  his  disparaging  remarks  about 
Othello,  so  distinctly  explaining  his  own  scoundrelly 
:haracter  in  the  naive  manner  illustrated  above  {cf,  p.  2^\ 
Old  so  expressly  calling  himself  a  false  and  faithless  servant 
"his  master,  that  his  criticism,  in  like  manner,  cannot 
e  any  doubt  as  to  its  essential  worthlessness. 

very  different  case  is  presented  by  the  remarks  which 

the    beginning  of  Hamlet  Laertes  makes  to   Ophelia 

jut  Hamlet's  love.     This  is  done  at  a  time  when  we 

e  already  gained  a  very  definite  impression  of  Hamlet's 

acter,  especially  through  his  behaviour  in  the  great 

ience    scene,    and    have    already   been    well   informed 

ut   the   close   attachment   existing   between   him   and 

ratio.     About  Ophelia,  on  the  other  hand,. we  have  not 

et  heard  anything.     Laertes,  who  now  appears  on  the 

e,  is  a  figure  who  has  only,  once  for  a  short  moment 

sed  across  our  field    of  vision,  when  in  the   Presence 

makes  his  polite  and  gentlemanly  request  to  be  allowed 

return  to  France.     The  words  which  in  this  private 

rview  he  addresses  to  his  sister  exhibit  him  at  once  in 

ost  favourable  light.     He  shows  his  genuine  brotherly 

ction   by   asking  his  sister  not  to  leave  him  without 

s  from  her.     Then  he  comes  to  speak  of  a  thing  which 

tly  occupies  his  mind.     And  here  we  are  first  told  of 

let's  love  for  Ophelia.     It  is  most  significant,  however, 

t  the  brother  does  not  take  the  matter  itself  very  seriously, 

ugh  it  appears  to  him  to  be  serious  enough  for  his  sister  : 

For  Hamlet,  and  the  trifling  of  his  favour, 
Hold  it  a  fashion  and  a  toy  in  blood, 
A  violet  in  the  youth  of  primy  nature, 
Forward,  not  permanent,  sweet,  not  lasting, 
The  perfume  and  suppliance  of  a  minute  ; 
No  more.  I,  iii,  5 

67 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

In  no  way  does  he  regard  Hamlet  as  an  ill-intentioned  or 
especially  heartless  seducer.     He  willingly  admits  that : 

Perhaps  he  loves  you  now  ; 

And  now  no  soil  nor  cautel  doth  besmirch 

The  virtue  of  his  will. 

Nevertheless,  he  feels  himself  obliged  to  warn  her^_as_he 
does  not  see  any  good;ln^'16ve-affaTrTn  which  his  sister 
has  everything  to  lose  and  nothing  to Jgam.  "T^umerous 
critics  of  Hamlet  have  become  accustomed  to  censure  this 
opinion  of  Laertes  as  altogether  unprincipled,  superficial, 
and  undignified,  viewing  the  relation  between  Hamlet 
and  Ophelia  in  the  light  of  the  later  development  of  events. 
But  let  us  for  a  moment  put  aside  all  the  later  scenes  and 
ask  ourselves  what  interest  Shakespeare  could  have  had  in 
giving  the  first  information  of  the  relation  existing  between 
the  two  in  a  distorted  form,  when  we  have  always  found 
him  endeavouring  to  facilitate  as  much  as  possible  the  i 
audience*s  understanding  of  all  that  concerns  the  action. 
Now  the  words  of  Laertes  will  appear  to  every  unprejudiced 
reader  or  spectator  as  being  more  or  less  justified.  He 
wins  our  approval  by  the  serious  manner  in  which  he 
explains  the  reason  for  his  anxiety,  not  in  the  least  likei 
a  mere  empty-headed  boy  who  judges  others  by  himself. 
Under  these  circumstances  there  is  really  no  reason  to 
doubt,  if  we  understand  Shakespeare's  technique,  that 
the  remarks  of  Laertes  are  substantially  correct.  Thet 
point  then  is  one  of  fundamental  importance,  and  all  thcjl 
more  so  as  this  view  is  not  rendered  untenable  in  any 
way  by  that  which  follows. 

A  number  of  critics  are  convinced  that  Hamlet  15  pasa 
sionately  in  love  with  Ophelia;  e,g,^  Loning  (p.  225)  con^ 
siders  him  to  be  animated  by  the  deepest  love  all  through' 
the  play.  Gertrud  Landsberg,  however  {cf,  Ophelia^  die 
Entstehung  der  Gestalt  und  ihre  Beutung^  Cothen,  191 8), 
has  very  aptly  shown  that  all  these  explanations  based  on 
subjective  impressions  can  be  more  thoroughly  tested 
by  referring  them  to  the  dramatic  history  of  this 
love-affair.  She  proves  that  in  the  German  Hamlet- 
Fratricide  Punished— ^hich.  is  probably  to  be  regarded  -i^i 
68 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


'  used,  there  is  no  love-affair  worth  talking  about.     We  are 
^even  compelled  to  suppose  that  in  the  play  which  Shake- 
speare took    for  his  starting-point   Ophelia,  so  to  speak, 
formed  part  of  the  other  side.     She  is  not,  or  at  any  rate 
,^she  is  no  longer^  his  friend,  but  belongs  to  the  royal  party 
:  who  are  his  enemies.     Any  presents  of  his  which  she  may 
[  possess  are  souvenirs  of  a  past  time,   when   the  dazzling 
young  prince  had  paid  his  court  to  the  pretty  girl  and  had 
perhaps  even  been  in  love  with  her.     But  Ophelia  has  never 
:  really  loved  him.     The  utmost  she  may  have  done  has 
:  been  to  tolerate  his  homage.     When  he  appears  to  have 
;:  lost  his  reason,  and  she  notices  that  her  father  and  the 
i  King  are  no  longer  well  disposed  toward  him,  she  goes 
::  Dver  to  their  side  as  a  matter  of  course,  without  reflecting, 
;;  and  more  or  less  faithless,  in  accordance  with  the  relations 
which  have  previously  existed  between  them  (p.  ^6  seq,). 

This  part  of  Ophelia,  if  we  consider  the  construction 
which  Kyd  gave  to  the  drama,  was  to  a  certain  extent  a 
;  iramatic  necessity.     It  is  true  in  the  original  story  which 
1  Kyd  made  use  of  the  woman  who  takes  the  place  of  Ophelia 
i;  appears  in  agreement  with  the  Prince.     This   situation, 
ii  [lowever,  he  could  not  well  take  over  without  carrying  on 
'  ^he  love-intrigue,  which  in  the  story  dies  a  natural  death 
,  ind  for  which  there  is  no  room  in  Hamlet^  this  play  being 
k  already  overburdened  with  side-plots.     The  only  alternative 
\i  which  remains  to  him,  if  he  does  not  wish  to  encumber 
jji  biimself  with   a  love-intrigue   not  required   by  the  main 
iBdon,  is  to  represent  Ophelia  in  the  eavesdropping  scene 
%W.not  in  agreement  with  Hamlet.     By  this  arrangement 
J.  :he   nature   of  their   relation    is   determined,     The   only 
:hoice  still  open  to  him  was  to  attribute  the  readiness 
ivith  which  she  allows  herself  to  be  used  as  a  decoy  to 
ll-will  or  weakness.     It  is  easily  understood  that  he  pre- 
ferred the  latter  motive,  because  of  its  greater  simplicity, 
?irhich  makes  it  an  aid  to  the  economy  of  the  drama.     The 
lucleus  of  this  affair  Shakespeare  transplanted  unchanged 
rom  the  old  drama  into  his  play,  with  the  only  difference 
t  his  unrivalled  art  clothed  the  languishing  flirtation  in 

69 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

a  garb  of  poetry  which  in  words  only  half-expressed  charms  ) 
us  by  a  melting  sweetness  and  allows  us  no  time  to  realize  ! 
how  little  all  this  means  to  the  persons  concerned.  This  . 
fact  has  already  been  discovered  and  convincingly  proved  | 
by  Gertrud  Landsberg  from  the  point  of  view  of  Ophelia  ; 
but  even  when  looking  through  Hamlet's  eyes  we  cannot  ^ 
see  the  situation  in  any  other  light.  A 

A  further  contradiction  of  the  view  that  Hamlet  is 
passionately  in  love  with  Ophelia  can  be  found  in  his  ard< 
wish  to  return  to  the  University  of  Wittenberg,  fr< 
which  he  can  be  dissuaded  only  by  the  urgent  requests 
the  King  and  Queen.  Above  all,  why  does  he  never  refer 
to  her  with  a  single  word  in  those  soliloquies  in  which  all 
the  anguish  of  his  soul  is  revealed  ?  It  is  also  surprising 
how  little  there  is  in  his  love-letter  to  Polonius*  daughter 
(II,  ii)  of  that  language  of  deep  passion  which  is  at  his , 
disposal  on  other  occasions,  even  in  the  protestation  of  I 
friendship  which  he  makes  to  Horatio.  Shakespeare  gives 
us  a  clear  indication  of  how  he  wishes  Hamlet's  mental 
disposition  to  be  regarded  when  he  makes  the  cunning 
King  Claudius,  after  listening  to  the  conversation  of  the 
two  (III,  i),  exclaim : 

Love  ?  his  affections  do  not  that  way  tend  ! 

It  is  undoubtedly  true  that  later  on,  at  Ophelia's  fun.eral. 
Hamlet  gets  into  a  high  state  of  excitement  andT  in  a  kin^ 
of  frenzy  hurls  his  passionate  love  in  the  faces  of  the  by- 
standers. Yet  not  only  do  they  at  once  recognize  hii 
behaviour  to  be  thoroughly  morbid,  but  he  himself  after- 
ward confirms  this  opinion  by  pleading  in  excuse  of  hii 
conduct  a  momentary  outburst  of  passion  due  to  hii 
madness  (V,  ii).  Even  if  we  do  Shakespeare's  techniqu( 
so  little  justice  as  to  see  no  reference  to  fact  in  this  statement 
we  cannot  shut  our  eyes  to  the  perception  that  Hamlet  ii 
private  conversation  with  Horatio  (V,  ii)  sees  these  thing 
essentially  in  the  same  way.  He  does  not  think  for 
moment  of  describing  his  behaviour  to  Horatio  as  du 
to  any  excessive  pain  caused  by  Ophelia's  death.  On  th 
contrary,  he  says  not  a  word  about  her,  but  states  expr( 
70 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

t  "  the  bravery  [i,e,y  the  ostentation]  of  his  [/.^.,  Laertes'] 

ief  "  has  roused  him  to  "  a  towering  passion  "  and  thus 

ought    about    the    "  fit "    (V,    ii,    79).     This    account 

rfectly  agrees   with  the   peculiarity  of  the  melancholy 

perament,   that   its  victim   is   infuriated   by   the   idea 

at  anyone  else  wants  to  be  more  unhappy  than  himself 

p.  160).     We  therefore  see  that  the  view  of  Laertes  in 

the  beginning  of  the  play  hits  the  mark.     As  regards  the 

:    Queen's  remark  that  she  would  gladly  have  seen  Ophelia 

as  Hamlet's  bride,  we  cannot  attach  great  importance  to 

I  ^     Such  statements  we  shall  find  explained  later  on  as 

I  ftlongihg  to  what  we  may  call  Shakespeare's  "  tendency 

I  W  ^P^^^^^i^  intensification  "  (cf,  p.  1 13  se^,).     All  this  con- 

"  firms  the  view  which  is  of  the  utmost  importance,  t/ia^  the 

first  mention  in  the  drama  of  things  which  are  important  for 

the  action  or  the  characterization  of  the  central  figure  must 

never  be  allowed  in  the  interest  of  the  characterization   of 

condary  figures  to  distort  the  representation  of  the  facts. 

A  much  more  complicated   case  is   presented   by  the 

arks  made  by  Lady  Macbeth  with  reference  to  her 

sband.  ^"Macbeth  is  a  character  ?t  variance  with  him- 

If,  drawn  in  opposite  directions  by  conflicting  tendencies. 

r  this  reason   numerous  critics  speak  of  the  struggle 

ich  he  has  to  carry  on  against  his  own  conscience.     But 

ainst  this  view  it  has  been  very  properly  objected  that 

nscience  speaks  only  with  a  very  small  voice  in  Macbeth's 

som,    conscience,  of  course,    meaning   here   the   moral 

ction  of  a  person  against  the  motives  of  his  own  conduct, 

t  the  fear  of  the  consequences  or  the  mortification  pro- 

ced  by  them.     It  is  true  that  Macbeth  is  not  without 

sense  of  honour,  and  the  meanness  of  his  crime  dawns 

on  him  when  he  reflects,  before  murdering  his  guest, 

€  old  King  Duncan,  that 

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. 

I,  vii,  12 

71 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

It  is  undeniable  that  what  looks  like  a  part  of  his  better 
nature  appears  here  and  also  in  the  passage  where  a  stirring 
of  gratitude  seems  to  act  as  a  check  to  his  dark  designs  : 

We  will  proceed  no  further  in  this  business : 

He  hath  honour'd  me  of  late.  ...  j^  ^jj^  ^  j 

The  more  probable  explanation  is,  however,  that  thej 
are  mere  transitory  emotions  in  the  great  volcanic  uj 
heaval  of  his  soul  and  not  really  firm  convictions  whicJ 
in  the  struggle  between  good  and  bad  instincts,  hai 
gradually  been  undermined  and  overthrown.  What  alwa] 
occupies  the  foreground  of  his  thoughts  is  the  fear  of  tl 
consequences,  the  idea 

If  it  were  done,  when  't  is  done,  then 't  were  well 
It  were  done  quickly.  j  y[[   j 

In  the  reasons  for  Macbeth's  hesitation  the  selfish  elemei 
predominates.  The  deed  itself  is  not  abhorrent  to  him 
on  moral  grounds.  Nor  is  his  fear  of  the  consequences 
in  the  life  after  death  due  to  any  stirrings  of  conscience, 
as  Siburg  has  rightly  maintained  against  Vischer  (Shake- 
speare  Vortrage^  ii,  80).  What  we  find  there  are  cool 
deliberations  whether  the  deed  is  advisable  or  not,  shrewd 
reflections  that,  as  a  rule,  retribution  overtakes  the  evil- 
doer already  in  this  life  : 

.  .  .  that  we  but  teach 
Bloody  instructions,  which,  being  taught,  return 
To  plague  th'  inventor.  j  ^jj  « 

Caution  warns  him  that  the  violent  death  of  the  kind  old 
king  will  arouse  in  his  subjects  a  measure  of  compassion 
most  dangerous  to  the  murderer ;  he  becomes  apprehensive 
that  he  may  lose  the  popularity  newly  won  by  his  victories ; 
and  other  more  or  less  practical  considerations  flash  through 
his  mind. 

Are  we  to  suppose,  then,  that  Macbeth's  mental  proc( 
is  merely  a  cool,  businesslike  calculation  }      Certainly  nojj 
but  neither  is  the  contrary  true,  namely,  that  his  is  a  struggj 
between  good  and  bad  instincts.     In  reality  he  is  fightii 
72 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

inst  his  own  weakness ;  and  it  is  just  in  this  that  we  recog- 

,ze  the  peculiar  Shakespearean  quality  of  the  character. 

In  his  original  source,  Holinshed's  Chronicles^  Shakespeare 

und  a  man  who  was  credited  with  the  highest  warlike 

hievementSj   but  whose  hardness  and  cruelty,   unusual 

en  for  that  period,  are  several  times  mentioned.     Had 

dealt  with  this  character  more  than  a  decade  earlier 

It  would  most  probably  have  become  a  thick-skinned  brute 

tthe  stamp  of  Richard  III;  for,  like  Schiller,  Shakespeare 
ght  have  said  of  himself  :  "  The  older  I  get  the  more 
"^  stock  of  caricatures  diminishes."  By  this  time  he  had 
ssed  the  youthful  stage  in  which  he,  like  every  other  man, 
gets  his  views  of  reality  from  the  study  of  models  ;  he 
is  observing  life  itself  more  closely  and  drawing  directly 
I  ^om  it  ;  he  is  especially  attracted  by  hidden  psychological 
I  Bpj^i'espondences.  This  makes  him  study  his  original  in 
quite  a  different  way  ;  he  finds  in  it  that  the  prophecy 
the  fatal  sisters  goes  on  rankling  in  the  King's  mind, 
d  also  that  the  murder  of  King  Duncan  is  due  principally 
the  instigation  of  his  ambitious  wife.  It  is  here  that 
€  must  look  for  the  germ  from  which  sprang  the  con- 
ption  of  the  character  of  a  man  of  unusual  bravery  who 
t  does  not  initiate  his  own  actions,  but  receives  and  must 
ceive  the  decisive  impulse  from  without,  consequently 
man  who  is  dependent  on  his  human  environment, 
certain  aspects  a  weak  man.  We  can  now  understand 
.at  this  problem  begins  to  exert  a  much  greater  attraction 
•r  Shakespeare  at  a  time  when  he  himself  and  the  public 
ave  grown  tired  of  purely  historical  subjects.  Moreover,  a 
arp  contrast  of  this  sort  producing  cross-currents  in  a 
mplex  mind  is  what  interests  him  most  in  this  period 
his  dramatic  activity :  inborn  weakness  and  the  desire 
r  action  in  Hamlet,  tenderest  love  and  the  desire  to 
11  in  Othello,  the  supreme  strength  of  the  conqueror  of 
e  world  and  doting  feebleness  in  Antony. 
In  Macbeth  we  may  see,  if  we  choose,  a  special  family 
likeness  to  Hamlet,  but  certainly  not  his  counterpart,  as 
J  Brandes,  copying  Gervinus  (iii,  p.  307  seq\  would  make 
iJ^im  (p.   592).     It  was  Gervinus  who  first  stamped  the 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

figure  of  Macbeth  with  a  character  which  has  been  accepted  I 
by  the  most  notable  among  his  successors.     According  to  ' 
him   Macbeth  is  "  a  man  of  the  ancient  energy  of  the  ^ 
heroic  races,"  a  "heathenish  and  savage''  fellow,  he  has 
"  the  simple  and  unaffected  nature  of  the  true  soldier." 
We  find  the  same  view  in  Ulrici  (ii,  1 1 3),  to  whom  he  i 
appears  as  a  heroic  character  of  ancient  Northern  strength  •; 
and  endurance  ;    in  Kreyssig,  who  calls  him  "  a  simple 
nature  full  of  primitive  energy  and  robust  virility,"  an  ^ 
"unbroken  and  unspoiled  character"  (p.  151  seq^\    and 
finally  in  Brandes,  who  has  largely  incorporated  Kreyssig's 
ideas  in  his  own  work,  and  who  describes  him  as  a  rude, 
simple  warrior,  a  man  of  action,  whose  inclination  is  to  | 
strike  and  not  to  engage  in  long  deliberations. 

It  is  interesting  to  see  how  these  interpreters  account 
for  the  terrors  that  haunt  Macbeth.  The  explanation  they 
give  is  simple  enough :  these  states  are  due  to  the  "  para- 
lysing power  of  his  imagination  "  (Gervinus,  p.  132). 
"  He  is  bold,  he  is  ambitious,  he  is  a  man  of  action,"  says 
H.  Cuningham  (in  the  introduction  to  the  **  Arden  "  J 
edition,  xlv),  "but  he  is  also,  within  limits,  a  man  of 
imagination.  Through  his  vivid  imagination  he  is  kept  in 
touch  with  supernatural  impressions  and  is  liable  to  super- 
natural fears."  Almost  the  same  view  was  taken  by  Ulrici 
(p.  109)  of  Macbeth's  fear  of  failure,  which  he  attributes 
to  his  quick  and  uncontrollable  imagination.  But  is  not 
this  reversing  the  natural  order  of  things — /.<?.,  mixing  up 
the  cause  and  the  effect  }  Surely  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  terrifying  visions  are  produced  by  fear,  not  vice 
versa  1  It  is  weakness  that  sees  spectres,  not  strength. 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh  (1909,  p.  17)  likewise  depicts  Macbeth 
as  a  character  chiefly  dominated  by_jrnaginatian,  and 
for  this  reason  puts  him.  in  the  same  category  with 
Richard  II  and  Hamlet.  We  know,  however,  thati 
those  two  figures  also  are  remarkable  for  their  weak- 
ness of  will  (</.  p.  168  seq^.  In  itself,  as  experience 
shows,  imagination  is  not  incompatible  with  strength. 
Imaginative  people,  on  the  contrary,  may  act  with  the  utmost 
temerity.  A  man,  however,  in  whose  imagination  terrifying 
74 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

jes  predominate  may  safely  be  regarded  as  the  very 
'opposite  of  a  heroic  character  of  ancient  Northern  strength 
and  endurance. 

The  truth  is,  this  whole  conception  is  based  upon  a 
misunderstanding.     It  is  due  to  an  excessive  contempla- 
tion of  the  warlike  achievements  and  personal  bravery  of 
the  man,  and  it  confounds  physical  and  moral  courage. 
Macbeth  certainly  is  a  lion  on  the  field  of  battle ;  open 
and  visible  dangers  leave  him  unmoved.     But  this  is  not 
incompatible  with  the  fact  that,  at  heart,  he  is   greatly 
dependent  on  other  people,  is  always  a  prey  to  fear,  and 
feels  himself  helpless  in  every  moral  conflict  into  which 
his  own  actions  lead  him.  -This  weakness  grows  out  of 
a  nervous  disposition  whfch  under  the  influence  of  strong 
impressions   may   produce   highly   morbid   mental   states. 
Naturally  these  have  also  been  noticed  by  the  critics  of 
Macbeth,  for  the  most  part,  however,  only  in  those  cases 
where  they  assume  quite  grotesque  forms,  as,  for  example, 
when  immediately  before  the  murder  of  Duncan  Macbeth 
is  terrified  by  the  image  of  a  bloody  dagger  hovering  in 
the  air  in  front  of  his  eyes.     A  more  attentive  observer, 
however,  will  receive  a  correct  impression  of  Macbeth*s 
character  at  his  very  first  appearance.     To  him  and  Banquo 
the  weird  sisters  appear  on  the  empty  heath  and  salute  him 
with  the  threefold  title.     Their  greeting  does  not  cause 
him  any  surprise  or  astonishment,   but  evidently  makes 
him  give  such  a  perceptible  start  and  sends  such  a  shudder 
through  his  frame  that  Banquo,  wondering  what  is  the 
matter,  asks  him : 

Good  sir,  why  do  you  start,  and  seem  to  fear 
Things  that  do  sound  so  fair  ? 

I,  iii 

If  we  inquire  what  is  the  reason  of  this  tremendous 
effect  produced  by  the  prophetic  words  upon  his  whole 
being,   we    are   told    by   the    critics   (Kreyssig,   ii,    150; 

iv.  Friesen,  iii,  162  seq^  that  it  is  the  sudden  revelation, 
which  like  a  flash  of  lightning  illuminates  his  soul,  of  all 
his  secret  and  slumbering  wishes.     This  is  true  enough ; 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

but  the  same  experience  would  affect  another  type  of 
character  in  quite  a  different  way.  Even  if  a  train  of 
thought  ending  in  the  idea  of  a  crime  were  set  going 
in  the  mind  of  a  criminal  he  would  not  necessarily  be 
seized  by  such  a  sudden  fright,  unless  he  habitually 
suffered  from  what  the  Germans  call  Furcht  vor  der 
eigenen  Courage,  This,  indeed,  is  the  mental  condition  of 
Macbeth. 

It  is  only  after  Banquo,  perfectly  cool  and  self-possessed, 
has  taken  his  turn  in  asking  information  of  the  unearthly 
creatures  about  his  own  future  and  has  received  his  answer 
that  Macbeth  recovers  from  his  shock  and  once  more 
addresses  them,  but  in  vain.  They  disappear,  and  he  is 
again  alone  with  Banquo.  His  whole  mind  is  filled  with 
what  he  has  heard.  But  it  is  characteristic  of  him  that 
he  does  not  dare  openly  to  confess  what  is  going  on  within 
him.  From  the  very  beginning  we  find  something  close 
and  suspicious  in  the  man.  As  Siburg  very  cleverly 
remarks,  his  real  motive  in  observing  to  Banquo,  **  Your 
children  shall  be  kings,'*  is  to  make  his  companion  repeat 
once  more  the  dazzling  promise.  When  Banquo  promptly 
replies,  **  You  shall  be  king,*'  he  quickly  adds, 

And  thane  of  Cawdor  too  ;    went  it  not  so  ? 

betraying  by  his  eagerness  how  little  he  is  thinking 
of  Banquo's  future  and  how  much  he  is  occupied  with 
his  own  fate.  This  first  impression  of  Macbeth  is  con- 
firmed and  completed  by  the  soliloquy  which  soon  follows. 
Whereas  Banquo  has  remained  perfectly  calm  at  the  quick 
fulfilment  of  the  first  prophecy,  Macbeth  shows  the  exces- 
sive irritability  of  his  nervous  system  by  getting  into  an 
extreme  state  of  excitement.  We  see  that  the  very  first 
emergence  of  the  criminal  thought  marks  the  beginning 
of  the  fight  against  his  nerves  ;  he  speaks  of  that 
suggestion 

Whose  horrid  image  doth  unfix  my  hair 
And  make  my  seated  heart  knock  at  my  ribs 
Against  the  use  of  nature. 

Li*;  135 

76 


f 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


The  emotion,  evidently,  is  so  strong  that  his  whole  appear- 
ance is  changed.  He  is  so  little  able  to  control  himself 
lat  his  companions,  of  whom  he  is  entirely  oblivious, 
>tice  his  state  and  Banquo  with  great  astonishment 
ills  attention  to  his  **  rapt  "  expression  (I,  iii,  57  and 
.2),  which  V.  Friesen  rightly  likens  to  that  of  a  man 
Bio  is  drunk.  The  excuse  which  he  then  offers  them 
>ntains  an  untruth : 

Give  me  your  favour  :  my  dull  brain  was  wrought 
With  things  forgotten. 

I,  iii,  149 

Ljke  all  weak  characters,  Macbeth  js  a  liar.  Therefore, 
hen  Banquo  immediately  before  the  murder  scene  reminds 
It,  him  of  the  three  weird  sisters  he  replies,  disagreeably 
b|  moved  by  this  thought  at  this  moment  :  "I  think  not  of 
;  them  **  (II,  i,  21).  The  enormous  irritability  from  which 
y.  Macbeth  suffers  leaves  its  traces  on  his  countenance,  which, 
rj  to  the  great  vexation  of  his  wife,  again  and  again  most 
!  distinctly  reflects  the  inner  workings  of  his  mind.  Again 
y  and  again  she  is  obliged  to  warn  him  to  put  on  a  different 
Ifcpression  (I,  iv,  62  seq,  ;  III,  ii,  27).  When  he  thinks 
ne  sees  the  ghost  of  Banquo  he  completely  loses  control 
over  his  features,  and  his  face  becomes  so  contorted  that 
.    his  wife  in  a  mixture  of  fear  and  rage  shouts  at  him  : 

Shame  itself ! 
Why  do  you  make  such  faces  ? 

Ill,  iv,  (i(> 

le  critics  (Gervinus,  Brandes,  etc.)  find  in  his  inability 
control  his  facial  expression  an  indication  of  a  straight- 

[rward  and  natural  character.     But  we  may  be  certain 

Lt  Macbeth,  who,  as  we  have  seen,  was  not  afraid  of  a 

would  willingly  and  without  any  scruples  have  changed 

ie  appearance  of  his  face  had  he  been  able  to  do  so.  The 
:t  of  the  matter  is,  however,  that  here,  as  in  all  other 
jes,  he  is  a  victim  of  his  nerves.  No  doubt  of  their 
jeased  condition  can  arise  when  we  find  him  suffering 
)m  unmistakable  hallucinations  of  the  visual  and  auditory 

77 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

organs,  when  he  sees  the  bloody  dagger,  hears  voices  after 
the  murder,  and  finally  is  confronted  with  the  ghost  of 
Banquo,  his  victim,  sitting  upon  his  own  chair.  The 
words  with  which  on  this  last  occasion  Lady  Macbeth 
addresses  the  alarmed  guests. 


Sit,  worthy  friends.     My  lord  is  often  thus, 
And  hath  been  from  his  youth  :  pray  you,  keep  seat; 
The  fit  is  momentary :  upon  a  thought 
He  will  again  be  well, 

III,  iv,  53 


I 


sound  like  an  excuse  invented  for  the  moment,  and  this 
may  be  really  the  case  ;  but,  after  all,  there  is  nothing 
absolutely  impossible  in  the  explanation,  though  it  is  certain 
that  the  fearful  excitement  consequent  upon  the  second 
murder  has  once  more  caused  his  natural  tendencies  to 
break  out  with  unusual  violence. 

As  Macbeth  takes  so  little  account  of  his  nerves  we 
should  not  be  surprised  if  he  fell  a  victim  to  them,  as  he 
,  occasionally  seems  to  be  on  the  point  of  doing,  especially 
i  '  I  as  he  is  tormented  by  sleeplessness  (III,  iv).  But  in  the 
end  he  becomes  master  of  his  over-excited  nerves,  though 
not  of  his  inner  unrest,  which  drives  him  on  from 
crime  to  crime.  He  grows  accustomed  to  wickedness, 
his  mind  is  hardened  and  at  last  completely  blunted, 
whereas  his  wife,  who,  hard  as  she  is,  has  over-taxed  her 
nature,  goes  the  opposite  way.  He  himself  has  the  feeling 
that  his  frenzied  excitement  is  principally  called  forth  by 
his  inexperience  of  his  murderous  trade. 

My  strange  and  self-abuse 
Is  the  initiate  fear,  that  wants  hard  use  : 
We  are  yet  but  young  in  deed, 

he  says  (III,  iv,  142)  with  a  certain  cynical  humour. 
Finally,  however,  when  he  is  brought  to  bay  like  a  wild 
beast  and  has  to  fight  for  his  life,  his  personal  courage 
once  more  appears  and  sends  the  calm  of  a  firm  resolve 
through  his  whole  nature.  We  know  that  weak  men  often, 
when  no  choice  remains  to  them,  cast  behind  them  all 
78 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

itation  and  irresolution.  Macbeth  becomes  conscious 
the  great  change  which  has  taken  place  within  him,  as 
see  from  the  words  : 

I  have  almost  forgot  the  taste  of  fears. 

The  time  has  been,  my  senses  would  have  coolM 

To  hear  a  night-shriek  ;  and  my  fell  of  hair 

Would  at  a  dismal  treatise  rouse,  and  stir 

As  life  were  in  't.     I  have  supp'd  full  with  horrors : 

Direness,  familiar  to  my  slaughterous  thoughts. 

Cannot  once  start  me. 

V,v,9 

But  this  reflection  and  the  courage  with  which  he  faces 

,  his  end  cannot  conceal  from  us  the  extraordinary  weakness 

n;  and  lack  of  assurance  which  are  prominent  features  of 

his   character.  ;  Against   these,    rather   than   against   any 

good  part  of  his  nature,  he  struggles.     Critics  who  are 

unwilling  to  abandon  their  belief  in  the  essential  nobility 

of  his  nature  have  desperately  tried  to  save  their  theory 

by  discrediting  his  words  about  himself.     Henry  Cuning- 

ham,  for  instance,  says  (p.  xlv)  that  Macbeth*s  character 

t\  is  not  understood  either  by  himself  or  by  Lady  Macbeth ; 

5  his  better  nature  incorporates  itself  in  images  which  alarm 

3  and  terrify  instead  of  speaking  to  him  in  the  language  of 

;,.  moral  ideas  and  commands.     This  process  of  disguising 

^i  his  better  self,  however,  quite  apart  from  the  psychological 

r  improbability,  is  so  complicated  and  puzzling  that  we  can 

;  hardly  credit  a  popular  dramatist  with  employing  it.     More- 

f\  over,  we  have  to  ask  why  this  better  nature  of  the  hero  does 

not  appear  on  any  other  occasion.     These  undeniable  facts 

render  improbable  any  view  except  the  one  we  have  taken. 

j  The  strongly  marked,  single  ambitious  impulses  of  Macbeth 

are  not  co-ordinated  into  one  great  and  continued  effort 

of  will.     This  peculiarity  Shakespeare,  true  to  his  usual 

technique,    several    times   describes    in    plain    words,    for 

example  when  Macbeth  is  blamed  for  being  "  infirm  of 

purpose  '*  (II,  ii,  51),  and  when  he  himself  speaks  of  having 

"  no  spur  to  prick  the  sides  of  my  intent,  but  only  vaulting 

ambition  '*  (I,  vii,  26),  thus  comparing  himself  to  a  lazy 

horse  requiring  to  be  spurred.      We  could  not  imagine 

B  79 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

a  clearer  demonstration  of  this  weakness  than  his  wishing, 
in  the  very  moment  when  the  murder  of  King  Duncan 
has    been    effected,    that   it   had    never   been    committed 

(11,  ii,  73)- 

We  must  how  see  how  the  remarks  made  by  Lady 
Macbeth  about  him  agree  with  the  view  here  taken. 

It  has  been  explained  above  that  Shakespeare*s  purpose 
in  having  his  principal  characters  reflected  in  the  minds 
of  other  persons  is  to  throw  sufficient  light  upon  them. 
We  also  understand  that  these  various  characterizations  need 
not  completely  harmonize  with  the  characters  of  the  persons 
by  whom  they  are  made.  In  Macbeth  this  device  appears  in 
the  exposition  in  the  following  manner.  After  we  have 
gained  the  first  definite  impression  of  Macbeth  we  are 
shown  his  ancestral  castle  at  Inverness.  His  wife  comes 
on  the  stage  reading  the  letter  which  tells  her  of  the 
prophecies.  She  has  already  formed  her  resolution  to 
help  him  to  realize  them.  The  only  thing  that  troubles 
her  is  her  own  part  in  this  enterprise.  Then  we  are  given 
a  clear  and  detailed  outline  of  Macbeth's  character  drawn 
by  the  person  who  has  his  full  confidence,  the  purpose 
being  to  complete  and  confirm  the  impression  we  have 
already  received  of  him : 

[Thou]  shalt  be 
What  thou  art  promis'd.     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  ;  wouldst  not  play  false. 
And  yet  wouldst  wrongly  win  ;  thou'dst  have,  great 

Glamis, 
That  which  cries,  "Thus  thou  must  do,  if  thou  have  it" 
And  that  which  rather  thou  dost  fear  to  do, 
Than  wishest  should  be  undone.     Hie  thee  hither. 
That  I  may  pour  my  spirits  in  thy  ear.  ...  M 

I,  V,  15   m 

If  we  ask  ourselves  whether  this  characterization  hits  the 
mark  we  must  reply  in  the  affirmative,  at  any  rate  so  far' 
80 


J 


P       IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

as  his  actual  behaviour  is  concerned.     There  can  be  no 

doubt   that   Macbeth   does   not   like   playing   false.     He 

.  takes  no  delight  in  crimes  and  lying,  as  Richard  III  or 

lago  do,  and  immoral  actions  are  not  easy  to  him  as  they 

;  are  to  Edmund  in  King  Lear,     Yet  he  passionately  desires 

;  that  which  he  is  not  entitled  to  claim.     He  does  not  wish 

;  that  King  Duncan  should  not  be  murdered,  but  he  would 

prefer  this  deed  to  be  committed  by  another,  for  he  is  ill 

at  ease  in  performing  it.     It  is  quite  a  different  question, 

[  however,  whether  the  reasons  for  this  behaviour  are  correctly 

I  ted  by  Lady  Macbeth. 
Ulrici  (p.  Ill)  evades  this  difficulty  by  advancing  the 
[ve  opinion,  which  mixes  up  art  and  reality,  that  a  wife 
ist  be  the  best  judge  of  her  husband.     The  matter, 
bowever,  is  far  too  intricate  to  allow  us  to  dismiss  the  task 

(examining  Macbeth's  motives  with  such  a  cheap  and 
nmonplace  argument.  Besides,  is  it  true  that  Macbeth 
uld  have  liked  to  attain  his  ends  "  holily,"  that  he  is 
free  from  criminal  inclinations,  that  his  mind  is  "  full  o' 
:he  milk  of  human  kindness  '*  ?  Obviously  not.  As  we 
iiave  shown  above,  Macbeth  is  not  entirely  devoid  of  a 
certain  sense  of  honour;  he  shows  traces  of  nobler  instincts, 
ind  is,  for  example,  perfectly  aware  that  the  fact  of  Duncan 
3eing  his  guest  renders  his  crime  still  more  shameful. 
A-lso  his  general  weakness  of  character  does  not  lead  him 
:o  any  really  low  and  contemptible  actions,  as,  for  example, 
reproaching  his  wife  for  having  driven  him  on  to  his  crimes. 
^11  this,  however,  is  not  yet  a  sign  of  a  truly  humane 
character.     His   inhumanity  and   cruelty  m.ost   distinctly 

ipear  in  his  treatment  of  the  innocent  Banquo.  Nowhere 
jthe  whole  play  does  Macbeth  show  the  faintest  sign  of 
|j  humanity,  certainly  not  in  the  indescribable  state  of 
irror  at  his  own  action  into  which  he  is  thrown  by  the 
issassination  of  King  Duncan.  If  Macbeth,  on  account 
)f  this  experience,  were  to  regard  himself  as  capable  of 
lumane  sentiments  we  could  find  in  him  the  best  justifica- 
ion  of  the  saying  of  Marie  von  Ebner-Eschenbach  : 
tli{|  *  Many  people  believe  they  are  kind-hearted,  but  in  reality 
iiey  are  only  weak-nerved."     In  the  case  of  Macbeth  it 

IF  8i 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

is  not  a  genuine  emotion  of  pity  which  betrays  itself  in 
his  state,  but  only  the  immense  agitation  of  a  man  whose 
constitution    punishes    him    through    a    feverish    state    of 
internal  unrest  for  having  overstepped  the  physical  limits^ 
set  to  his  will. 

Moreover,  as  regards  the  influence  which  Lady  Macbeth  i 
has  upon  him,  it  is  easily  seen  that  she  does  not  think  of 
combating  his  goodness  of  heart  and  moral  scruples,  but 
that,  on  the  contrary,  she  spurs  him  to  action  by  taunting 
him  with  his  cowardice  and  weakness  of  will.  If  this 
procedure  were  based,  as  Cuningham  thinks,  on  a  mis- 
understanding of  his  character — /.^.,  on  her  underestimating 
his  moral  worth — we  should  have  to  feel  very  much  surprised 
at  her  success.  It  is  clear,  therefore,  that  she  does  not 
need  to  fear  any  opposition  due  to  native  goodness  of 
heart.  All  this  justifies  the  conclusion  that  the  characteri- 
zation given  by  Lady  Macbeth  does  not  fit  the  Macbeth 
whom  we  know.  The  attempt  which  Ulrici  has  made  to 
apply  it  to  Macbeth  as  he  was  before  the  appearance  of 
the  witches  is  a  makeshift  which,  for  very  obvious  reasons, 
is  hardly  worth  serious  discussion.  '  It  might  be  argued  that 
the  poet  by  means  of  these  remarks  wished  to  characterize 
Lady  Macbeth  herself  rather  than  her  husband.  The 
question  to  be  decided  is,  then,  whether  Lady  Macbeth 
really  sees  and  judges  her  husband  in  this  manner.  Many 
readers  may  be  inclined  to  take  this  view  and  explain  the' 
passage  in  the  sense  that  Lady  Macbeth,  as  a  good  wife, 
tries  to  shut  her  eyes  to  her  husband*s  weakness  by  represent- 
ing it  as  goodness  of  heart.  Or  it  might  be  said  that,  beingj 
wicked  herself,  she  mistakes  for  good  nature  what  is  only 
the  weakness  of  her  companion.  Such  an  explanation  is 
in  itself  quite  feasible.  We  should  be  able  to  justifyi 
these  words,  if  not  by  the  facts  themselves,  at  any  rate  by 
the  psychological  peculiarity  of  the  speaker.  Unfortunately 
this  view  is  rendered  quite  untenable  by  the  extraordinary 
clearness  with  which  Lady  Macbeth  judges  her  husband 
throughout  the  rest  of  the  play.  It  is  not  at  all  true  that 
she  takes  a  rosy-coloured  view  of  his  character.  In  pas- 
sages which  do  not  serve  the  purpose  of  inciting  him  to 
82  ~ 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


ion  or  inflamipg  his  evil  passions  she  finds  no  word 
'  to  represent  him  as  better  than  he  really  is.  There  is 
^  thus  no  reason  why  she  should  embellish  his  character 
■,  here.  All  this  points  to  the  conclusion  that  we  must 
assume  t/ie  possibility  of  a  certain  misrepresentation  or  error  of 
i  characterization  which  is  not  without  analogy  {cf,  pp.  213, 
*  221).     The  poet  for  a  moment  misjudges  his  own  creation, 

■  For,  taking  into  consideration  Shakespeare's  peculiar 
technique,  we  cannot  doubt  for  a  moment  that  he  means 
the  character  of  the  hero  to  be  objectively  described  in 

IMc  monologue. 
.  "This  last  principle  must  never  be  lost  sight  of  in  ex- 

■  plaining  the  action  of  the  Shakespearean  drama,  but  equally 
necessary  is  another,  which  does  not  allow  of  any  errors 

^  of  characterization,  viz.,  that  positive  statements  made  by  any 
'■  person  about  happenings  which  we  have  not  ourselves  witnessed 
"  on  the  stage   are   to   be  regarded  as   unquestionably  correct, 

Macbeth  affords  us  a  good  instance.  As  the  destined 
^  course  of  the  hero  is  approaching  its  last  crisis  (V,  v)  we 

are  very  briefly  informed  of  the  Queen's  death,  Lamenta- 
"  tions  are  heard  behind  the  scenes,  and  the  message  comes 

that  the  Queen  is  dead,  the  messenger  bringing  Macbeth 
-  a  remarkably  brief  report  of  not  more  than  three  words. 

Macbeth,  however,  does  not  ask  for  any  further  particulars. 
:  The  matter  is  settled  for  him  with  the  words  : 

She  should  have  died  hereafter  : 

There  would  have  been  a  time  for  such  a  word. 

V,  V,  17 

■erward,  when  the  victors  enter  the  captured  castle,  we 
•n  from  the  mouth  of  the  new  king  what  has  happened — 
It  the  "  fiendlike  queen  " 

As  'tis  thought,  by  self  and  violent  hands 
Took  off  her  life. 

V,  vii,  ICO 

is  most  curious  that  a  number  of  critics  (Vischer,  WolflF) 

ime  Shakespeare  to  have  left  it  obscure  and  undecided 

liether  Lady  Macbeth  has  really  committed  suicide  or 

83 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

not  ;  one  critic  (Cuningham)  bases  his  doubts  not  only 
upon  the  words  "  as  'tis  thought  **  of  the  text,  but  also 
upon  the  personality  of  the  speaker,  whom  he  alleges  to  be 
an  untrustworthy  witness,  being  a  mortal  enemy  of  Lady 
Macbeth.  These  subtleties,  however,  lead  us  nowhere. 
They  have  their  origin,  as  do  most  others,  in  a  failure 
to  distinguish  between  art  and  reality.  Such  interpreta- 
tions may  be  admissible  in  dealing  with  actual  happenings 
of  real  life  ;  the  processes  of  imagination,  however,  which 
are  due  to  choice  and  creation,  we  can  explain  only  by 
keeping  in  mind  what  purpose  each  of  them  has  to  fulfil 
in  an  organic  whole.  A  remark  like  that  made  by  the 
King  in  this  final  epilogue  would  have  no  purpose  what- 
ever if  it  did  not  serve  to  communicate  a  fact.  Its  intro- 
duction by  "as  *tis  thought  **  is  due  to  the  situation ; 
the  speaker  and  his  followers  have  not  been  in  the  enemy's 
camp  when  the  event  occurred. 

This  passage  may  be  insignificant  in  itself,  but  it  acquires 
a  certain  theoretical  importance  by  the  astonishing  ex- 
planation of  the  scholars  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  the 
Clarendon  edition.  They  recommend  that  this  passage  be 
omitted,  because,  in  their  opinion,  Shakespeare,  having 
filled  his  audience  with  pity  for  Lady  Macbeth  and  made 
them  feel  that  she  has  really  expiated  her  crime  by  the 
retribution  following  it,  would  not  have  destroyed  this 
sympathy  by  calling  her  **  the  fiendlike  queen  '*  and  by 
lifting  the  veil  which  he  himself  had  tactfully  spread  over 
her  fate,  a  result  inevitably  produced  by  the  communica- 
tion that  she  **  by  self  and  violent  hands  took  off  her  life." 
This  explanation  is  not  convincing.  The  Elizabethan 
audience  should  not  be  regarded  as  so  tender-hearted  that 
they  would  be  likely  to  have  any  sympathy  for  the  blood- 
stained murderess  merely  because  she  was  ill  and  inwardly 
broken.  Moreover,  a  view  like  this  takes  no  notice  of  the 
inexorable  manner  in  which  the  Shakespearean  tragedy 
makes  the  villains  drain  the  bitter  cup  to  the  lees.  Neither 
Aaron,  nor  King  Claudius,  nor  Edmund,  nor  Goneril 
and  Regan  receive  any  remission  of  punishment,  and 
actual  suicide  is  only  the  consummation  of  that  spiritual 
84 


m 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S    PLAYS 


r 

Jself-destruction  wrought  by  evil  which  Shakespeare  loves 

1^  represent. 
W  The  greatest  error,  however,  is  contained  in  the  view 
that  in  lifting  the  veil  from  the  fate  of  the  Queen  Shake- 
speare would  have  committed  an  artistic  mistake  with  which 
it  would  be  impossible  to  credit  him.  On  the  contrary, 
nothing  could  be  more  alien  to  Shakespeare's  art  than  the 
obscurity  surrounding  the  fate  of  one  of  the  principal 
figures  which  is  demanded  here.  This  art,  as  we  see  at 
every  step  of  our  investigation,  prescribes  to  itself  the  law 
of  clearness  and  tries  to  observe  it  in  every  detail  of  the 
action,  its  motives,  and  its  evolution.  It  is  true,  as  will 
be  shown  later  on,  that  this  intention  is  not  always  carried 
out ;  but  single  instances  of  failure,  like  the  enigmatic 
disappearance  of  the  fool  in  King  Lear,  remain  exceptions. 
This  example,  moreover,  clearly  indicates  that  the  poet  did 
not  take  the  figure  as  seriously  as  many  of  his  critics  do.  But 
in  the  case  of  the  death  of  a  principal  person  like  Lady 
Macbeth  the  giving  of  complete  information  is  one  of  the 
greatest  necessities  from  the  point  of  view  of  Shakespeare's 
popular  art.  Therefore,  as  far  as  the  context  allows  any 
conclusions,  this  passage  may  be  looked  upon  as  being  as 
genuine  and  unambiguous  as  any  line  in  the  whole  or  his 

!B  m  In  laying  stress  on  this  Shakespearean  peculiarity  we 

:  naturally  do  not  wish  to  maintain  that  there  are  no  passages 

.   in  the  plays  containing  statements  which  are  false  in  point 

;  of  fact ;  but  the  only  proper  way  to  judge  these  is  from  the 

c  point  of  view  of  the  Shakespearean  audience.     An  espe- 

:ii  daily  clear  and  instructive  case  is  to  be  seen  in  the  remarks 

b  pnade  about  Ophelia's  death.     Queen  Gertrude  relates  that 

it  is  due  to  an  accident,  which  she  describes.     The  grave- 

,  digger,  however,  in  the  last  act  holds  the  opinion  that  she 

liias  committed  suicide.     Confounding  art  and  reality,  as  is 

50  often  the  way  with  Shakespearean  criticism,  a  number  of 

scholars  are  inclined  to  give  greater  credit  to  the  simple 

A^orkman  than  to  the  false  Queen.     No  greater  mistake 

aniibould  be  made  with  regard  to  Shakespeare's  technique, 

Il^e  report  of  the  Queen  is  the  first  that  brings  the  event. 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

to  the  spectator's  knowledge.     We  learn  the  particulars 
of  Ophelia's  end  from  that  wonderful  passage  : 

There  is  a  willow  grows  aslant  a  brook 

That  shows  his  hoar  leaves  in  the  glassy  stream.  .  .  . 

There  would  be  no  purpose  in  this  narration  unless  it 
contained  the  truth.  On  the  other  hand,  the  simple  work- 
man in  Elizabethan  times  was  a  clown  who,  in  accordance 
with  a  good  old  stage  tradition,  probably  came  on  the  stage 
with  a  dozen  coats  worn  one  over  the  other,  which  he  took 
off  one  by  one,  to  the  great  enjoyment  of  the  audience, 
just  as  the  clown  still  does  in  the  circus.  What  he  says 
about  the  principal  action  is  not  taken  seriously  by  anybody. 
Though  not  all  cases  are  as  simple  as  this  one,  yet  in 
all  of  them  our  first  duty  will  be  to  ascertain  clearly  the 
position  of  the  speaker  and  the  order  in  time  of  the  remark, 
and  to  inquire  how  far  the  spectator  must  be  prepared  to 
interpret  the  conflicting  statement  in  its  true  light. 


86 


Ill 

CHARACTER  AND  EXPRESSION 

ARMONY    MAINTAINED    THROUGHOUT   THE    PlAY 

(Shylock). — One  of  the  things  that  Shakespeare 
has  been  most  frequently  censured  for  is  that  he 
Is  to  distinguish  his  characters  by  their  style  of  utterance, 
recent  times  this  thesis  has  found  its  most  vigorous 
pporter  in  Tolstoi.  Tolstoi,  who  holds  the  astounding 
opinion  that  Shakespeare  is  absolutely  incapable  of  draw- 
ing characters,  considers  their  language  especially  as  devoid 
"  all  individuality.  "  They  all  talk  in  the  same  manner,'* 
says.  "  Lear's  rage  is  not  distinguishable  from  that 
Edgar  when  he  simulates  madness.  Kent  and  the  fool 
e  the  same  kind  of  language.  The  words  of  one  character 
ght  equally  well  be  put  into  the  mouth  of  another,  and 
om  the  quality  of  the  language  we  should  be  quite  unable 
to  ascertain  who  is  speaking." 

Tolstoi's  manner  of  finding  fault  with  Shakespeare's 
Ipower  of  individualizing  is  unjustified  in  most,  though 
possibly  not  in  all,  respects.  Obviously  we  must  first 
study  the  dramatic  practice  of  the  time.  This  is  largely 
unindividualistic,  though  the  Renaissance  critics  in  their 
theoretical  writings  early  laid  stress  on  the  so-called  require- 
ment of  decorum  {cf,  Spingarn,  Lit,  Crit,^  p.  85).  An 
English  dramatist  applies  this  demand  to  the  drama  in 
the  epigrammatic  dictum  that  on  the  stage  the  voice  of 
the  crow  should  not  be  the  same  as  that  of  the  nightin- 
gale {cf.  D.  Klein,  Literary  Criticism  from  the  Elizabethan 
Dramatists^  New  York,  19 10,  p.  30  seq,)\  Ben  Jonson 
specially  did  his  best  to  observe  this  precept,  but  in  reality 

Uwas  so  little  carried  into  practice  that  Shakespeare  did 
t  find  it  fully  established  as  a  dramatic  tradition.     The 


It 

I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

lack  of  realism  which  we  have  observed  in  various  other 
details  of  dramatic  construction  is  noticeable  here  also. 
Our  results  show  that  Shakespeare's  technique  is  not  so 
realistic  as  has  always  been  assumed  ;  similarly,  we  do 
not  find  in  the  plays  a  consistent  and  careful  endeavour 
to  observe  a  strict  harmony  in  the  relation  of  character 
and  language.  It  is  true,  however,  that  in  a  number 
.of  cases  this  kind  of  harmony  is  one  of  the  strong 
points  of  Shakespearean  art.  A  splendid  example  of  it 
which  Tolstoi  altogether  overlooked  is  the  picture 
Shylock.  Whatever  Shylock  says  bears  the  stamp  of 
character. 

Note.  The  consummate  skill  shown  in  this  figure  has 
made  it  almost  a  dogma  among  Shakespearean  critics  that 
Shakespeare  must  have  drawn  it  from  life.  The  older 
critics  held  that  he  had  acquired  this  knowledge  of  the 
Jewish  character  on  a  journey  to  Italy;  later  researches 
proved  that  in  spite  of  the  prohibition,  which  was  in  force 
until  Cromwell  abolished  it,  some  Jews  had  managed  to 
exist  in  London,  and  these  Shakespeare  was  said  to  have 
studied.  Closer  observation,  however,  shows  that  this  pre- 
conceived opinion  has  not  much  to  recommend  it  either. 
The  peculiar  Jewish  qualities  of  Shylock  are  mostly  seen 
in  a  keen  intellect,  a  well-controlled  though  passionate 
temperament,  which  never  dims  his  clear  judgment  even  in 
the  moments  of  extreme  inward  excitement,  a  strict  ad- 
herence to  the  letter  of  the  law,  due  to  incessant  study 
of  the  Talmud,  an  inability  to  sympathize  with  exuberant 
mirth,  an  insatiable  avarice,  and  an  uprightness  governed  by 
purely  external  standards.  All  these  are  obviously  qualities 
which  can  be  more  or  less  traced  back  to  the  foundation 
of  a  gloomy,  secretive,  and  fanatical  character  and  its 
relation  to  the  fixed  course  of  the  action.  Shylock  is  a 
merciless  usurer,  a  type  which  appears  in  all  races  and  at 
all  times.  For  his  external  embodiment,  however,  Shake- 
speare did  not  require  to  seek  in  real  life  ;  he  found  it, 
or  a  great  many  details  of  it,  elaborately  depicted  in 
Marlowe's  Jew  of  Malta^  from  which  he  drew  other  traits 
as  well.  The  same  applies  to  the  peculiarities  of 
88 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

iguage — for  instance,  the  numerous    Biblical    phrases. 
le  Jew  of  Malta  despises 

these  swine-eating  Christians, 
Unchosen  nation,  never  circumcis'd, 

actly  as  does  Shylock,  who  sneers  at  the  Christians  who 
"  eat  pork,  "  The  habitation  which  your  prophet  the  Nazarite 
f!  conjured  the  devil  into."  He  speaks  of  his  tribe  as  **  the 
ii  seed  of  Abraham,"  while  Shylock  exclaims,  "  O  father 
3i  Abram  ";  he  calls  his  enemies  "  this  offspring  of  Cain," 
'   as  Shylock  calls  his  "  fools  of  Hagar's  offspring."     Old 

IJ^estament  reminiscences  are  plentiful.  He  speaks  of 
Jold  Abraham's  happiness,"  of  the  Egyptian  plagues,  of 
''  the  journey  through  the  desert,  of  the  tribe  of  Levi,  and, 
"  like  Shylock,  mentions  the  synagogue.  The  similarity  of 
li  his  mental  processes  to  those  of  Shylock  is  most  clearly 
s  seen  when,  deprived  of  his  fortune  and  reminded  by  the 
:e  other  Jews  to  think  of  Job,  he  reveals  his  knowledge  of 
the  Scriptures  in  replying: 

What  tell  you  me  of  Job  ?     I  wot  his  wealth 

Was  written  thus  ;  he  had  seven  thousand  sheep. 

Three  thousand  camels,  and  two  hundred  yoke 

Of  labouring  oxen  and  five  hundred 

She-asses  :  but  for  every  one  of  those 

Had  they  been  valu'd  at  indifferent  rate, 

I  had  at  home,  and  in  mine  argosy. 

And  other  ships  that  came  from  Egypt  last. 

As  much  as  would  have  bought  his  beasts  and  him, 

And  yet  have  kept  enough  to  live  upon. 

This  profusion  of  details  from  Old  Testament  stories  bears 
ie  closest  resemblance  to  Shylock's  elaborate  reference  to 
Lcob's  contract  with  Laban  about  the  "  parti-coloured 
lambs  "  (I,  iii).  Shakespeare  here  unquestionably  imi- 
tates Marlowe's  endeavour  to  represent  the  Jew  as  living 
entirely  in  the  ideas  of  the  Old  Testament.  But  Wolff 
certainly  goes  too  far  when  he  maintains  that  the 
frequent  employment  of  the  rhetorical  question  is  a 
^ecifically  Jewish  trait ;  Brandes  says  more  explicitly  that 

1  ^9 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

**  his  thinking  constantly  oscillates  between  question  and  i 
answer,  a  less  important  but  characteristic  trait  which  we 
can  still  find  to-day  in  the  description  of  primitive  Jews."  • 
Here  he  has  passages  in  mind  like 


What  should  I  say  to  you  ?     Should  I  not  say. 
Hath  a  dog  money  ? 


Or, 


Hath  not  a  Jew  eyes  ?  hath  not  a  Jew  hands  ?  .  .  .  If 
you  prick  us,  do  we  not  bleed  ?  if  you  tickle  us,  do  we  not 
laugh  ?  if  you  poison  us,  do  we  not  die  ? 

But  in  this  way  a  meaning  is  read  into  these  passages 
which  they  do  not  possess.  In  the  first  place,  the  rhetorical 
question  is  the  most  natural  form  of  expressing  passionate 
resentment  and  indignation,  and  therefore  may  be  expected 
to  occur  whenever  moods  of  this  nature  find  an  outlet  in 
language.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  frequently  encounter 
this  form  where  such  feelings  are  expressed,  for  example, 
at  the  beginning  of  Julius  C^sar^  when  Marullus,  one  of 
the  tribunes,  furiously  asks  the  holiday-makers: 

Wherefore  rejoice  ?     What  conquest  brings  he  home  ? 

What  tributaries  follow  him  to  Rome 

To  grace  in  captive  bonds  his  chariot  wheels  ?  .  . 

And  do  you  now  put  on  your  best  attire  ? 

And  do  you  now  cull  out  a  holiday  ?      .  . 

I,i 

There  are  many  more  occasions  when  Shakespeare  uses 
the  rhetorical  question  for  presenting  general  problems. 
We  need  think  only  of  Falstaff's  famous  soliloquy 
(i  Henry  IF,  Y,  i): 

Can  honour  set-to  a  leg  ?  No  !  Or  an  arm  ?  No  !  Or 
take  away  the  grief  of  a  wound  ?  No  !  Honour  hath  no 
skill  in  surgery  then  ?     No  !  .  .  , 

As  contrasted  with  this  figure  of  speech,  the  specifically 
Jewish  mode  of  expression  is  the  answering  of  a  ques- 
tion by  means  of  a  counter-question,  which  resumes  the 
90 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

intence  in  an  almost  unaltered  form.  Of  this  peculiarity 
(carcely  a  trace  is  found  in  Shylock's  language.  Equally 
untenable  is  the  view  that  the  habit  of  repeating  what  has 
been  said  is  a  Jewish  trait.  An  instance  of  this  would 
be  the  introductory  part  of  the  scene  in  which  Shylock 
first  appears  ; 

Shy.     Three  thousand  ducats,— well. 

Bass.    Ay,  sir,  for  three  months. 

Shy.     For  three  months, — well. 

Bass.    For  the  which,  as  I  told  you,  Antonio  shall  be  bound. 

Shy.     Antonio  shall  be  bound, — well. 

I,  iii 

Although  our  actors  have  become  accustomed  to  employ- 
ing a  Jewish  twang  here  which  still  further  individualizes 
the  figure,  this  is  not  justified  by  the  text.  Shylock  is 
reticent,  suspicious,  morose,  shut  up  within  himself  ;  this 
is  the  very  moment  for  him  to  put  on  an  impenetrable 
mask.  The  first  idea  of  revenge  is  just  dawning  on  his 
mental  horizon.  For  this  reason  he  is  so  slow,  so  intoler- 
ably slow,  in  answering  Bassanio's  questions.  He  acts  as 
though  he  were  being  spoken  to  in  a  foreign  language,  so 
that  the  young  man,  losing  control  of  himself,  overwhelms 
him  with  the  impatient  questions  :  "  May  you  stead  me  } 
Will  you  pleasure  me  }  Shall  I  know  your  answer  }  '* 
The  Jew,  however,  still  remains  unmoved,  muttering  : 
"Three  thousand  ducats,  for  three  months,  and  Antonio 
bound."  Here,  as  elsewhere  in  the  play,  his  language  is 
not  a  racial  peculiarity,  but  rather  the  most  subtle  means 

i''   depicting    a    sneaking,    underhand    character.      This 
petition   of  words,    which   later   on   frequently   occurs, 


What,  what,  what  ?  ill  luck,  ill  luck  ?  .  .  .  I  thank  God, 
I  thank  God  : — Is  it  true,  is  it  true  ?  .  .  .  Good  news,  good 
news :  ha  !  ha  !  .  .  . 

Ill,  i 


Shakespeare  uses  for  various  purposes,  mostly  to  characterize 
old  people,  including  such  as  are  not  Jews ;  hence  it  cannot 
be  regarded  as  a  Jewish  trait.     Thus  very  little  remains 

91 


I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS  ' 

of  Shakespeare's  supposed  studies  from  Jewish  models. 
Indeed,  we  may  be  sure  that  the  witnessing  of  a  good 
representation  of  The  Jew  of  Malta  had  made  him  inde- 
pendent of  all  the  models  in  the  world,  Marlowe's  play 
was  all  the  more  useful  as  its  hero  already  possessed,  to  a 
very  noticeable  degree,  that  quality  of  Shylock  which  most 
critics  agree  in  overlooking,  viz.,  his  servile  and  repulsive 
politeness,  which  so  surprisingly  appears  in  the  scene  with 
Antonio  (I,  iii).  We  find  the  Jew  of  Malta  commenting 
upon  this  trait  with  that  self-characterization  which  is  quite 
usual  in  Marlowe's  works  as  well  as  Shakespeare's :  "  We 
Jews  can  fawn  like  spaniels  when  we  please  "  (Act  II). 
Even  the  manner  of  intercourse  which  the  Jew  observed 
upon  the  stage  when  speaking  to  the  Christians  may  be 
learnt  from  The  Jew  of  Malta,  There  Barabas  turns  away 
from  Ludowick,  the  Christian,  and  replies  to  his  astonished 
inquiry  for  the  reason  of  this  behaviour  : 

That  when  we  speak  with  Gentiles  like  to  you. 
We  turn  into  the  air  to  purge  ourselves. 

Under  these  circumstances,  as  Shakespeare  was  so  well 
provided  with  a  fully  elaborated  dramatic  model  of  a  Jewish 
type,  it  is  quite  unnecessary  to  assume  that  he  studied 
living  persons.  Here,  as  elsewhere,  Shakespeare  incor- 
porates in  his  work  artistic  forms  created  by  other  hands. 
He  endows  the  gloomy  usurer  with  the  qualities  of  Marlowe's 
Jewish  type.  This  Is  the  origin  of  Shylock,  so  we  need  no 
longer  trouble  to  find  a  definite  model  in  Rodrigo  Lopez, 
the  Court  physician  of  Elizabeth — a  most  unfortunate  but  ap- 
parently irrepressible  fancy  among  Shakespearean  scholars.^ 
The  whole  problem,  by  the  way,  is  rendered  unnecessarily 
difficult  by  people  who  regard  the  creative  processes  of  the 
poetic  mind  as  largely  analogous  to  the  workings  of  their 
own  Imagination.  We  know  that,  for  instance,  the  Austrian 
dramatist  Anzengruber,  whose  fame  as  a  playwright  rested 
on  his  excellent  representation  of  the  Tirolese  peasantry, 
used  to  smile  at  his  admirers  who  constantly  wanted  to 
be  told  that  he  had  made  a  thorough  study  of  them,  and 

*  Cf.  W.  Dempewolf,  Shakespeares  angehliche  Modelle,  Jena,  191 5. 

92 


that  he  was  never  tired  of  assuring  them  how  superficial 
;)  his  knowledge  of  these  people  really  was.     "  Experience," 

isaid    Goethe   of  himself,    "  in    my   case   has   never   been 
fcything  but  confirmation." 
^  *2.  Lack  of  Harmony. — The  figure  of  Shylock  is  not 
[I  the  only  one  which  Shakespeare  attempts  to  characterize 
;'  by  a  careful  attention  to  harmony  of  language  and  char- 
I  acter.    We  notice  a  similar  procedure  elsewhere,  e.g,^  in 
the  figure  of  Hotspur  in  Henry  IV^  whose  fiery  temper  is 
i  likewise  expressed  in  his  manner  of  speaking.     His  words 
:  C9me  from  his  mouth  "  all  in  a  lump,"  as  Vischer  says  ; 
it  would  be  better  to  say  they  stumble  over  one  another. 
His^  wife   refers   to   his   "  speaking  thick,"   a  peculiarity 
which  his  admirers  imitate.     Schlegel  has  wrongly  inter- 
preted   this    as    meaning    "  stuttering,"    whereas    only    a 
spluttering   and   indistinct   manner   of  speech   is   meant, 
due   to   excessive  haste  and  impatience.     Here  we  have 
the  best  proof  imaginable  that  Shakespeare's  language  is 
destined  above  all  for  spoken  delivery.     It  is  the  inability 
of  Percy  in  his  excitement  to  recall  a  name  which  causes 
him  again  and  again  to  break  up  the  construction  of  the 
I  sentence  : 

In  Richard's  time, — ^What  do  you  call  the  place  ? 
A  plague  upon  't ! — it  is  in  Gloucestershire  ; 
'Twas  where  the  mad-cap  duke  his  uncle  kept ; 
His  uncle  York. 

I  Henry  IF,  I,  iii 

It  is  true  that  here  the  manner  of  speaking  fully  and 
adequately  expresses  the  feeling.  But  in  other  passages 
occasionally  doubts  may  arise  whether  the  style,  in  a  wider 
sense,  correctly  mirrors  this  character.  One  gets  the 
impression  that  Shakespeare  is  making  full  use  of  the 
licence  which  later  on  Chesterfield  accorded  to  the  poet, 
viz.,  to  make  his  figures  talk  with  more  esprit  than  people 
do  in  reality,  his  justification  being  that  on  the  stage  our 
imagination  is  asked  to  make  so  many  concessions  with 
regard  to  place,  time,  and  action  that  it  can  easily  make 
a  few  more. 

193 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

Not  always  does  he  endeavour  to  produce  such  a  com- 
plete harmony  of  character  and  language  as  in  the  case  of 
Shylock.  Though  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  says  in  his  book  on 
Shakespeare  (p.  224)  that,  as  a  rule,  he  is  most  particular 
in  adapting  his  images  to  the  individuality  of  the  person 
using  them,  yet  Lady  Capulet,  for  example,  hardly  makes 
such  a  learned  impression  that  we  should  credit  her  with 
an  intimate  knowledge  of  marginal  glosses  : 

Examine  every  married  lineament 
And  see  how  one  another  lends  content ; 
And  what  obscured  in  this  fair  volume  lies. 
Find  written  in  the  margin  of  his  eyes. 

I,  iii,  85 

Or  take  the  aged  Friar  Laurence  in  the  same  play,  who 
probably  had  too  little  of  the  spirit  of  light-hearted  youth 
left  in  him  to  inform  the  exiled  Romeo  of  his  punishment 
in  the  words 

Affliction  is  enamour'd  of  thy  parts. 

Ill,  iii,  2 

Instances  of  this  practice  might  be  multiplied.  They 
cannot  blind  us  to  the  fact  that  Shakespeare  in  many  cases 
really  characterizes  the  individuality  and  the  mood  of  the 
speaker  by  stylistic  means  in  the  minutest  details — a  case 
in  point  is  the  language  of  Lear — but  that  in  many  others 
there  is  little  justification  for  the  endeavour  to  explain 
every  expression  by  reference  to  the  character  of  the  figure 
using  it. 

A  very  comical  exaggeration  of  this  idea  is,  for  instance, 
the  view  which  traces  the  pleasure  Othello  takes  in  highly 
figurative  language  to  "  the  pure  type  of  the  tropical 
negro  race  with  its  primitive,  childish  emotions."  If 
wealth  of  imagery  in  the  speeches  of  Shakespeare's  person- 
ages were  really  a  sign  of  negro  blood  we  should  have  to 
wonder  at  the  white  complexion  of  most  of  his  figures. 
For  the  explanation  of  other  peculiar  uses  of  imagery 
other  far-fetched  reasons  are  adduced.  Macbeth,  for 
example,  when  asked  by  the  suspicious  courtiers  why  he 
94 


I 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


had  so  quickly  killed  the  chamberlains  of  King  Duncan, 
whom  he  accuses  of  having  murdered  the  old  man,  replies 
fthat  this  was  done  in  the  first  flush  of  indignation,  and 
; justifies  his  action  by  the  following  description: 


Here  lay  Duncan 
His  silver  skin  lac'd  with  his  golden  blood  ; 
And  his  gash'd  stabs  look'd  like  a  breach  in  nature 
For  ruin's  wasteful  entrance  :  there,  the  murderers, 
Steeped  in  the  colours  of  their  trade. 

II,  ill,  114 


these  metaphors  many  critics,  following  Dr  Johnson's 
Interpretation  (cf,  Cuningham's  Macbeth  in  the  "  Arden  " 
edition,  19 12),  say  that  they  are  so  forced  and  un- 
latural  because  they  are  intended  as  a  mark  of  artifice 
ind  dissimulation,  to  show  the  difference  between  the 
studied  language  of  hypocrisy  and  the  natural  outcries  of 
5udden  passion.  The  whole  speech,  so  considered,  says 
Dr  Johnson  very  characteristically,  "  is  a  remarkable  in- 
stance of  judgment,  as  it  consists  entirely  of  antithesis 
ind  metaphor.*' 

But  if  we  were  to  look  for  hypocrisy  behind  every  speech 
3f  this  kind  in  Shakespeare's  dramas  we  should  find  very 
"ew  honest  people  left  in  them.  We  should  not  know, 
?.^.,  what  to  think  of  the  honest  Macduff,  who  in  the  same 
Dlay,  immediately  before  Macbeth's  speech,  when  bringing 
:he  first  news  of  the  assassination  of  the  King,  uses  the 
trange  image  : 


I 


Most  sacrilegious  murder  hath  broke  ope 
The  Lord's  anointed  temple,  and  stole  thence 
The  life  o'  the  building  ! 


qually  beside  the  mark  is  the  opinion  expressed  by  a 
:heatrical  expert  like  Granville  Barker  (The  Winter's  Tale^ 
m  Acting  Edition  with  a  Preface,  London,  19 12,  p.  ix) 
ibout  the,  detailed  characterization  which  Shakespeare  has 
^iven  to  the  figure  of  Leontes.  He  considers  it  as  a  bold 
echnical  trick  deliberately  to  repeat  an  obscurity  of  expres- 

C-  three  times — for  the  spectator  would  certainly 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

not  be  able  to  understand  the  passages  on  first  hearing 
them — In  order  to  express  the  excitedness  of  his  spirit. 

But  there  are  a  large  number  of  passages  in  Shakespeare 
containing  conglomerations  of  ideas  which  are  very  difficult 
to  disentangle,  and  which  do  not  serve  the  purpose  of 
expressing  emotional  tumult. 

Fr.  Th.  Vischer,  again  (iii,  p.  94),  reads  a  psychological 
subtlety  into  the  text  which  is  quite  out  of  the  question 
when  he  explains  lago's  words  to  Roderigo  {Othello^  I,  i), 
"I  am  not  what  I  am*'  (instead  of  "what  I  seem"), 
as  meaning  that  "  Shakespeare  here  purposely  uses  the 
paradoxical  form,  because  he  wishes  to  impress  a  shallow 
mind."  Applying  this  mode  of  reasoning  to  Macbeth 
(I,  iii,  141)  where  he  says  of  himself  that  he  is  dreadfully 
shaken  by  his  own  murderous  fancies,  "  and  nothing 
is,  but  what  is  not,"  we  ought  to  conclude  that  he 
also  merely  wishes  to  make  an  impression  upon  himself  ! 
and  so  on. 

3.  Detached  Scenes  and  Inserted  Episodes  (Bottom, 
Mercutio,  Polonius). — Here  we  have  to  deal  with  a 
phenomenon  which  frequently  appears  in  the  construction 
of  whole  scenes.  The  author's  interest  takes  quite  a 
different  direction,  and  the  character  loses  its  unity  for 
a  scene  or  a  part  of  a  scene,  though  generally  not  to  the 
point  of  seriously  endangering  the  impression  of  the 
whole.  A  good  instance  is  afforded  by  a  scene  (III,  i)  in 
A  Midsummer  Night's  Bream,  There  we  see  the  mechanics 
preparing  their  play  of  Pyramus  and  Thisbe  in  the  wood. 
The  fairies  intervene  ;  quaking  with  fear,  the  mechanics 
scatter  in  all  directions,  and  only  the  busiest  of  them  all, 
Bottom,  who  is  so  delightful  in  his  stupidity,  remains  with 
the  ass's  head  suddenly  fixed  on  to  his  shoulders  by  Oberon's 
magic.  In  spite  of  this  Titania,  upon  awaking,  is  forced 
by  the  magic  spell  to  fall  in  love  with  him,  and  makes  her 
fairies  do  homage  to  him.  But  a  remarkable  change  has 
taken  place  in  him.  Whereas  the  ass's  head  is  clearly 
meant  to  symbolize  the  nature  of  his  mind,  his  language, 
which  so  far  has  only  been  funny,  now  becomes  almost 
witty,  and  he  replies  to  the  fairies  telling  him  their  names 
96 


I 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

in  the  most  humorous  manner ;   e.g.y  when  he  hears  the 
name  of  Mustard-seed,  he  says  : 

Good  master  Mustard-seed,  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. 

Here  Shakespeare  was  thinking  of  a  very  similar,  but  less 
witty,  passage  in  a  work  of  his  predecessor,  John  Lilly, 
and  when  imitating  the  model  his  mind,  ever  active  in 
elaborating  new  ideas,  carried  him  beyond  the  limits  of 
the  character  he  had  drawn  ;  for  obviously  the  humour  of 
the  passage  consists  in  the  fact  that  Titania  loves  an  ass, 
and  there  would  be  no  humour  if  the  ass  were  to  become 
witty  through  her  love. 

This  inconsistency,  however,  is  hardly  noticed,  because  the 
whole  fantastic  and  dream-like  action  takes  place  in  Fairy- 
land. More  apparent  is  the  clash  of  character  and  language 
in  the  case  of  Mercutio's  speech  about  Queen  Mab  ; 

She  is  the  fairies'  midwife ;  and  she  comes 
In  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate-stone 
On  the  forefinger  of  an  alderman. 
Drawn  with  a  team  of  little  atomies 
Athwart  men's  noses  as  they  lie  asleep  : 
Her  waggon-spokes  made  of  long  spinners'  legs  ; 
The  cover,  of  the  wings  of  grasshoppers  ; 
The  traces,  of  the  smallest  spider's  web  ; 
The  collars,  of  the  moonshine's  wat'ry  beams  : 
Her  whip,  of  cricket's  bone  ;  the  lash,  of  film  : 
Her  waggoner,  a  small  grey-coated  gnat, 
Not  half  so  big  as  a  round  little  worm 
Prick'd  from  the  lazy  finger  of  a  maid ; 
Her  chariot  is  an  empty  hazel-nut. 
Made  by  the  joiner  squirrel,  or  old  grub, 
Time  out  of  mind  the  fairies'  coach-makers. 
And  in  this  state  she  gallops  night  by  night 
Through  lovers'  brains,  and  then  they  dream  of  love  : 
O'er  courtiers'  knees,  that  dream  on  court'sies  straight : 
O'er  lawyers'  fingers,  who  straight  dream  on  fees  : 
O'er  ladies'  lips,  who  straight  on  kisses  dream.  .  .  . 

Romeo  and  JuHety  I,  iv 

G  97 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

Does  this  kind  of  language  harmonize  with  Mercutio's 
character  ?  He  is  conceived  as  a  contrast  to  the  soft, 
sentimental  Romeo,  infinitely  more  matter-of-fact  than  he, 
experienced  and  averse  to  all  sentiment  and  reverie,  despis- 
ing all  tenderness  and  gentle  feeling,  x  Full  of  vigour  and 
animal  spirits,  he  is  always  spoiling  for  a  fight,  enjoys  stir- 
ring up  disputes  everywhere,  teasing  and  deriding  people, 
picking  quarrels  in  order  to  come  to  blows.  His  straight- 
forwardness and  honesty  are  expressed  in  a  natural 
bluntness,  which  in  his  well-meant  jokes  takes  the  form  of 
indelicate  and  obscene  language  (in  SchlegeFs  translation 
these  things  are  greatly  toned  down).  He  is  constantly 
telling  smutty  stories.  With  all  these  faults  he  is  a  manly 
and  dauntless  character  who  betrays  no  weakness  even  in 
the  face  of  the  death  which  he  knows  his  own  love  of 
fighting  has  brought  upon  him.  But  we  cannot  possibly 
believe  that  this  character,  whom  Kreyssig  rightly  calls 
**  the  coarsest  fellow  of  the  whole  company,"  should  have  so 
fine  an  understanding  of  the  wonderful  grace  and  delicacy 
of  the  Fairy  Queen  as  is  shown  in  this  celebrated  descrip- 
tion. It  is  hard  to  imagine  that  he  should  have  been  able 
thus  lovingly  to  contemplate  and  enter  into  the  magical, 
microcosm  of  animate  nature.  On  the  few  other  occasions 
when  this  silvery  note  is  struck,  the  imaginative  words  are  put, 
in  one  instance,  into  the  mouth  of  the  Fairy  Queen  herself; 

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. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream^  III,  i 

In  another  case  we  hear  words  which  are  not  dissimik) 
from  the  lips  of  Ariel  : 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I  : 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie  ; 
There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 
After  summer  merrily. 

98 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now. 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 

The  Tempest,  V,  i 

This  kind  of  harmony,  appropriate  enough  in  this  passage, 
is  out  of  place  in  the  speech  from  Romeo  and  Juliet,  From 
the  lips  of  a  Fairy  Queen  or  an  Ariel  such  delicate  and 
dream-like  music  of  language  sounds  natural,  but  we  refuse 
to  accept  it  as  genuine  from  the  mouth  of  a  bully  like 
Mercutio.  In  the  latter  case  the  wonderful  passage  re- 
sembles an  operatic  air,  inserted  for  the  sake  of  the  music 
without  regard  to  the  characterization.  No  one  will  be 
surprised  at  this  interruption  of  the  dramatic  unity  who 
has  paid  attention  to  the  frequent  occurrence  of  similar 
transgressions  of  dramatic  laws.  There  is  no  essential 
difference  between  this  insertion  and  the  reference  made  in 
Hamlet  to  the  children's  companies  which  force  the  actors 
of  the  capital  to  take  to  the  highroad  and  lead  a  vagrant 

(istence  in  the  provinces. 
In  this  connexion  we  may  take  another  figure  which 
:ks  unity,  and  try  to  understand  the  nature  of  the  jarring 
jment  in  it.     The  purpose  of  Polonius  in  Hamlet^  quite 
art  from  his  share  in  the  action,  is  principally  to  create 
•an  atmosphere  of  the  Court.     If  we  imagine  this  figure 
to  be  removed,  the  whole  aspect  of  the  Danish  Court  is 
j  changed.     He  is  the  Lord  Chamberlain  who  by  constantly 
staking  up  a  respectful  attitude  toward  the  members  of 
the  royal  house  gives  them  their  proper  background,  and 
by  his   fawning  on   them   even   in   familiar  conversations 
isets  off  and  draws  attention  to  their  dignity.     This  obse- 
quiousness and  devotion  to  the  Court  are  perfectly  genuine 
in  him.     His  part  in  the  play  is  principally  to  represent 
a  true  servant  of  the  Crown.     The  best  proof  that  this  is 
Shakespeare's  own  intention  is  again  furnished  by  Polonius' 
self-characterization  ;  he  says  of  himself : 

I  hold  my  duty  as  I  hold  my  soul 

Both  to  my  God  and  to  my  gracious  king. 

II,  ii 

lis   impression   is   confirmed   by   the   reflection   of   his 

99 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

character  in  the  minds  of  the  King  and  Queen.  The 
King  calls  him  "  a  man  faithful  and  honourable/*  the 
Queen  speaks  of  him  as  a  good  old  man.  The  information 
that  the  people  are  excited  "  for  good  Polonius*  death  " 
(IV,  v)  is  unmistakable  in  its  significance.  These  opinions, 
according  to  Shakespeare's  dramatic  technique,  are  to  be 
taken  quite  seriously. 

We  may  therefore  agree  with  Loning  in  his  attempt  to 
vindicate  the  character  of  Polonius  so  far  as  to  admit  that 
those  critics  who  make  of  him  an  altogether  contemptible 
figure  without  high  moral  principles  misunderstand  the 
action  or  judge  him  from  an  anachronistic  point  of  view. 
He  is  ignorant  of  the  murder  and  considers  the  King  as 
a  man  of  honour;  he  fulfils  his  duty  in  reporting  the  dis- 
covery he  believes  he  has  made  regarding  the  cause  of  the 
Prince's  madness.  His  eavesdropping,  first  in  company 
with  the  King  and  then  alone  behind  the  arras  in  the  Queen's 
room,  was  not  meant  by  Shakespeare  to  be  anything  really 
immoral,  as  Loning  has  aptly  shown  (p.  306  seq,),  Hamlet 
himself,  who  detests  him  with  all  his  heart,  does  not  cast 
any  direct  slur  upon  his  moral  character. 

All  the  more  does  he  get  on  the  Prince's  nerves  by 
his  other  qualities.  It  is  very  significant  that  these  are 
found  already  in  the  Urhamlet^  some  of  them  even  in 
Saxo  Grammaticus.  The  latter  says  that  the  friend  of 
the  King  who  gave  him  the  advice  to  spy  on  Hamlet 
possessed  a  greater  abundance  of  imagination  than  ofi 
wisdom  {pr^sumtione  quam  solertia  abundantior\  and  at 
once  proceeds  to  explain  in  what  sense  this  remark  is  to 
be  understood  by  making  that  person  say  "  that  he  had 
with  greater  sagacity  discovered  a  much  superior  means 
which  was  well  suited  for  practical  application  and  ex- 
tremely useful."  These  suggestions  had  led  the  author  of 
the  Urhamlet^  a  work  of  which  apparently  we  have  a  dim 
and  imperfect  reflection  in  the  German  play  of  Fratricide 
Funished^  to  create  his  Corambus.  This  figure,  whose 
name  is  not  changed  to  Polonius  until  we  come  to  Shake- 
speare's Second  Quarto,  was  intended  to  produce  a  ludi- 

^  C/.  Gertrud  Landsberg,  Ophelia,  p.  46  seq. 
100 


^ous  effect  by  the  contrast  between  his  empty-headedness 
and  his  great  opinion  of  himself,  though  at  the  same  time 
he  was  represented  as  a  true  and  faithful  servant  and 
confidant  of  the  King.  In  Shakespeare's  revision  of  the 
play  these  fundamental  qualities  of  the  character  have  re- 
mained entirely  unchanged.  We  may  safely  assume  that 
Fratricide  Punished^  which  is  in  all  respects  a  very  inferior 
rendering  of  the  story,  simplifies  and  obliterates  a  good 
many  traits  of  this  character  also  ;  but  it  is  significant 
that  here  Corambus-Polonius  at  his  very  first  appearance  is 
given  a  touch  of  the  clown  by  his  stilted  and  consequential 
phrases,  which  in  Hamlet  do  not  appear  until  much  later. 
In  the  former  play  the  King  asks  :  "  Has  it  [the  departure 
Laertes]  been  made  with  your  consent  ?  "     He  replies  : 

Yes,  with  consent  superior,  consent  medium  and  consent 
inferior.  Oh,  your  Majesty  !  he  has  received  from  me  a 
surpassingly  fine,  excellent,  and  splendid  consent. 

the  second  scene  after  this  he  continues  in  the  same 
vein: 

Great  news,  my  gracious  lord  and  king  ! 
King.     What  news  is  there  ?     Come,  tell  me  ! 
Corambus.     Prince  Hamlet  is  mad,  aye,  as  mad  as  the  Greek 

Madman  ever  was  ! 
King,     And  what  has  made  him  mad  ? 
Corambus.     The  fact  that  he  has  lost  his  reason. 
King.     Where  did  he  lose  his  reason  ? 
Corambus.     That  I  know  not ;  you  must  ask  the  man  who 
has  found  it. 

>helia,  who  comes  on  the  stage  fleeing  from  Hamlet, 
ings  the  apparent  explanation  of  his  madness,  and 
>rambus  dispels  the  doubts  of  the  King,  who  is  endowed 
fth  greater  intelligence,  with  the  over-wise  reflection  that 

Love  is  strong  enough  to  make  a  man  mad.  For  I  still 
remember,  when  I  vs^as  young,  how  Love  used  to  plague  me, 
aye,  it  made  me  as  mad  as  a  march-hare  ;  now,  however,  I 
no  longer  pay  attention  to  it :  I  prefer  sitting  by  the  fire  and 
counting  my  red  pennies  and  drinking  your  Majesty's  health. 

lOI 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

In  the  first  draft  of  this  character  there  was  much  to 
stimulate  Shakespeare*s  artistic  imagination  and  give  him 
an  opportunity  for  creating  new  forms.  He  had  a  keen 
eye  for  the  comic  aspects  of  self-complacent  stupidity,  as 
is  shown  by  his  Justice  Shallow,  his  Dogberry  (Much 
Ado  about  Nothing)^  his  Malvolio  {Twelfth  Night),  Another 
attraction  was  that  this  figure  belongs  to  the  class  of  fawn- 
ing courtiers,  whom  he  frequently  chastises  with  the  lash 
of  his  irony.  We  now  have  the  fundamental  traits  con- 
tained in  that  raw  material  which  Shakespeare's  unexampled 
art  transformed  into  a  highly  individualized  creation  : 
we  have  the  obsequious,  honest,  but  self-complacent, 
pompous  old  shallow-pate. 

Shakespeare's  art  here  triumphantly  displays  its  power 
of  representing  the  most  delicate  shades  of  a  personality. 
We  see  an  old  man  without  the  proper  dignity  of  old  age, 
with  the  loquacitas  senilis^  the  loquacity  of  people  who  are 
excessively  fond  of  hearing  themselves  talk,  and  in  doing 
so  become  so  diffuse  that  they  constantly  lose  the  thread ; 
a  man  always  burning  with  curiosity,  over-officious  and 
over-wise,  full  of  the  mistrust  of  old  age,  vain,  and  con- 
vinced of  his  own  indispensability  and  infallibility  ;  a  man 
who  has  never  seen  more  than  the  surface  of  things,  but 
who  believes  that  he  has  passed  through  the  deepest 
experiences  of  life,  a  dabbler  in  science  of  the  kind  that 
confounds  copiousness  with  thoroughness,  and  whose  smug 
self-complacency  loves  to  express  itself  in  the  most  in- 
sipid witticisms.  There  is  nothing  behind  all  this  but  an 
empty  head.  For  the  purpose  of  fully  characterizing  him 
Shakespeare  has  added  a  whole  scene,  viz.,  that  in  which 
he  orders  his  servant  to  make  underhand  inquiries  about 
his  son's  life  in  Paris  ;  a  scene  which  is  absolutely  super- 
fluous from  a  dramatic  point  of  view.  None  of  the  critics 
who  commit  the  anachronism  of  denouncing  this  action 
because  it  offends  our  modern  sense  of  decency  appear  to 
have  ever  read  the  letters  of  Lord  Chesterfield  to  his  son, 
in  which  the  father,  while  taking  the  greatest  interest  in 
the  young  man's  well-being,  yet  frequently  informs  him 
that  he  has  people  watching  him  and  reporting  every  one  of 

I02 


i 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

is  actions  while  he  is  abroad.  So  Loning  is  undoubtedly 
jht  in  saying  that  this  scene,  far  from  making  Polonius 
jntemptible,  serves  **  to  represent  him  in  a  somewhat 
•astic  manner  as  a  sly  old  fellow  who  has  a  predilection  for 
^undabout  ways."  It  is  on  this  fundamental  trait,  taken 
>m  the  Urhamlet^  that  emphasis  is  laid.  But  Polonius 
lains  completely  within  the  mental  sphere  suggested  by 
le  silly  remarks  quoted  above,  which  he  makes  in  Fratri- 
cide Punished^  when  he  offers  the  intently  listening  royal 
couple  his  opinion  of  Hamlet,  hopelessly  entangled  in  an 
jpterminable  train  of  infinitely  tedious  reflections : 

My  liege,  and  madam,  to  expostulate 

What  majesty  should  be,  what  duty  is. 

Why  day  is  day,  night  night,  and  time  is  time, 

Were  nothing  but  to  waste  night,  day  and  time. 

Therefore,  since  brevity  is  the  soul  of  wit, 

And  tediousness  the  limbs  and  outward  flourishes, 

I  will  be  brief.     Your  noble  son  is  mad  : 

Mad  call  I  it  ;  for,  to  define  true  madness, 

What  is't  but  to  be  nothing  else  but  mad  ? 

II,  ii 

These  are  the  words  of  a  fool,  and  effusions  like  this  can 
make  us  understand  why  Hamlet,  whose  mental  condition 
■Iresents  people  and  things  to  him  with  an  almost  exag- 
gerated clearness,  does  not  hesitate  to  call  him  a  fool  and 
refuses  to  take  him  seriously.  He  describes  him  as  a 
great  baby,  who  is  not  yet  out  of  swaddling  clothes,  i.e.y 
he  considers  him  as  being  in  his  second  childhood  ;  he 
recommends  Ophelia  to  take  care  that  he  plays  the  fool 
only  at  home,  requests  the  actors  not  to  make  fun  of  him, 
and  at  last,  when  he  slays  him  with  his  own  hand,  has  no 
further  word  of  pity  for  the  "  wretched,  rash,  intruding 
fool,"  All  this,  taken  in  connexion  with  the  origin  of  the 
character,  shows  quite  clearly  how  it  is  to  be  understood. 

The  conception  of  Polonius  we  have  thus  formed  cannot 
be  altered  by  the  fact  that  among  the  great  bulk  of  his  silly 
twaddle  there  are  occasionally  to  be  found  some  flashes  of 
reason.    Shakespeare,  as  we  have  seen,  is  far  too  intelligent 

103 


I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

to  be  swayed  by  the  illusion  that  he  is  dealing  with  an 
essentially  foolish  character,  and  that  therefore  he  has  to 
limit  himself  to  putting  only  foolish  words  into  the  mouth 
of  that  figure.     Already  the  reflection  about  brevity  being 
the  soul  of  wit  is  a  little  out  of  keeping  with  the  rest  of  the  , 
speech  ;    further,  the  remark  that  age  is  gifted  with  an 
excess  of  mistrust,  whereas  youth  has  too  little  of  it,  is  too  ' 
good  for  Polonius  ;  and,  similarly,  the  ingenious  paradox  , 
of  "  sugaring  the  devil  "  has  the  true  Shakespearean  ring. 
These  details,  however,  are  not  of  much  importance  com- 
pared with  the  parting  scene  between  Polonius  and  his 
son  (I,  iii).     Laertes  has  just  said  good-bye  to  Ophelia, 
his  sister,  when  Polonius  enters.    The  son  salutes  him  with 
the  words  which  breathe  true  reverence  and  filial  spirit : 

A  double  blessing  is  a  double  grace  ; 
Occasion  smiles  upon  a  second  leave. 

Whereupon  Polonius: 

Yet  here,  Laertes  !     Aboard,  aboard,  for  shame  ! 

The  wind  sits  in  the  shoulder  of  your  sail. 

And  you  are  stay'd  for.     There  ;  my  blessing  with 

thee  ! 
And  these  few  precepts  in  thy  memory 
Look  thou  character.     Give  thy  thoughts  no  tongue, 
Nor  any  unproportion'd  thought  his  act. 
Be  thou  familiar,  but  by  no  means  vulgar ; 
The  friends  thou  hast,  and  their  adoption  tried,  | 

Grapple  them  to  thy  soul  with  hoops  of  steel. 
But  do  not  dull  thy  palm  with  entertainment  •■ 

Of  each  new-hatch'd,  unfledged  comrade.     Beware  j 

Of  entrance  to  a  quarrel ;  but,  being  in, 
Bear't  that  the  opposed  may  beware  of  thee. 
Give  every  man  thine  ear,  but  few  thy  voice  ; 
Take  each  man's  censure,  but  reserve  thy  judgment. 
Costly  thy  habit  as  thy  purse  can  buy, 
But  not  express'd  in  fancy  ;  rich,  not  gaudy  ; 
For  the  apparel  oft  proclaims  the  man  ; 
And  they  in  France  of  the  best  rank  and  station 
Are  most  select  and  generous,  chief  in  that. 
Neither  a  borrower  nor  a  lender  be  ; 
104 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

For  loan  oft  loses  both  itself  and  friend, 
And  borrowing  dulls  the  edge  of  husbandry. 
This  above  all  :  to  thine  own  self  be  true. 
And  it  must  follow,  as  the  night  the  day, 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man. 
Farewell  :  my  blessing  season  this  in  thee  ! 
Laertes.     Most  humbly  do  I  take  my  leave,  my  lord. 

is  very  instructive  now  to  see  how  the  critics  who 
sider  the  correspondence  of  character  and  language 
as  a  self-evident  principle  have  got  out  of  the  difficulty 
presented  by  this  wonderful  speech.  Not  all  of  them 
make  so  light  of  the  matter  as  does  H.  Conrad  {Shakespeare's 
Hamlet^  1911?  Introd.,  p.  25),  who  contemptuously  ob- 
serves :  *'  He  bestows  upon  his  son  another  blessing,  let 
us  hope  with  a  new  selection  of  those  trivial  *  wise  saws  ' 
of  everyday  life  which  he  has  heard  or  read,  transcribed, 
learned  by  heart  and  now  has  in  stock.  The  poet  thus 
characterizes  him  from  the  very  beginning  as  an  idle 
talker,  not  to  be  taken  seriously  by  the  spectator.  He  has 
not  acquired  sufficient  educational  experience  to  perceive 
that  no  effect  is  produced  by  exemplary  rules  of  conduct, 
especially  if  a  whole  lot  of  them  be  given  at  a  time,  but 
only  by  the  personal  example  of  the  teacher,  which  is 
ineradicably  imprinted  upon  the  soul  of  the  growing  indi- 
vidual. This  stupid  and  narrow-minded  old  man,  as  we 
shall  see,  always  chooses  the  wrong  means.*'  According 
to  this  critic  a  teacher  ought  not  to  give  his  pupils  any 
prescriptions  at  all,  but  we  feel  that  the  view  taken  of  these 
words  has  been  coloured  and  distorted  by  a  conception  of 
Polonius'  character  gained  from  other  passages,  and  that 
the  critic  would  probably  praise  them  with  equal  fervour 
as  the  finest  pearls  of  practical  wisdom  if  they  were  spoken 

||j[  another  personage. 

I  ^Conrad's  opinion  that  the  words  of  Polonius  have  been 

I  Ken  from  a  book  and  learned  by  heart  is  not  original  ; 

\K  has  taken  it  over  from  a  number  of  previous  critics 
(Loning,  p.  302).  One  of  them  has  gone  so  far  in  a  stage 
edition  (Reclam,  No.  2444)  as  to  demand  that  Polonius 

I  this  place  should  take  a  book  out  of  his  pocket  and  read 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

out  the  rules.  This  idea,  which  apparently  derives  from 
the  great  actor  Edward  Devrient,  is  not  justified  in  any 
way,  and,  besides,  is  only  a  very  poor  makeshift,  because 
the  saying  of  Henry  Thomas  Buckle  would  still  be  applic- 
able here,  that  ideas  are  the  property  of  him  who  knows 
how  to  entertain  them.  The  attempt  to  defeat  this  last 
argument  by  asserting  that  the  words  ought  to  be  recited 
mechanically  without  any  inward  conviction  would  mean 
dragging  in  an  absolutely  arbitrary  conception.  Other 
critics  try  to  get  round  the  difficulty.  WolfF  points  out 
that  the  words  are  contained  already  in  Euphues^  that  "  this, 
however,  is  of  no  importance  '*  (?)  since  they  sound  well ; 
that  Polonius  in  reality  is  not  the  fool  Hamlet  takes  him 
for  ;  this  critic  obviously,  though  with  some  hesitation, 
regards  the  words  as  harmonizing  with  the  character  of 
Polonius.  Fr.  Th.  Vischer  is  clearly  not  quite  sure  from 
which  side  he  is  to  attack  the  problem,  but  finds  a  number 
of  things  to  censure  in  the  speech.  He  thinks  that  **  a 
good  father,  possessing  a  true  mental  and  moral  culture, 
would  have  spoken  a  little  more  of  moral  duties,  to  the 
effect :  strive  and  work  to  become  a  truly  noble  character  *' ; 
also  "  he  ought  to  recommend  the  boy  who  is  going  to 
the  university  to  be  a  good  and  diligent  student.'*  On 
reading  these  remarks  we  regret  that  Polonius  had  not  been 
able  to  enjoy  the  ennobling  influence  of  Fr.  Th.  Vischer's? 
acquaintance.  A  champion  of  Polonius  appears  in  Loning, 
who  tries  his  best  to  accentuate  the  proper  value  of  his' 
words  and,  rightly  attaching  little  importance  to  the  fact 
that  some  of  them  are  found  in  Euphues^  regards  them  as: 
genuine  expressions  of  Polonius'  inmost  convictions. 

1  If  we  regard  the  precepts  given  to  a  son  not  from  the  standpoint  of 
a  professor  of  Tubingen  University  living  in  the  nineteenth  century,  but 
with  the  eyes  of  the  EUzabethan,  we  shall  find  that  they  contain  many  of 
the  best  educational  principles  to  which  that  time  gave  birth,  presented 
in  the  most  excellent  form.  Naturally  Shakespeare's  ideas  are  not  quite; 
original  in  this  as  in  most  other  cases  ■  hence  several  of  the  rules  have  beer 
found  in  contemporary  literature,  though  not  so  well  expressed.  Cf.  Loning 
loc.  cit.,  and  Fr.  Brie,  Shakespeare  Jahrbuch,  42,  p.  209  seq.  In  Shakespeare 
himself,  however,  similar  ideas  are  found  in  various  places,  a  fact  which 
Loning  was  one  of  the  first  to  notice;  e.g.,  in  the  speech  of  the  Countess  o:I 
Rousillon  to  her  son  at  his  departure  {All's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  I,  i).  Some^ 
of  the  remarks  made  about  Troilus  {cf.  above,  p.  58)  strike  the  same  note. 

106 


IN    SHAKESPEARE^S   PLAYS 

f  we  Inquire,  however,  how  he  brings  them  Into  harmony 
the  character  of  Polonius,  whom  Hamlet  rightly 
rts  to  have  "  a  plentiful  lack  of  wit,*'  we  find  that  he 
achieve  this  only  by  doing  violence  to  the  meaning  of 
scene  in  a  most  curious  manner.  Though  the  whole 
it  is  obviously  quite  serious,  he  tries  to  read  a  comical 
ent  into  It.  This  he  does  in  the  following  way  : 
rtes  Is  In  the  greatest  hurry  to  depart.  His  father 
ps  him  back  in  order  to  bestow  upon  him  a  whole  bag- 
of  good  precepts,  the  communication  of  which  evidently 
^ves  him  great  pleasure,  so  that  he  grows  more  and  more 
diffuse,  though  at  first  he  had  spoken  of  them  as  only  a 
'*  few  precepts,"  and  though  the  son  Is  pressed  for  time. 
■*  In  this  contrast^''  he  says,  "  between  the  pressing  situation 
%nd  the  leisurely  and  self-complacent  manner  in  which  Polonius 
^pins  out  his  ^  few  precepts^""  and  even  repeats  some  of  them  (?), 
lies  the  characteristic  and^  at  the  same  time^  comic  feature  of 
this  speech^  not,  as  has  been  supposed,  in  its  contents  or 
mode  of  delivery."  Not  a  word  of  all  this  Is  said  In  the 
play.  On  the  contrary,  we  there  see  the  son  welcoming 
the  opportunity  of  once  more  taking  leave  of  his  father, 
ind  expressly  stating  that 

A  double  blessing  is  a  double  grace  ; 
Occasion  smiles  upon  a  second  leave. 

ft  an  adroit  twist  given  to  the  meaning  makes  these 
►rds  signify  the  contrary  of  what  they  really  say.  Loning 
11  have  them  bear  an  ironical  meaning,  and  be  delivered 
a  smile  upon  the  speaker's  face.  **  Laertes  must  give 
to  understand  by  his  facial  expression  and  gestures 
It  he  knows  all  this  already  ;  gradually  he  must  grow  a 
le  impatient."  Here  we  must  indeed  agree  with  what 
imelln  says  (p.  38)  :  "  German  Shakespearean  criticism 
5ms  flatly  to  contradict  the  maxim  of  the  theatrical 
mager  In  the  prologue  to  Faust : 

Gebt  Ihr  ein  Stiick,  so  gebt  es  gleich  in  Stiicken. 
Was  hilft's,  wenn  Ihr  ein  Ganzes  dargebracht. 
Das  Publikum  wird  es  euch  doch  zerpfliicken. 

107 


5ly   ! 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

The  idea  of  the  Shakespearean  critics  seems  to  be  :  What  j ' 
does  it  matter  if  your  play  consists  only  of  fragments  Pi' 
The  German  professors  will  make  a  whole  of  them  and  ^] 
bring  out  a  central  idea." 

By  such  arbitrary  procedure  it  is  possible,  of  course,   ^ 
to  find  reasons  for  any  kind  of  explanation  we  choose,  '[ 
But  even  if  Loning's  view  were  less  dogmatic  it  would  i^ 
have  to  be  rejected  because  of  the  inconsistencies  it  contains. 
In  vain  do  we  look  in  Polonius'  speech  for  that  leisure! 
and  self-complacent  manner  which,  as  he  maintains,  i 
creases  with  every  word.     Leaving  out  of  consideratio 
for  the  moment  the  beauty  of  the  thoughts,  and  paying 
attention  only  to  the  form,  we  must  say  that  it  is  not  at 
all  like  Polonius'  usual  style  either  ;    it  is  clear,  precise, 
exact,  and  strongly  marked,  one  idea  following  close  upon 
the  other,  and  the  speaker  never  once  permits  his  halti 
wit  to  divert  the  current  of  the  thought. 

The  most  interesting  aspect  of  this  attempt  to  solve  t 
problem  is  the  way  in  which  even  Loning,  otherwise 
most  scientific  interpreter,  neglects  the  fact  that  the  te; 
does  not  offer  him  any  evidence  for  his  theory,  and 
means  of  a  most  questionable  exegetical  trick,  viz.,  by 
declaring  it  to  be  ironical,  completely  reverses  the  meaning 
of  the  passage.  If  we  no  longer  adhere  to  the  natural 
sense  and  clear  verbal  content  of  a  passage  no  under- 
standing is  possible.  By  this  method  we  easily  arrive  at 
surprising  discoveries  in  Shakespeare*s  text  of  that  kind 
which  actors  delight  in  making.  The  classical  example  of 
these  is  the  trick  of  the  famous  Sonnenthal,  who  in  Hamlet's 
monologue  began  the  passage 

But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death. 

The  undiscovered  country  from  whose  bourne  ...  | 

as  a  simple  declarative  sentence,  and  then  put  a  questioni 
mark  after  the  words  **  no  traveller  returns."  This  was 
done  because  the  Prince  was  supposed,  at  the  moment 
of  speaking  these  words,  to  remember  the  ghost  of 
his  father,  who  actually  has  "  returned."  It  is  to  be 
wished  that  such  actors  may  one  day  make  the  discovery 
io8 


ii 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


r  also  when  he  made  Hamlet  say  :    "  And  let  those  that  play 

(m^ur  clowns  speak  no  more  than  is  set  down  for  them.** 
■  The  inevitable  conclusion  to  which  we  come  again  is 
ftat  Shakespeare  breaks  the  unity  of  the  character  in  the 
Parting  scene,  and  puts  words  and  ideas  into  Polonius* 
il:  mouth  which  proceed  immediately  from  the  poet's  own 
C:  personality  and  cannot  be  brought  into  connexion  with  the 
i:  character  and  behaviour  of  the  speaker.  From  this  point 
i  of  view  I  cannot  help  attaching  much  greater  importance 
o:  than  Loning  does  to  the  fact  that  in  the  First  Quarto  this 
II  land  other  passages  of  a  sententious  character  are  enclosed 
a;  in  quotation-marks,  which  has  been  shown  by  Dyce  to 
It  be  a  not  unusual  way  of  treating  "gnomic  portions**  in 
X  early  printed  books.  Obviously  this  serves  to  modify 
:i  the  personal  and  spontaneous  character  of  the  words.  So 
'Shakespeare,  after  his  fashion,  satisfied  the  demand  of  the 
H^  time  that  a  tragedy  should  be  sententious. 

Just  one  more  characteristic  passage  may  be  adduced 

I  in  this  connexion  to  show  how  the  harmony  of  character 

);  and  language  in  the  Shakespearean  drama  may  be  destroyed. 

3!  It  occurs  in  the  first  part  of  He^ry  VI  (III,  iii),     Joan  of 

i:  Arc  takes  upon  herself  to  turn  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  from 

1  his  alliance  with  the  English.     Her  eloquence  succeeds  in 

.'.  achieving  what  the  French  King  had  not  dared  to  hope 

I  for :  the  Duke*s  patriotic  feeling  is  roused  again,  he  breaks 

i:  off  all  connexion  with  the  British  and  goes  over  with  flying 

e:  colours  to  the  French.     Then  La  Pucelle  surprises  us  by 

;  the  curious  'aside*:  "Done  like  a  Frenchman  :  turn  and 

turn  again.**     She  is  obviously  referring  to  the  reputation 

of  the  French  for  fickleness.     Now  this  English  criticism 

of  the  French  national  character  is  clearly  quite  impossible 

\  in  the  mouth  of  the  French  heroine,  and  from  the  very 

J  beginning  of  Shakespearean  criticism  English  students  have 

been  puzzled  and  driven  to  despair  by  this  line.     It  was 

reserved  for  Mr  H.  C.  Hart,  editor  of  the  play  in  the 

Arden  **   edition   and   otherwise   a   most    distinguished 

^  [scholar,  to  remove  this  difficulty  by  the  discovery  that  the 

mark  was  not  so  strange  after  all,  because  Joan  of  Arc 

109 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

came  from  Lorraine.  By  this  detection  of  geographical 
and  historical  learning  no  one  would  probably  have  been 
more  amazed  than  the  author  or  the  authors  of  this  play. 
of  which,  we  may  safely  say,  the  greater  part  is  wrongl); 
ascribed  to  Shakespeare.  The  true  explanation  is  infinite!) 
more  simple  ;  acting  out  of  character  was  perfectly  familiat 
to  the  dramatic  art  of  that  time.  Thus  Gremio  in  The 
Taming  of  the  Shrew^  though  the  whole  play  is  laid  in  Italy, 
says  (II,  i)  in  similar  fashion  ; 

Set  foot  under  thy  table  :  tut,  a  toy  ! 
Jn  old  Italian  fox  is  not  so  kind,  my  boy. 

And  in  The  Jew  of  Malta  Barabas,  the  Jew,  incites  Abigail, 
his  daughter  : 

Daughter,  a  word  more  :  kiss  him,  speak  him  fair. 

And  like  a  cunning  Jew  so  cast  about 

That  ye  be  both  made  sure  ere  you  come  out. 

Act  II 

In  all  these  cases  the  poet  quite  naively  exchanges  the 
point  of  view  of  the  speaker  for  that  of  the  audience. 

Naturally  the  result  of  this  inquiry  leads  us  to  a  conclu- 
sion similar  to  that  which  we  obtained  above  (cf,  p.  53  seq^ 
from  studying  the  conventional  treatment  frequently  given 
to  the  reflection  of  character  in  the  minds  of  other  persons  : 
the  single  passage  no  longer  has  an  absolute^  but  only  a  relative 
value  for  the  characterization  of  any  -particular  person^  /.<?., 
in  every  case  it  will  be  necessary  to  study  the  context  and 
to  examine  whether  the  passage  harmonizes  with  the  general 
impression  or  whether  there  are  reasons  for  isolating  it, 
and  giving  it  separate  consideration. 


no 


IV 

CHARACTER  AND  ACTION 

NDEPENDENCE  of  the  Scenes. — The  cases  dealt 
with  in  the  preceding  chapter,  in  which  the  unity  of 
character  is  disturbed  for  a  part  of  the  scene,  prepare 
ail  the   way   for   the   question   to   what   extent    Shakespeare 
preserves  the  harmony  of  character  and  action.     We  shall 
not,  however,  be  able  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  this  problem 
unless  we  clearly  recognize  that  in  the  peculiar  creative 
processes  of  Shakespeare's  art  various  elements  are  con- 
tained which  offer  a  more  or  less  energetic  resistance  to 
,  the  establishment  of  perfect  harmony.     One  of  the  most 
'  effective  of  these  is  the  tendency  to  split  up  the  action 
,  into  a  number  of  independent  scenes.     In  dealing  with  it 
^!  we  must  never  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  the  Shakespearean 
?  drama  still  bears  distinct  traces  of  its  medieval  origin  ;  it 
^'  had  grown  out  of  a  view  of  art  in  which  the  sense  of  form, 
I  in  architecture  as  well  as  in  epic  art,  favoured  a  juxtaposi- 
"  tion  of  identical  or  similar  elements,  whereas  the  following 
^'  period,  under  the  influence  of  classical  antiquity,  demanded 
"  the  subordination  of  the  parts  to  a  comprehensive  idea. 
^  The  definition  of  beauty  as  the  "  relation  of  the  parts  to 
'  the  whole  and  the  whole  to  the  parts  "  is  as  inapplicable 
to  Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales  as  to  the  mystery  plays,  in 
the  primitive  art-form  of  which  many  essential  details  of 
the  later  drama,  especially  the  historical  drama,  originated. 
This  kind  of  literature  is  sufficiently  loose  in  structure  to 
admit   the  insertion  of  much  inartistic  matter  consisting 
largely  of  anachronisms  and  topical  allusions.     One  instance 
of  this  practice  has  already  been  mentioned,  viz.,  Hamlet's 
reference  to  the  distress  and  worries  of  the  London  actors  ; 
-  pother  is  the  scene  in  Macbeth  (IV,  iii),  thrust  into  the  play 

I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

apparently  without  any  artistic  scruples,  which  tells  us  ol 
King  Edward  the  Confessor's  supernatural  power  of  healing 
"  the  King's  evil  "  by  the  mere  application  of  his  hand. 
The  obvious  reason  for  this  was  that  the  reigning  sovereign. 
King  James  I,  the  most  notable  spectator  of  the  play,  also 
claimed  to  include  this  power  among  his  many  special 
gifts,  and  frequently  exercised  it  in  a  manner  which  was 
probably  not  quite  in  accordance  with  medical  science. 
Still  more  noticeable  is  the  interruption  of  the  action  b) 
comic  scenes  {cf,  p.  24  seq,\  which  occur  even  in  places 
where  there  is  apparently  no  intention  to  produce  a  highei 
unity  through  contrast.  In  these  we  clearly  see  to  what 
extent  the  Shakespearean  drama  can  occasionally  dispense 
with  internal  coherence.  But  we  must  not  suppose  thai 
we  are  dealing  here  with  exceptional  cases.  In  reality  this 
practice  is  nothing  but  a  symptom  of  Shakespeare's  supreme 
interest  in  the  single  scene,  which  all  his  knowledge  oj 
dramatic  art  cannot  induce  him  to  subordinate  to  the  interesi 
of  the  whole  to  the  extent  that  is  demanded  by  a  latei 
period.  We  may  even  conclude  that  possibly  Shakespeare's 
peculiar  manner  of  dramatic  construction  was  very  different! 
from  what  we  generally  imagine  it  to  have  been.  Grill-! 
parzer  somewhere  says  that  Shakespeare  had  the  habit  oil 
working,  so  to  speak,  "  step  by  step  "  (JVorks^  vol.  9) 
Rumelin,  who  holds  the  same  view,  is  led  by  it  to  assert 
that  Shakespeare  aimed  principally  at  theatrical  effect,  and 
that  he  knew  perfectly  "  how  little  it  depends  on  the 
systematic  arrangement  and  harmony  of  the  whole  and 
how  much  on  the  attractive  and  thrilling  nature  of  thfi 
single  parts."  "  It  is  evident,"  says  Rumelin,  **  that  h^ 
worked  in  scenes  ;  the  single  situation  is  expanded  and 
gives  rise  to  the  complete  picture  ;  all  the  poetic  possi-f 
bilities  contained  in  it  are  utilized  and  fully  developed 
a  large  number  of  scenes  are  intelligible  and  effective  ir 
themselves,  or  require  only  a  few  introductory  words' 
(p.  34).  It  is  true  this  opinion  has  been  hotly  contested 
(^.^.,  by  Vischer),  and  indeed  the  bulk  and  variety  o:. 
Shakespeare's  work  renders  it  almost  impossible  to  appl)! 
a  judgment  of  this  kind  to  the  whole  of  his  writings  withou 
112 


I 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S    PLAYS 


modification.     But   there   can  be  no  doubt,  and  a  single 
.  look  into  a  drama  by  Ibsen  or  Schiller  conclusively  proves 
^  it,  that  the  number  of  scenes  which  are  intelligible  only 
,,  from  the  context  of  the  whole  play  is  infinitely  greater  in 
1  the  modern   than   in  the   Shakespearean   drama.     In   the 
|)  latter  provision  is  made  in  order  that  he  who  has  not  seen  the 
beginning  or  has  lost  the  thread  of  the  plot  may  still  be  able 
■  to  take  an  interest  in  the  further  course  of  the  play.     To  a 
I  certain  extent  this  is  also  due  to  the  greater  simplicity  of 
the  action,  and  the  less  complicated  nature  of  the  problems 
and  characters.     Still  we  shall  probably  have  to  agree  with 
Rumelin's  contention  that  the  single  scene  easily  acquires 
a  great  deal  of  independence.     A  case  in  point  is  the  famous 
scene  where  Richard  woos  Anne,  the  wife  of  his  victim 
{Richard  111,  I,  ii),  which  may  be  said  to  represent  a  com- 
plete play  in  little  within  the  play  itself.      That  dramas 
of  that  time  might  actually  be  nothing  but  bundles  of  scenes 
was  first  proved  by  the  publication,  by  the  Malone  Society 
in  1 9 1 1,  of  the  manuscript  containing  the  play  oiSir  Thomas 
More  (one  of  the  few  extant  manuscripts  of  dramas  of  that 
,  time).     Here  it  is  seen  that  quite  a  number  of  authors 
have  parcelled  out  the  work  among  themselves,   several 
scenes  being  entrusted  to  collaborators  who  were  not  even 
clear  about  the  general  plan  of  the  play,  so  that  they  did 
not  know  the  most  important  proper  names  occurring  in 
it,  and  instead  of  them  sometimes  wrote  on  the  margin 
"  Another "    (xii    seq.).     Evidently   the   important    thing 
was  the  scene.     The  effect  of  the  play  was  the  combined 
effect  of  the  single  scenes. 

2.  Tendency  to  Episodic  Intensification. — This  play 

Df  Sir  Thomas  More  is  a  drama  with  an  exceptionally  loose 

.-I  :onstruction,  and  cannot  be  accepted  as  direct  evidence 

Df  Shakespeare's  methods,  as  it  is  certain  that  he  had  no 

jhare  in  its  composition.^     Still,  a  kind  of  composition  like 


1  The  attempt,  recently  repeated  by  an  English  scholar,  to  prove  that 
)art  of  the  manuscript  is  in  Shakespeare's  handwriting  was  doomed  to 
ailure  from  the  very  beginning,  because  he  cannot  possibly  have  been  con- 
erned  in  the  work,  which  is  largely  a  crude  imitation  of  his  own  plays. 
Zf.  the  author's  article  on  the  much-discussed  date  of  the  pseudo-Shake- 

rcan  play  of  Sir  Thomas  More  {"  Engl.  Stud.,"  vol.  xlvi,  p.  228  s§q.). 
113 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 


M 


se  L 

I 


this  greatly  helps  us  to  understand  the  general  methoi 
of  dramatic  composition  at  that  time,  and  to  clear  up  many 
obscure  points  in  Shakespeare*s  own  art.  Of  course  we 
must  not  generalize  unduly.  We  need  hardly  insist  on 
the  fact  that  on  the  whole  he  is  most  successful  in  making 
his  plays  coherent,  and  that  the  rather  independent  effect 
of  some  of  the  scenes  does  not  actually  lead  to  disorder  and 
chaotic  composition.  But  still  we  cannot  help  observing 
that  even  his  work  manifests  what  we  may  call  a  tendency 
to  episodic  intensification.  If  this  peculiarity  is  not  properly 
kept  in  mind  one  is  always  in  danger  of  misunderstanding 
and  misinterpreting  him.  For  even  when  he  is  bent  upon 
securing  the  highest  effect  which  the  subject  will  admit, 
to  bring  it  home  in  the  most  convincing  manner  and  make 
it  irresistibly  capture  and  hold  the  spectator's  imagination, 
he  sometimes  introduces  or  amplifies  details  which  cause 
us  to  lose  the  sense  of  a  connected  whole. 

This  peculiarity  must  be  carefully  distinguished  fro: 
the  more  or  less  frequent  signs  of  inadvertence  which  hav 
been  shown  up  in  Shakespeare's  writings;  e.g,^  when  in  the 
beginning  of  The  Tempest  (I,  ii)  mention  is  made  of  a  son 
of  the  Duke  of  Milan  who  never  appears  in  the  plot.  When 
he  wishes  to  heighten  the  effect  of  the  scene  Shakespeare's 
method  is  rather  to  arrange  the  circumstances  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  produce  the  greatest  effect  for  the  moment.  In 
order,  for  example,  to  illustrate  the  extraordinary  presence 
of  mind  which  Othello  shows  at  the  moment  of  danger  an 
incident  is  described  of  which  no  mention  is  made  elsewhere: 

I  have  seen  the  cannon 
When  it  hath  blown  his  ranks  into  the  air, 
And,  like  the  devil,  from  his  very  arm 
PufFd  his  own  brother.  jjj  jy 

We  are  puzzled  for  an  instant,  as  we  are  inclined  to  imaginei 
the  Moor,  who  has  passed  through  so  many  unheard-of i "' 
adventures  and  perils  from  his  distant  African  home  before 
becoming  leader  of  the  Venetian  army,  as  a  companionless 
and  lonely  man. 

Similar   instances   occur   in    many   other    places. 
114 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S    PLAYS 

frequently  the  details  thus  employed  as  material  collide 
much  more  violently  with  the  context  than  the  passage  from 
Othello,  Thus  a  scene  in  The  Tempest  (V,  i)  has  been 
criticized  where  Prospero  bids  good-bye  to  his  magic, 
and  mentions  among  the  supernatural  achievements  of  his 
art,  namely,  eclipsing  the  midday  sun,  letting  loose  the 
tempest  upon  land  and  sea,  conjuring  up  the  thunder- 
storm, this  sign  of  his  power  : 

graves  at  my  command 
Have  waked  their  sleepers,  oped  and  let  'em  forth 
By  my  so  potent  art. 

Since  there  were  no  tombs  upon  the  lonely,  uninhabited 
island  the  view  has  seriously  been  held  that  these  words 
could  be  taken  only  symbolically.  A  number  of  inter- 
preters, such  as  Dowden,  Brandl,  and  Morton  Luce 
(**  Arden  "  Shakespeare,  Tempest^  Ixv),  actually  go  so  far  as  to 
see  in  this  passage  a  reference  to  Shakespeare's  art,  because 
they  regard  Prospero  as  an  incarnation  of  the  poet.  Luce 
even  believes  that  Shakespeare  is  here  at  the  same  time 
alluding  to  those  scenes  of  his  plays  where  the  processions 
of  ghosts  appear  to  the  dreaming  Richard  and  Richmond, 
and  to  his  bringing  deceased  heroes  to  life  again  upon 
the  stage.  But  apart  from  the  fact  that  the  sequence 
of  ideas  in  this  passage  is  a  direct  imitation  of  what  is 
said  by  Medea  in  Ovid's  poem,  the  poet  here  is  simply 
anxious  to  give  an  effective  impression  of  Prosperous 
art,  and  thinks  himself  entitled  to  make  the  old  magician 
mention  all  his  greatest  powers,  though  we  have  not  been 
shown  any  example  of  them. 

A  much  greater  conflict  with  the  main  action  is  shown 
by  passages  like  that  in  Hamlet  where  Horatio,  the  Prince's 
friend,  and  presumably  of  the  same  age  as  he,  assures  his  com- 
panions of  the  watch,  after  the  ghost  has  appeared  to  them: 

Such  was  the  very  armour  he  had  on 
When  he  the  ambitious  Norway  combated  ; 
So  frown'd  he  once,  when,  in  an  angry  parle. 
He  smote  the  sledded  Polacks  on  the  ice. 

I,i 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

In  another  place  we  are  told  (V,  i)  that  this  battle  was 
fought  on  the  same  day  which  saw  Hamlet's  birth.  The 
difficulty  that  arises  from  one  who  is  Hamlet's  equal  in 
age  relating  events  which  took  place  at  the  time  of  his 
birth  has  made  one  critic  propose  the  absurd  explanation 
that  Horatio  was  thinking  only  of  a  portrait  of  the  King 
in  which  he  wears  that  suit  of  armour.  A  similar  difficulty 
occurs  in  the  funeral  speech  of  Mark  Antony  when  he 
points  to  an  article  of  Caesar's  dress  in  order  to  bring  the 
idea  of  his  great  past  vividly  before  the  eyes  of  his  hearers: 


You  all  do  know  this  mande  :  I  remember 
The  first  time  ever  Caesar  put  it  on  ; 
'Twas  on  a  summer's  evening,  in  his  tent. 
That  day  he  overcame  the  Nervii. 

Ill,  ii 


I 


It  is  of  no  matter  to  Shakespeare  that  Antony  was  not 
present  at  this  battle — at  any  rate,  this  fact  is  not  referred 
to  in  any  other  passage  of  the  play.  A  still  more  remark- 
able contradiction  occurs  in  Macbeth  which  Goethe  was  one 
of  the  first  to  regard  as  due  to  the  rhetorical  necessity  of 
increasing  the  momentary  effect,  viz.,  the  contradiction 
between  the  words  of  Lady  Macbeth, 

I  have  given  suck,  and  know 
How  tender  't  is  to  love  the  babe  that  milks  me, 

I,  vii,  54 

and  the  painful  and  bitter  outcry  coming  from  the  lips 
of  Macduff  after  Macbeth  has  robbed  him  of  his  children : 
"  He  has  no  children  "  (IV,  iii,  2 1 6).  Here  also  an  excellent 
escape  from  the  difficulty  has  been  found  in  the  assump- 
tion that  Macbeth  had  married  a  widow.  Unfortunately, 
neither  the  sources  nor  Shakespeare's  drama  contain  any 
confirmation  of  this  view.  This  difficulty  has  been  much 
exaggerated.  There  need  be  no  direct  contradiction  oi 
statements  here,  because  Lady  Macbeth  may  easily  have 
lost  a  child  in  early  infancy.^ 

1  See  the  astonishing  accumulation  of  literature  on  the  sub  j  ect  of  Macbeth'; 
fatherhood,  from  Steevens  to  Bradley,  in  Appendix  A  of  the  edition  of  Machtii 
in  the  "  Arden"  Shakespeare,  191 2. 

116 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


I 

■  About   this   question,    however,    the   dramatist   is    not 

hkely   to   have   troubled    himself.      His   purpose   in   this 

f  passage,  when   Macbeth  shrinks  from  the  deed,  was  to 

,  make  his  wife  fully  disclose  her  fury-like  craving  for  evil, 

-  and  he  could  not  make  a  woman  appear  more  **  unsexed  " 

an  by  showing  her  as  a  mother  who  in  imagination 


Pluck'd  [her]  nipple  from  his  boneless  gums 
And  dash'd  the  brains  out. 


I 

B-cach  of  the  two  passages,  by  taking  two  different  views  of 
Xady  Macbeth's  character,  he  secures  the  greatest  possible 
rfect.     Examples  of  this  kind  could  easily  be  multiplied. 
I  BXhus  he  makes  Antony,  in  an  attack  of  indignation  at 
tne  fate  he  owes  to  Cleopatra,  address  to  her  the  furious 

Irds  : 
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  ? 
Ill,  li 

The  relations  between  Antony  and  Octavia,  however,  as 
we  find  them  depicted  in  previous  passages,  nowhere 
suggest  that  she  has  been  treated  by  him  as  a  kind  of 
Isolt  of  the  White  Hands,  as  MacCallum  expresses  it 
(p.  338).  Moreover,  Shakespeare  must  have  found  in  the 
original  source  that  she  had  had  children  by  him.  But  as 
he  required  the  trait  to  intensify  the  contrast  of  ideas  he 
did  not  shrink  from  this  inaccuracy. 

Lastly,  we  must  mention  in  this  connexion  the  famous 
words  with  which  Hamlet  in  his  monologue  refers  to 

The  undiscovered  country  from  whose  bourne 
No  traveller  returns. 
il  HI,  i 

His  doubt  is  all  the  more  remarkable  as  the  heavy  burden 
under  which  he  is  breaking  down  has  been  laid  on  his 
shoulders  by  precisely  such  a  "  wanderer  **  from  that "  undis- 

1  covered  country."  It  is  almost  humiliating  to  see  how  so 
many  famous  critics,  instead  of  using  their  common  sense, 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

are  led  astray  by  the  most  fantastical  and  abstruse  speculations. 
They  seem  to  be  competing  among  themselves  as  to  who 
can  produce  the  most  laboured  and  artificial  explanation. 
Gervinus  (iii,  314)  thinks  that  Hamlet  is  not  in  the  least 
inconsistent,  because  Shakespeare's  ghosts  are  not  real 
ghosts,  but  only  the  visibly  embodied  figments  of  a  strong 
imagination — a  most  untenable  and  rationalistic  assump- 
tion. Fr.  Th.  Vischer  (i,  336)  involves  his  exposition 
in  an  almost  Hegelian  obscurity,  quite  impenetrable  by 
the  ordinary  reader,  by  assuming  a  forgetting  which  is  not 
a  forgetting.  "  He  has,'*  says  he,  **  made  a  ghost  appear 
to  his  Hamlet  and  forgets  this  in  the  monologue.  But 
he  forgets  it,  because  here  the  important  thing  is  the  fear 
which  Hamlet  experiences  in  allowing  his  imagination  to 
dwell  on  the  idea  of  that  terra  incognita  ;  and  yet  he  only 
half  forgets  it,  because  Hamlet's  fear,  after  all,  is  that  of 
a  mentally  deficient  person,  and  moreover  agrees  with  t 
popular  belief.  The  poet  plainly  had  a  purpose  in  wh 
he  wrote."     Understand  this  who  can ! 

Kuno  Fischer  (p.  134  seq^  condemns  this  view  in  h' 
usual  emphatic  manner,  saying  that  "  such  a  forgetting 
would  be  the  sign  of  a  weakness  of  memory,  which  would 
indicate  approaching  idiocy."  But  Hamlet,  he  thinks, 
is  perfectly  right,  because  though  spirits  return,  yet  the 
dead  themselves  do  not  return — /.^.,  the  spiritual  return 
is  not  to  be  identified  with  the  bodily  return.  The  only 
drawback  to  this  surprisingly  simple  solution  is  the  fact 
that  Hamlet  is  exclusively  concerned  with  the  question 
whether  there  will  be  anything  at  all  after  death  and  what 
this  may  be,  and  that  this  question  cannot  be  answered  by 
the  bodies,  but  only  by  the  spirits  of  the  dead.  What  ah 
expense  of  ingenuity  over  such  a  simple  matter  ! 

In  The  Merchant  of  Venice — the  case  is  similar  in  a  certain 
respect — difficulties  are  caused  by  the  fact  that  Tubal, 
while  telling  Shylock  of  his  search  for  his  runaway  daughter, 
torments  him  with  the  account  of  her  extravagance  in 
Genoa  (III,  i).  The  other  passages,  however,  give  no 
indication  that  the  frivolous  young  couple  did  not  at  once 
go  from  Venice  to  Portia's  home  at  Belmont.  Now  over- 
118 


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IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


I)nscientious  expositors  have  been  led  by  these  circum- 
ances  to  the  discovery  that  Shylock  is  deceived  by^Tubal 
5.1  and  that  therefore  the  Jew  is  abandoned/:  even  by  his  co- 
st! religionists  {cf,  Ch.  K.  Pooler,  "Arden ''4  edition).  This 
"^  idea,  however,  is  certainly  quite  erroneous.  Shakespeare 
.  would  have  expressed  this  intention  by  means  of  an  aside. 
H  Moreover,  Tubal's  knowledge  {e.g,^  of  the  ring  which 
I  gjpcssica  gave  for  a  monkey)  is  substantially  correct. 
I  ■  The  explanation  of  all  these  discrepancies,  as  has  already 
I  W^^^  indicated,  is  that  Shakespeare's  art,  which  lived  in 
"  ^e  spoken  word,  paid  little  attention  to  an  exact  corre- 
lil  ^ondence  and  coherence  of  all  the  details.  That  vast 
I  Bpo^^^  o^  subtle  speculation  which  his  critics  have  evolved 
I  ^    the   attempt   to    bring   the    conflicting   elements    into 

ii   harmony    must    therefore    be    dismissed    with    Horatio's 
•ords  :   **  *Twere  to  consider  too  curiously,   to  consider 
I  Tb."     Goethe,  too,  saw  clearly  this  peculiarity  of  Shake- 
speare's when  he  said  to  Eckermann  (April    18,   1827)  : 
The  poet  [/.^.,   Shakespeare]  on  every  occasion  makes 
IS  characters  say  what  is  effective,  right,  and  appropriate 
the   situation,   without   troubling   overmuch   to   reflect 
hether  the  words  may  not  possibly  cpme  into  apparent 
nflict  with  some  other  passage." 

3.  Different   Conceptions   of  the  same   Character 

DIFFERENT  ScENES  (Cleopatra). — All  these  facts  are  in- 

lligible  without  any  great  mental  effort,  and  only  interest 

tis  because  they  are  symptoms  of  a  general  tendency.     More 

important,  however,  is  the  question  to  what  extent  the  want 

of  connexion  in  the  scenes  may  occasionally  influence  the 

drawing  of  the  characters,  whether  Shakespeare's  method 

of  work,   in    spite   of  his   unique  ability  consistently  to 

work    out    a    complex    character,   may   not  at  times  give 

rise  to  contradictions,  so  that  a  practised  eye  can  discern 

a  change  of  physiognomy  between  the   appearance  of  a 

character  in  one  scene  and  another.     In  general,  of  course, 

this  question  will  have  to  be  answered  in  the  negative, 

cause  otherwise  we   should   be   denying   Shakespeare's 

reatest  merit,  which  undoubtedly  is  his  power  of  creating 

onsistent  characters.     In  a  number  of  cases,  however,  we 

119 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

shall  not  be  able  altogether  to  neglect  the  possibility  that 
there  may  be  contradictions.  Of  these  the  most  remark- 
able is  perhaps  his  treatment  of  the  figure  of  Cleopatra. 

Shakespeare's  play  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra  is  founded 
upon  North's  translation  of  Plutarch.  Naturally  this 
author  does  not  regard  Cleopatra  in  a  favourable  light. 
The  idea  pervading  the  whole  of  his  narrative  is  that  she 
was  the  cause  of  Antony's  misfortune.  But  he  has  too 
great  a  knowledge  of  human  nature,  he  is  too  conscientious 
an  historian,  to  be  unjust  to  the  unique  qualities  of  this 
woman,  who  united  to  all  the  refined  sensuality  of  the 
Orient  a  good  deal  of  the  culture  of  the  Western  world. 
It  is  true  he  gives  long  descriptions  of  her  gorgeous  feasts 
and  revels  with  her  paramour,  he  censures  her  vanity,  her 
readiness  to  take  offence,  her  calculating  spirit  ;  yet  he 
does  not  fail  to  mention  her  high  mental  qualities.  We 
are  told  that  she  differed  from  her  predecessors,  the  dull 
Egyptian  kings  who  knew  no  language  save  their  own,  in 
having  a  command  of  the  tongues  of  the  Ethiopians,  Arabs, 
Troglodytes,  Jews,  Syrians,  Medians,  Parthians,  and 
several  other  peoples,  with  whose  delegates  she  used  to 
negotiate  personally,  with  no  help  from  an  interpreter. 
Of  her  roguish  humour  the  historian  gives  an  excellent 
example.  Antony  used  to  go  fishing  in  the  Nile,  and  was 
often  vexed  at  not  catching  anything  when  she  was  looking 
on.  He  therefore  hired  a  diver  to  attach  a  fish  to  his 
hook  under  the  water.  But  Cleopatra  soon  discovered  the 
trick,  hired  another  more  skilful  diver,  and  when  Antony 
the  next  time  drew  in  his  line  all  the  spectators  were 
delighted  to  see  a  salted  fish  dangling  from  the  hook. 
The  infinite  agility  of  her  mind  is  shown  by  her  love  of 
adventures.  With  Antony,  who  was  disguised  as  a  slave, 
she  visited  the  taverns  of  Alexandria,  dressed  as  a  chamber- 
maid and  posing  as  his  sweetheart,  and  then  again,  maybe 
the  very  next  day,  she  gave  audience,  seated  on  her  throne, 
every  inch  a  queen,  and  clad  in  the  sumptuous  garments  of 
the  goddess  Isis. 

The  secret  of  her  power  over  Antony  apparently  lay  in 
her  ability  and  willingness  to  share  in  all  his  occupations. 

I20 


I 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


In  contrast,  as  we  may  suppose,  to  the  Roman  women, 
!  she  was  his  companion  day  and  night  and  went  with  him 
I  to  the  games,  the  banquet,  the  chase,  and  every  physical 
J  exercise.     Her  beauty,  as  Plutarch  expressly  remarks,  was 
,  not  nearly  so  surprising  as  her  grace  and,  above  all,  as 
I  the  indescribable  charm  of  her  manner,  which  won  the 
hearts  of  all  her  acquaintances.     Her  whole  nature  was 
full  of  the  utmost  refinement,  and  hence  arose  the  lively 
opposition  which  Antony's  coarse  and  plebeian  jokes  met 
with   on   her   part.     As   regards   the   question,   however, 
whether  she  really  loved  Antony,  Plutarch  seems  to  be 
very  sceptical,  but  what  he  tells  us  of  the  calculated  devices 
I  she  employed  in  order  to  retain  the  friend  who  seemed 
I  about  to  forsake  her  is  not  in  any  way  different  from  the 
usual  practice  of  women  when  they  wish  to  attach  to  them- 
selves the  man  they  love.     She  refuses  to  eat  and  grows 
thin  ;    **  when  Antony  came,"  we  read,  "  she  turned  her 
eyes  upon  him  with  an  expression  of  rapture.     When  he 
left  her,  she  broke  out  into  sobs  and  tears,  looked  utterly 
dejected,  and  frequently  managed  to  make  Antony  find  her 
in  tears.     When,  however,  he  suddenly  entered,  she  made 
as  though  she  were  drying  her  tears  and  turned  away  her 
face,  pretending  that  she  did  not  wish  him  to  know  that 
she  had  been  weeping." 

If  we  now  regard  the  Cleopatra  of  Shakespeare's  drama 
we  are  astonished  to  find  how  inferior  she  is  to  the  original. 
It  is  true  that  Plutarch  gives  us  no  clearly  outlined  picture 
of  her  character,  but  she  certainly  is  not  the  great  courtesan 
whom  Shakespeare  shows  us  in  the  first  acts  of  his  play. 
The  first  thing  we  miss  is  her  culture.  We  are  told  nothing 
about  her  ability  to  negotiate  with  foreign  peoples  in  their 
own  language.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  never  see  her 
acting  as  queen  at  all.  Nobody  would  suspect  that  this 
woman,  as  Plutarch  informs  us,  has  for  years,  quite  unaided, 
ruled  a  great  kingdom.  She  never  gives  audience,  never 
exercises  the  functions  of  her  high  office.  Love  seems  to 
be  her  only  aim  in  life.  If  the  object  of  her  passion  is 
absent  we  must  imagine  her  (I,  v ;  II,  v)  reclining  drowsily 
on  her  couch,  yawning  and  wishing  to  sleep  away  the  time 

121 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

until  her  lover  returns,  and,  as  this  is  impossible,  tormenting 
her  attendants,  who  are  infected  with  her  voluptuousness 
and  frivolity.  Her  laziness  is  equalled  by  her  sensuality. 
That  her  thoughts  are  continually  occupied  with  the  enjoy- 
ment of  love  we  see  from  the  pleasure  she  takes  in  using 
equivocal  language,  giving  an  equivocal  meaning  to  her 
words  even  when  she  speaks  of  Antony  sitting  on  horse- 
back or  of  a  piece  of  news  entering  her  ear.  This  side 
of  her  character  is  brought  to  our  notice  by  the  contemp- 
tuous expressions — "  a  gipsy's  lust  "  and  "  a  strumpet  " 
— which  Philo  uses  in  the  first  scene  of  the  first  act.  We 
have  seen  {cf,  p.  53  seq,)  that  in  the  exposition  Shakespeare 
always  means  the  reflection  of  a  character  in  the  minds  of 
subsidiary  figures  to  be  taken  quite  seriously.  Further  on 
in  the  same  act  (I,  ii)  she  is  described  by  Enobarbus,  who 
throughout  the  play  acts  the  part  of  chorus,  as  consisting 
"  of  nothing  but  the  finest  part  of  pure  love."  That  here 
we  have  to  understand  the  word  "  love  "  in  a  purely  erotic 
sense  is  confirmed  by  a  remark  of  the  same  observer,  who 
ironically  declares  that  he  can  explain  her  constant  threats 
to  kill  herself  only  by  her  belief  that  in  death  she  will 
find  a  new  erotic  enjoyment.  He  evidently  regards  her 
as  incapable  of  being  attracted  or  charmed  by  anything 
except  love.  This  is  certainly  an  exaggeration,  tending 
to  ridicule  her  weakness,  yet  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
she  is  meant  to  appear  as  the  type  of  the  "  artist  in  love." 
This  conception,  as  experience  proves,  implies  a  certain 
amount  of  vulgarity,  which  comes  out  in  her  jesting  with  the 
eunuch  and  in  her  amusement  at  his  answers  to  her  question, 
"Hast  thou  aflFections  ?"  (I,  v).  Still  more  vulgar  is  her 
behaviour  when,  talking  to  her  maids,  she  makes  coarse 
jokes  about  having  Antony  on  her  hook,  and  allows  her 
attendants  to  lose  all  sense  of  social  distinctions.  She 
even  shares  in  the  truly  feminine  interest  which  her  maids, 
always  craving  for  erotic  excitement,  take  in  the  messenger 
("  A  proper  man  " — **  Indeed,  he  is  so  ").  The  very  next 
moment,  however,  like  a  servant  who  has  become  a  mistress, 
she  turns  against  those  with  whom  she  has  just  been  so 
familiar,  and  threatens  them  with  corporal  punishment.  This 
122 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

Igar  trait,  which  separates  irreconcilably  the  Cleopatra 
Shakespeare  from  that  of  Plutarch,  reaches  its  culminat- 
ig  point  in  the  hysterical  fits  which  are  so  excellently 
represented.  When  she  hears  of  the  marriage  of  Antony 
and  Octavia  she  gets  into  such  a  rage  that,  in  the  manner 
of  hysterical  harlots,  she  loses  all  self-control,  and  mad 
with  fury  beats  and  stabs  the  messenger  and  would  like  to 
dash  everything  around  her  to  pieces  :   "  Melt  Egypt  into 

^tehakespearean  critics  have  traced  this  passage  back  to 
me  account  Plutarch  gives  of  the  interview  which  Cleopatra 
has  with  Octavius,  and  say  that  Shakespeare  has  drawn 
from  it  the  trait  just  described.  But  the  scene  is  in  reality 
of  quite  a  different  character.  Plutarch  tells  us  :  "At 
length  she  gave  him  [i.e.,  the  victor]  an  inventory  of  all 
the  ready  money  and  treasure  she  had.  But  by  chance 
there  stood  by  Seleucus,  one  of  her  treasurers,  who  to  prove 
himself  a  good  servant  came  straight  to  Caesar  to  denounce 
Cleopatra  for  not  having  written  down  everything,  but 
purposely  keeping  many  things  back.  Cleopatra  was  so 
enraged  with  him  that  she  flew  upon  him,  took  him  by 
the  hair  of  the  head,  and  boxed  his  ears  well.  Caesar 
burst  out  laughing  and  separated  them.'*  .  Then  follows 
a  declaration  from  Cleopatra  in  which  she  expresses  her 
indignation  at  the  charge,  and  tries  to  explain  the  facts. 
It  is  easy  to  see,  in  spite  of  a  certain  external  resemblance, 
how  little  real  connexion  there  is  between  the  two  incidents. 
That  described  by  Plutarch  shows  the  woman's  ungovern- 
able temper,  which  in  her  indignation  at  the  mean  betrayal 
makes  her  use  her  hands  to  punish  the  faithless  servant; 
Shakespeare,  on  the  other  hand,  shows  us  a  mere  shrew, 
devoid  of  all  power  of  self-control,  who,  believing  that 
wrong  has  been  done  to  her,  vents  her  annoyance  and  rage 
upon  innocent  people  in  order  to  find  distraction  in  their 
sufferings. 

The  essential  vulgarity  of  her  character  is  also  shown 
by  the  pride  which,  like  every  courtesan,  she  takes  in  having 
had  so  many  distinguished  lovers.  The  remembrance  that 
among  them  have  been  the  great  Caesar  and  the  famous 

123 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

Pompey  still  gives  her  satisfaction,  although  now  she  ought 
to  be  thinking  only  of  Mark  Antony.  But  this  thought 
flatters  her  vanity,  a  quality  which  is  strongly  developed  in 
her.  She  exercises  her  trade  with  the  clearest  consciousness 
of  her  worth,  knowing  the  high  price  that  men  are  willing 
to  pay  for  her.     "  Here  are,"  she  says  proudly. 

My  bluest  veins  to  kiss,  a  hand  that  kings 
Have  lippM,  and  trembled  kissing. 

But  of  a  truly  regal  deportment  we  can  find  so  little  trace 
in  her  (though  she  has  some  touches  of  that  dignity  of  which 
none  of  Shakespeare's  royal  personages  are  entirely  devoid) 
that  it  sounds  merely  like  ridiculous  self-conceit  when, 
wishing  to  exalt  herself,  she  says  of  her  messenger : 

The  man  hath  seen  some  majesty,  and  should  know. 

Her  whole  behaviour  toward  Antony  is  dominated  by  an 
element  of  calculation.  Here  again  the  reflection  of  her 
character  in  the  exposition  shows  us  the  way.  "  She  is 
cunning  past  man's  thought,'*  says  Antony  of  her  (I,  ii,  142). 
And,  indeed,  the  little  feminine  tricks  related  by  Plutarch 
are  harmless  in  comparison  with  the  marvellous  astuteness 
and  proficiency  of  this  thoroughbred  courtesan.  Years  of 
intercourse  with  men  since  her  earliest  youth — she  now 
smiles  at  her  naive  innocence  in  those  days — have  given 
her  a  mastery  of  all  the  arts  of  love  that  amazes  even  her 
frivolous  attendants  ;  she  knows  and  successfully  uses  every 
means  of  combating  the  surfeit  of  mere  sensual  enjoyment 
in  her  lover  which  is  her  greatest  danger.  This  woman  is 
different  from  Plutarch's  heroine  in  that  she  does  not  merge 
her  being  into  his  and  make  all  his  interests  her  own,  but, 
on  the  contrary,  is  always  on  the  point  of  evading  him,  and 
continually  keeps  him  running  after  her.  When  he  comes 
she  goes,  and  when  he  is  away  she  charges  her  maid: 

See  where  he  is,  who's  with  him,  what  he  does  : 
I  did  not  send  you  :  if  you  find  him  sad. 
Say  I  am  dancing  ;  if  in  mirth,  report 
That  I  am  sudden  sick. 

I,  iii 
124 


I  IN  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 
his  power  of  falling  ill  at  the  right  time,  of  being  seized 
^oons  and  fits,  so  that  she  must  have  her  dress  unlaced, 
is  always  at  her  disposal,  and  helps  her  to  render  Antony- 
helpless  by  completely  disarming  him.  It  is  always  she 
who  is  suffering  through  him,  and  in  every  case  her  clever- 
ness puts  him  in  the  wrong.  If  he  is  not  sad  at  the  death 
of  his  wife  it  is  a  sign  of  what  a  loving  woman  may  expect 
of  him,  and  if  he  is  sad  he  shows  that  his  real  love  belonged 
to  the  other  woman  and  not  to  her  (I,  iii).  She  carries 
the  art  of  sulking  to  perfection,  and  torments  him  in  order 
to  be  the  more  assured  of  possessing  him.  At  the  same 
time  there  is  a  certain  amount  of  cruelty  in  her  joy  at 
seeing  him  floundering  so  helplessly  in  her  net.  Yet  her 
great  cleverness  always  makes  her  recognize  the  moment 
when,  his  endurance  being  near  the  breaking-point,  he 
might  grow  tired  of  the  eternal  war  and  begin  to  break 
away  from  her.  Nevertheless,  she  loves  him  after  her 
fashion,  though  the  selfish  and  superficial  character  of 
her  love  is  clearly  revealed  in  the  vain  remark  she  addresses 
to  Charmian: 

Did  I,  Charmian, 
^m  Ever  love  Caesar  so  ? 

Her  feeling  is  indeed  a  complex  mixture  of  various  emo- 
tions. On  the  one  hand  she  is  merely  craving  for  erotic 
excitement,  and  more  enamoured  of  Antony's  love  than  of 
himself ;  on  the  other  it  flatters  her  vanity  and  gives  her 
a  sense  of  triumph  to  see  the  great  hero  her  obedient  slave. 
Her  pride  in  having  conquered  him  naturally  allows  us  to 
suppose  that  she  admires  him,  but  this  need  not  be  a  sign, 
as  some  have  believed,  that  she  also  loves  him.  It  is  rather 
a  proof  of  her  cleverness  that  her  long  intimacy  with  him  has 
not  produced  in  her  case  what,  according  to  the  proverb, 
familiarity  usually  breeds  in  ordinary  people,  viz.,  contempt. 
That  Antony's  love  means  much  to  her  we  can  easily 
believe,  knowing  her  calculating  nature.  But  not  only 
upon  such  motives  does  her  affection  rest.  Her  behaviour, 
especially  her  excitement  in  the  scene  with  the  messenger 
coming  from  him,  reveals  a  remarkable  degree  of  passion. 
Wc  should  be  wrong,  however,  in  assuming  that  this  love 

125 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

would  render  her  capable  of  sacrificing  aught  for  his  sake. 
She  never  regards  anything  from  his  point  of  view.  For 
this  reason  we  should  not  feel  inclined  to  prophesy  that 
this  love  would  be  of  long  duration,  especially  in  view  of  her 
heartlessness,  which  reveals  itself  distinctly  in  her  indiffer- 
ence to  the  fate  of  Caesar's  messenger.  Antony  finds  her 
flirting  with  him,  and  in  his  indignation  orders  him  to  be 
whipped,  without  her  putting  in  a  word  for  him. 

This  is  Cleopatra  as  she  appears  in  the  first  acts  of  the 
play.  There  is  a  world  of  difference  between  her  and  the 
queen  of  Plutarch's  narrative.  What  we  have  before  us 
is  a  wonderful  portrait,  drawn  with  Shakespeare's  consum- 
mate skill,  of  an  intelligent,  passionate,  astute,  heartless, 
essentially  vulgar,  and  profoundly  immoral  creature,  but  by 
no  means  a  remarkable  or  "  nobly  planned  "  woman.  We 
must  therefore  think  it  rather  curious  that  a  number  of 
critics  grow  quite  enthusiastic  not  so  much  about  the 
excellence  of  the  portrayal  as  about  the  figure  itself,  that 
Arthur  Symons  calls  her  the  most  wonderful  woman  created  i 
by  Shakespeare,  and  Georg  Brandes  says  :  "In  drawing 
her  Shakespeare  thought  of  one  who  to  him  had  been  the  i 
one  woman  in  the  world  "  (p.  6^2)-  ^^  ^^  ^^^  impossible 
that  Shakespeare  might  have  had  good  reasons  for  replying , 
to  this  view  in  a  way  which  would  have  come  perilously 
near  Heine's  verses  : 

Friends  we  never  came  to  be. 

Rarely  were  your  feelings  mine  ; 

But  how  soon  we  did  agree 

When  we  met  among  the  swine  ! 

But  the  question  arises  whether  we  have  not  here  a  case 
similar  to  that  of  Julius  Caesar — i.e.,  whether  we  do  not  base 
our  interpretation  too  much  upon  the  actual  appearance  of 
the  character  ;  that  is  to  say,  is  the  effect  upon  us  different 
from  that  which  the  author  originally  intended .''  A  number 
of  critics  have  regarded  the  matter  in  this  light  and 
have  thought  that  Shakespeare  has  merely  omitted,  by  an 
oversight,  to  insert  a  scene  in  which  Cleopatra's  grace, 
wit,  or  any  other  of  her  attractions  were  actually  shown. 
This  omission,  however,  is  not  at  all  unintentional ;  it  is 
126 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

the  natural  result  of  his  conception.  That  Shakespeare 
regarded  the  purely  sensual  attraction  which  Cleopatra 
Dossessed  for  Antony  as  the  principal  cause  of  her  power 
Dver  him  we  can  see  from  the  reflection  of  her  character 
in  the  mind  of  Enobarbus,  which  is  of  such  great  technical 
ijpiportance: 

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  ;  for  vilest  things 
Become  themselves  in  her,  that  the  holy  priests 
Bless  her  when  she  is  riggish. 

II,  ii 

d  in  another  passage  (II,  vl),  wishing  to  emphasize  the 
ely  physical  nature  of  the  bond  which  holds  them  to- 
gether, he  designates  her  quite  briefly  and  contemptuously 
as  Mark  Antony's  "  Egyptian  dish." 

The  contradiction  between  this  picture  of  Cleopatra  and 
the  character  Shakespeare  gives  her  In  the  last  two  acts, 
after  the  position  of  Antony  has  become  hopeless.  Is  astonish- 
ing. The  consistent  development  of  the  character  Shake- 
speare has  put  before  us  In  the  first  part  would  require  that 
she  should  endeavour  to  extricate  herself  from  the  fate  that 
threatens  Antony.  But  she  does  not  make  any  attempt  to 
do  so.  If  we  except  the  insignificant  flirtation  with  Thyreus, 
the  messenger  of  Octavlus.  That  her  ships  go  over  to 
the  enemy  and  thereby  accelerate  his  downfall  Is  at  the 
'  time  regarded  by  the  suspicious  Antony  as  a  piece  of 
treachery  on  her  part,  but  a  number  of  critics  (VIscher, 
:  p.  174  ;  Kreysslg,  p.  437)  do  her  grave  injustice  In  thinking 
j',  her  really  guilty.  This  accusation  Is  conclusively  proved 
to  be  unjust  by  the  express  assurance  which  Cleopatra 
sends  to  the  dying  Antony  through  DIomedes  that  he  is 
wrong  in  suspecting  her  of  having  conspired  with  the 
enemy  against  him.  Supposing  the  Intention  had  merely 
been  to  throw  dust  in  Antony's  eyes,  an  *  aside  '  would 
have  been  necessary  In  order  to  enlighten  the  spectators. 
We  may  be  quite  certain,  however,  that  Cleopatra  is 

I  not  faithless  to  Antony.     In  this  case  there  is  no  suspicion 
I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

of  treachery  even  in  the  original.  If  in  the  beginning  ci 
the  play  Shakespeare  appears  to  have  deprived  her  of  some 
of  the  good  qualities  she  possesses  in  Plutarch,  he  makes  up 
for  this  by  raising  her  at  this  stage  of  the  action  actually 
above  Plutarch's  estimate.  Plutarch,  indeed,  in  another  part 
of  his  narrative,  says  that  Octavius,  fearing  lest  she  might 
prevent  her  great  treasures  from  falling  into  the  hands  of 
her  enemies  by  burning  them,  from  time  to  time  secretly 
sent  her  messengers  in  order  to  set  her  mind  at  rest 
about  the  approach  of  his  army.  This  Shakespeare  omits. 
Avarice  as  a  petty  quality  of  the  character  of  Octavius  was 
probably  regarded  by  him  as  not  in  keeping  with  the 
idealized  mental  picture  he  gives  of  him,  and  similarly  his 
conception  of  Cleopatra  at  this  stage  is  so  high  that  he 
cannot  represent  her  as  in  any  way  faithless  or  treacherous. 
On  the  contrary,  he  eagerly  adopts  the  remark  of  Plutarch 
that  she  tried  to  combat  Antony's  mistrust  and  suspicion 
by  **  making  more  of  him  than  ever  she  did."  All  the 
clamorous  and  pretentious  part  of  her  has  now  disappeared, 
and  for  a  while  she  is  nothing  but  a  thoughtful  and  motherly 
woman.  There  is  a  touch  of  soft  conjugal  tenderness  in 
all  she  says  or  does.  When  helping  him  to  arm  for  the 
fight,  and  in  parting  with  him  (IV,  iv),  she  almost  reminds 
us  of  the  way  in  which  Desdemona  speaks  to  Othello, 
At  the  same  time  her  cleverness  makes  her  recognize  quite 
clearly  how  hopeless  his  position  is  in  face  of  the  vastly 
superior  forces  which  the  enemy  has  brought  against  the 
city.  Though  her  heart  does  not  break  with  woe,  yet  she 
is  filled  with  regret  and  sorrow,  and  almost  forgets  her 
own  fate  in  his.  Then  the  going  over  of  her  fleet  brings 
about  the  collapse;  Antony  for  the  first  time  completely 
loses  his  confidence  in  her.  So  far  he  had  deliberately 
shut  his  eyes  to  the  inevitable  approach  of  catastrophe. 
Now,  however,  the  thought  that  Cleopatra's  supposed 
betrayal  has  been  the  cause  of  his  ruin,  though  in  reality 
it  has  only  accelerated  it  a  little,  makes  him  behave  like  a 
madman  ;  he  thrusts  her  from  him,  and  is  even  prepared, 
tor  give  the  order  for  her  death.  Then,  rightly  afraid  of 
him,  she  takes  refuge  in  her  so-called  monument  and,  in 
128 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S    PLAYS 

order  to  bring  him  to  his  senses,  sends  him  word  that  she 

has  killed  herself.  When  it  is  too  late  she  recognizes  with 
\  horror  that  the  means  employed  by  her  have  been  too 

dangerous.  The  messenger  whom  she  sends  out  in  her 
[   terrible  anxiety  confirms  her  fears :  Antony  has  concluded 

that  his  duty  is  to  follow  her,  and  the  message  that  she  is 

still  alive  is  brought  to  a  dying  man. 

■  Kreyssig  (p.  451)  regards  this  behaviour  of  Cleopatra 
"  acting  a   death  comedy."     But  there  arc  no  traces 
of  the  actress   to   be   found   in   her  in  these  scenes,  no 
'   sign  of  frivolity  or  exaggeration.     On  the  contrary,  she 
is  frightened  and  depressed  during  the  whole  time.     In 
fcpport  of  Kreyssig's  view  the  argument  will  perhaps  be 
*  bought  forward  that  she  ought  to  know  Antonyms  passionate 
I  character  well  enough  to  be  aware  of  the  fatal  effect  her 
I   message  might  produce.     The  question  may  also  be  asked 
i|  whether  she  is  not  preparing  a  kind  of  last  consolation  for 
Antony  when  she  carefully  instructs  the  messenger  to  say 
that  her  last  word  had  been  "  Antony.*'     Neither  of  these 
objections,  however,  finds  any  confirmation  in  the  text.    If 
Shakespeare  had  desired  to  give  this  interpretation  to  the 
facts,  he  could  easily  have  suggested  it  by  means  of  a  few 
isi  words  exchanged  between   Cleopatra  and  her   attendant. 
O'l  As  it  is,  we  have  only  the  remark    expressly   made   by 
itt|  Cleopatra's  messenger  that  she  had  been  seized  with  fear 
^!  of  the  consequences  aper  despatching  the  message  of  her 
iif  death   ("fearing   since  .   .  .,"    IV,    xii,    125).     There    is 
^i!  no  valid  reason  for  doubting  this  statement.     The  dying 
IS  Antony  has  himself  conveyed  to  her,  and  now  Cleopatra 
ig'l  suddenly  appears  in  a  light  in  which  we  have  never  seen 
el)  her  before.     Juliet  at  the  bier  of  Romeo  could  not  have 
'  thrown  herself  on  her  lover  with  a  more  profound,  more 
serious,   and   more   passionate   grief  than    Cleopatra   now 
shows.     With  her  own  delicate  hands,  that  are  unused  to 
my  kind  of  work,  she  helps  to  draw  the  heavy  load  of  his 
Dody  up  to  the  monument,  and  embraces  him  with  the 
^ervour  of  despair.     Now,  in  her  grief,  she  is  all  tenderness, 
ill  passionate  devotion,  all  genuine,  unselfish  love.     There 

is  no  false  note  in  the  expression  of  her  feeling,  no  pettiness 
I  '  ^^^ 

I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

in  her  thoughts.  The  touching  advice  of  the  dying  man, 
to  "  seek  her  honour  with  her  safety  "  at  the  hands  of 
Caesar,  his  adversary,  she  refuses  with  the  magnificent 
words  :  "  They  do  not  go  together."  When  he  dies  in  her 
arms  she  utters  the  woeful  cry  of  a  human  being  forced  to 
surrender  the  very  core  of  its  existence. 

From  this  moment  life  for  her  has  ceased  to  be  worth 
living.  The  wife  of  Brutus  could  not  find  more  magnifi- 
cent words  for  defying  and  wrangling  with  Fate  than  are 
uttered  by  this  unfortunate  woman  after  her  servants  have 
recalled  her  from  her  swoon  : 

No  more  but  e'en  a  woman,  and  commanded  ) 

By  such  poor  passion  as  the  maid  that  milks    ^;\ 

And  does  the  meanest  chares.     It  were  for  mei^ 

To  throw  my  sceptre  at  the  injurious  gods  ;      \ 

To  tell  them  that  this  world  did  equal  theirs 

Till  they  had  stol'n  our  jewel.     All's  but  naught  ; 

Patience  is  sottish,  and  impatience  does 

Become  a  dog  that's  mad  :  then  is  it  sin 

To  rush  into  the  secret  house  of  death. 

Ere  death  dare  come  to  us  ?     How  do  you,  women  ? 

What,  what  !  good  cheer  !     Why,  how  now,  Charmian  ! 

My  noble  girls  !     Ah,  women,  women,  look. 

Our  lamp  is  spent,  it's  out  !     Good  sirs,  take  heart  : 

We'll  bury  him  ;  and  then,  what's  brave,  what's  noble. 

Let's  do  it  after  the  high  Roman  fashion. 

And  make  death  proud  to  take  us.     Come,  away  : 

This  case  of  that  huge  spirit  now  is  cold  : 

Ah,  women,  women  !  come  ;    we  have  no  friend 

But  resolution,  and  the  briefest  end. 

IV,  liii 

We  see  that  she  has  acquired  an  iron  strength  with  the 
calm  of  the  resolution  she  has  taken  in  these  last  words. 
Now  for  the  first  time,  when  she  feels  her  loss  so  deeply 
that  it  makes  her  as  poor  as  any  peasant  girl,  does  she 
really  look  like  a  queen,  and  a  queen  she  remains  during 
the  negotiations  of  the  last  act.  There  is  something  truly 
sublime  in  her  attitude,  which  resembles  that  of  a  Thusneld^. 
in  chains,  when,  having  been  disarmed  by  the  victors,  she 
goes  back  in  her  musings  to  the  past  and,  staring  in  fr 
130 


i 


» 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


of  her  with  suppressed  passion,  conjures  up  the  image  of 
Mark  Antony  in  superhuman  dimensions  : 

His  face  was  as  the  heavens  :  and  therein  stuck 

A  sun  and  moon,  which  kept  their  course  and  lighted 

The  Httle  O,  the  earth.   .  .  . 

His  legs  bestrid  the  ocean  :  his  rear'd  arm 

Crested  the  world  :  his  voice  was  propertied 

As  all  the  tuned  spheres,  and  that  to  friends  ; 

But  when  he  meant  to  quail  and  shake  the  orb, 

He  was  as  rattling  thunder.     For  his  bounty. 

There  was  no  winter  in 't  ;  an  autumn  'twas 

That  grew  the  more  by  reaping  ;  his  delights 

Were  dolphin-like  ;  they  show'd  his  back  above 

The  element  they  lived  in  :  in  his  Hvery 

Walk'd  crowns  and  crownets  ;  realms  and  islands  were 

As  plates  dropp'd  from  his  pocket. 

V,ii 

This  impression  cannot  be  diminished  even  by  the  scene 
with  Seleucus,  her  treasurer,  which  has  already  been  de- 
1  scribed.  Shakespeare,  moreover,  in  this  scene  has  so  far 
taken  into  account  the  general  conception  of  Cleopatra  in  this 
part  of  the  play  as  to  restrict  the  outburst  of  her  temper  to  a 
few  very  violent  words  addressed  to  the  faithless  servant. 
For  Cleopatra  now  is  always  the  captive  queen.  No  wonder 
that  she  finds  her  *  Mortimer  *  in  Dolabella,  the  Roman 
officer  who  betrays  to  her  the  secret  plan  of  Octavius  to 
make  her  walk  in  his  triumphal  procession.  Against  this 
humiliation,  however,  her  pride  rebels.  As  Kreyssig  says, 
the  words  in  which  she  speaks  of  this  danger  threatening 
her  reveal  rather  an  aristocratic  horror  of  coming  in 
contact  with  a  low  and  plebeian  environment  than  any  fear 
of  material  losses : 

Now,  Iras,  what  think'st  thou  ? 
Thou,  an  Egyptian  puppet,  shalt  be  shown 
In  Rome,  as  well  as  I  :  mechanic  slaves 
With  greasy  aprons,  rules,  and  hammers,  shall 
Uplift  us  to  the  view  ;  in  their  thick  breaths. 
Rank  of  gross  diet,  shall  we  be  enclouded. 
And  forced  to  drink  their  vapour. 

V.u 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

Donning  her  regal  garments  and  placing  her  crown  upon 
her  head,  she  chooses  rather  to  die  with  her  majesty  unsullied. 
It  cannot  well  be  doubted  that  this  woman,  who  now 
is  inwardly  as  well  as  outwardly  a  queen,  has  but  little  in 
common  with  the  harlot  of  the  first  part.     The  Cleopatra 
whom  we  see  in  the  time  of  Antonyms  good  fortune  gives 
us  no  indication  of  that  moral  substructure  on  which  alone 
the  fortitude  she  shows  in  adversity  can  rest.     We  know 
her  well  enough  to  foresee  that  she  will  vent  her  disappoint- 
ment in  endless  and  vociferous  lamentations  and,  like  old 
Capulet  after  receiving  the  news  of  Juliet's  death,  first  of 
all  and  principally  bewail  her  own  sad  lot.     There  was  far 
too  much  calculation  in  her  love  to  make  it  possible  for  her, 
at  a  moment  when  her  own  existence  was  in  such  imminent 
danger,  to  mourn  so  passionately  and  exclusively  for  another 
being.    In  her  nature  there  was  so  much  pettiness  and  vul- 
garity that  she  was  quite  unable  to  acknowledge  and  express 
in  such  sublime  language  the  greatness  of  the  fallen  hero. 
Her  life  had  rendered  her  far  too  aimless,  undisciplined, 
and  enervated  to  be  capable  now  of  seizing  the  helm  in 
such  an  iron  grip,  and  without  repining  steering  straight 
on  to  the  rocks.     By  means  of  that  self-characterization 
which  (cf,  p.  30  seq,)  gives  us  the  most  valuable  key  with 
which  to  unlock  the  problems  of  Shakespeare's  characters, 
she  informs  us  that  in  her   last   resolutions  she  wanted 
to  do  "  what's  brave,  what's  noble  "  (V,  ii).     This  point 
is  decisive.     The  character  of  Cleopatra  in  the  first  acts 
has  hardly  a  trace  of  nobility.     Being  noble  means  acting 
magnanimously,  renouncing,  without  hesitation,  material 
advantages  for  the  sake  of  a  higher  purpose,  triumphing 
over  ignoble  instincts.     But  the  Cleopatra  of  the  first  acts 
is  merely  a  creature  of  sense  who  has  been  raised  above  the 
animal  level  by  means  of  training  and  refinement,  and  whose 
ungoverned  sensuality  is  checked  only  by  a  supreme  power 
of  calculation.     There  is  no  human  being  for  whose  sake 
she  would  make  the  least  sacrifice,  and  her  life's  one  and 
only  ideal  is  pleasure.     It  is  impossible  to  credit  her  with 
the  behaviour  shown  in  the  last  two  acts. 

This  lack  of  consistency  in  the  development  of  Cleopatra's 
132 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

aracter  has  not  been  overlooked  by  all  the  critics.     Most 
them  have  tried  to  explain  it  away  either  by  taking  a 
ore  favourable  view  of  her  in  the  first  part,  or  making 
r  out  to  be  worse  than  she  really  is  in  the  second  part, 
maybe  both  at  the  same  time.     Even  Kreyssig,  who  is 
rhaps  the  best  psychologist  among  Shakespearean  critics, 
parently  thinks  it  necessary  to  render  the  Cleopatra  of 
e  final  catastrophe  more  credible  and  more  in  accordance 
th  that  of  the  first  part  by  throwing  a  false  light  upon  her. 
As  regards  her  touching  behaviour  at  the  sight  of  the 
bleeding  Antony,  he  admits  that  it  is  not  that  of  a  capri- 
cious coquette;^  but  the  true  sign  of  an  heroic  nature.     His 
explanation,  however,  is  that  her  **  poetic  excitability  for 
the  moment  prevails  over  her  desire  to  live  and  her  habit  of 
calculation  "  (p.  452),  and  of  the  end  he  says  :  **  The  picture 
of  her  here  given,  charming  and   seductive   rather   than 
truly  sympathetic,  reaches  the  highest  point  which  intellect 
and  beauty  without  moral  excellence  are  capable  of  attain- 
ing."    These  are  poor  makeshifts.     A  critic  always  falls 
back  upon  explaining  actions  by  means  of  passing  moods 
when  he  is  at  his  wits*  end  {cf,  p.  223).     That  Shakespeare 
here  has  no  intention  of  presenting  emotions  that  suddenly 
rise  and  are  gone  in  a  moment  is  shown  by  the  fact  that 
they  are  not  followed  by  any  reaction;   and  the  fact  that 
she  carries  out  the  grievous  resolutions  she  has  formed 
without  a  moan  or  a  complaint  proves  the  sterling  moral 
quality  of  the  woman.     It  is  also  quite  unjust  to  condemn 
her  for  putting  on  her  regal  garments  before  going  to  her 
death,  as  some  critics  have  done.     It  is  an  almost  ridiculous 
misunderstanding  of  her   motives   to   see   in   this   action 
merely  a  sign  of  "  vanity,  artifice,  and  voluptuousness  " 
(MacCallum,   p.  438).     She  owes  it  to  her  position  as 
queen    to   prefer   death   to   shameful  captivity,   and  it   is 
perfectly  intelligible  that  she  should  wish  to  perform  this 
sacrifice,  which  she  offers  to  her  dignity  and  of  the  greatness 
of  which  "she  is  fully  conscious,  with  all  the  rites  due  to 
the  solemnity  of  the  moment ;  in  fact,  this  last  regard  she 
pays  to  outward  appearances  harmonizes  perfectly  with  the 

Hublime  style  of  her  whole  behaviour. 
I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

The  attempts  to  prove  that  the  Cleopatra  of  the  last 
two  acts  bears  the  same  physiognomy  as  that  of  the  first 
part  of  the  play  must  therefore  be  regarded,  for  the  most 
part,  as  failures.     We  are  dealing  here  with  a  dramatic 
peculiarity  which  we  shall  find  again  in  many  parts  of 
Shakespeare's  work.     An  authoress  who  has  already  been 
mentioned  several  times  shows  in  her  discriminating  criti- 
cism of  Ophelia  that  a  similar  gap  appears  in  the  character 
of  this  figure  also.     To  the  worldly  young  lady   whom 
we  find  on  the  one  side  of  a  boundary-line  which  passes 
through  the  middle  of  the   play   there   corresponds   the 
"  mermaid-like  Ophelia  **  on  the  other,  and  it  is  only  the 
interplay  of  the  two  quite  differently  illuminated  spheres  that 
creates  the  mysterious  chiaroscuro  in  which  the  figure  is 
merged,  which  reminds  us  so  much  of  modern  dramatic 
methods,  and  has  therefore  given  rise  to  ever  new  interpreta- 
tions.^    But  this  is  not  the  only  parallel.     It  has  been  noticed 
that  the  figure  of  Ariel  in  The  Tempest  is  also  of  this  dual 
character,  that  originally  the  prevalent  conception  was  that 
of  a  good-natured  medieval  demon,  whereas  toward  the  end 
of  the  play  the  figure  manifestly  approaches  the  type  of  a 
fairy.2     Caliban  is  another  instance.     In  the  exposition  of 
The  Tempest  he  is  sullen  and  defiant  ;  in  the  comic  action 
which  follows  he  appears  as  a  coward.     Troilus,  at  the 
beginning  of  the  play,  is  conceived  as  much  less  ideal  than 
afterward  {cf.  above,  p.  57),  etc.,  etc.     More   exhaustive 
researches  would  reveal  still  other  cases  of  this  kind. 

The  question  now  remains  to  be  answered  how  these 
contradictions,  which  are  so  very  remarkable  and  disturb- 
ing, arise.  The  simplest  explanation  is  found  in  the  method 
of  work  described  at  the  beginning  of  this  chapter.  There 
are  many  other  things  in  Antony  and  Cleopatra  which  create 
the  impression  that  it  more  than  any  other  was  composed 
according  to  the  *  single-scene  *  method.  The  way  in 
which  Shakespeare  has  cut  up  Plutarch's  narrative  into  a 
succession  of  co-ordinated  scenes  is  not  a  sign,  despite  the 

1  Cf.  Gertrud  Landsberg,  Ophelia',  Schiicking  and  Deutschbein's  "Neue 
Anglistische  Arbeiten,"  No.  i,  p,  85  seq. 

*  Cf.  M.  Luce,  "  Arden  "  edition,  p.  284  ;  and  cf.  below. 

134 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

reat  mastery  of  characterization  shown,  of  a  careful  mental 
igestion  and  welding  together  of  the  materials  found  in 
e  original  source.     When  contrasted  with  the  firm  hand- 
ing of  the  plot  that  we  find  in  Julius  Casar  or  Macbeth^  this 
lay  on  the  whole  shows  a  decided  falling  off.     Consider- 
ble  portions  must  be  regarded  as  dramatically  ineffective 
om  the  point  of  view  of  progressive  action.     We  see,  for 
stance,  in  the  second  act  the  Triumvirs  coming  to  an 
nderstanding  with   Sextus  Pompeius,   their  enemy,   and 
;elebrating  the  event  on  board  his  galley  with  a  great 
anquet.     The  poet  seems  to  have  taken  a  great  delight 
depicting  this   feast.     At  the  end  almost  the  whole 
mpany  are  drunk ;   they  join  hands,  dance,  and,  as  was 
e  custom  at  Egyptian  revels,  unite  their  hoarse  voices 
an  attempt  to  sing  the  burden  of  a  song.     This  may 
e  productive  of  a  certain  stage  effect,  but  it  completely 
olates  the  scene^  detaching  it  from  the  context  of  the  whole 
a  manner  which  is  unequalled  even  in   Shakespeare. 
There  are  other  cases  of  the  procedure  employed  in  the 
second  part  of  that  act,  in  which  the  whole  action  is  made 
to  follow  the  example  of  the  dancers  and  keep  turning 
round  on  the  same  spot. 

We  know  that  here  the  older  form  of  the  primitive  epic 
drama  comes  to  light  again.  Brandes  holds  a  different 
view.  He  makes  the  attempt  (p.  66 1)  to  prove  that 
Shakespeare  purposely  selected  this  form  in  order  to  pro- 
duce a  continual  change  of  persons,  scenes,  and  dates 
to  give  a  structureless  character  to  the  action,  and  thereby 
to  create  the  impression  that  a  fight  of  unparalleled  dimen- 
sions was  being  presented,  a  struggle  going  on  not  in  a 
confined  space,  but  with  the  whole  world  for  its  stage  and 
for  its  object.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  this  point 
of  view  would  have  seemed  absurd  to  an  Elizabethan.  He 
could  never  have  understood  why,  in  order  to  express  a 
sublime  idea  in  the  most  adequate  manner,  the  most  primi- 
tive form  available  should  have  been  chosen.  This  assump- 
tion bears  so  evidently  the  stamp  of  the  nineteenth  century 
lie  that  no  serious  discussion  of  it  is  possible.  Another  erro- 
neous opinion  is  that  of  Walzel  {Shakespeare  Jahrbuch^  Hi), 

II 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

who  fancied  he  could  recognize  in  the  form  of  the  play 
a  special  artistic  tendency  of  the  '  baroque  *  style,  and 
thought  himself  entitled  to  contradict  the  view  which 
Wolff  had  already  shown  to  be  the  true  one,  viz.,  that 
Shakespeare  had  omitted  to  draw  up  a  detailed  plan  of 
the  drama  and  therefore  had  been  compelled  to  follow  as 
closely  as  possible  the  order  of  events  given  by  Plutarch. 

But  quite  apart  from  the  form  chosen  or  the  intended 
dramatic  formlessness,  there  are  to  be  clearly  discerned 
many  isolated  signs  of  a  rapid  and  careless  workmanship. . 
In  numerous  places  it  becomes  imperative  to  look  up  the 
corresponding  passage  in  Plutarch  in  order  to  understand 
what  is  meant.  The  spectator  must  be  completely  puzzled, 
for  instance,  when  he  hears  Pompey  the  younger  say  to 
Mark  Antony, 

O  Antony, 
You  have  my  father's  house, — But,  what  ?     We  are      ^^^ 
friends,  'WK^M 

which,  as  is  seen  from  Plutarch,  refers  to  the  fact  ^at 
Antony  had  not  paid  for  the  house  he  had  bought  of 
Pompey  the  father  (II,  vii,  136).  Not  much  more  intelli- 
gible is  II,  vi,  27.  When  Antony,  mad  with  rage,  has 
caused  Caesar's  messenger  to  Cleopatra  to  be  whipped  he 
charges  him  to  tell  Caesar  that,  in  order  to  revenge  himself, 
he  may  torture  Hipparchus,  Antony's  freedman  (III,  xi). 
The  joke,  however,  remains  unintelligible,  as  we  are  not 
informed  of  what  Plutarch  relates,  viz.,  that  this  very 
Hipparchus  had  deserted  and  betrayed  Antony.  When 
the  breach  between  Antony  and  Cleopatra  occurs  the 
Queen's  attendant  suggests  to  her  to  repair  **  to  the  monu- 
ment." Cleopatra  takes  up  the  cry  :  "  To  the  monument " 
(IV,  xi,  3  se^.).  But  the  author  forgets  that,  though 
Plutarch  in  an  earlier  passage  has  given  a  detailed  account 
of  this  monument,  he  himself  has  not  said  a  single  word 
concerning  it. 

In  one  instance  one  cannot  help  suspecting  that  Shake- 
speare so  quickly  ran  over  the  text  of  the  original  source 
that  he  read  only  the  gloss  on  the  margin,  which  gave  an 
abstract  of  the  contents,  not  the  text  itself,  the  result  of 

136 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

hich  was  a  curious  misunderstanding  in  the  drama.     In 
X,  we  read: 

Swallows  have  built 
In  Cleopatra's  sails  their  nests  :  the  augurers 
Say  they  know  not,  they  cannot  tell ;  look  grimly 
And  dare  not  speak  their  knowledge. 

he  source  says  :    "  Swallows  had  bred  under  the  poope 

f  her  shippe  and  there  came  others  after  them  that  drave 

a   away  the  first  and  plucked  down  their  neasts.**     The  gloss 

breviates  :   *' An  ill  signe,  foreshewed  by  swallowes  bred- 

g   in    Cleopatraes    shippe."      This    summary,   however, 

erses  the  sense  ;  for  not  the  fact  that  swallows  were  nest- 

g  in  the  ship,  but  that  they  were  driven  thence  by  other 

allows,  was  the  bad  omen.     Shakespeare  read  so  carelessly 

that  he  transcribed  the  sense  of  the  marginal  gloss  instead 

of  the  sense  of  the  text.    Of  other  errors  which  are  indicative 

of  an  insufficient  digestion  of  the  material  we  shall  have  to 

treat  later  on.     One  would  like  to  ask  now  whether  even 

in  these  mistakes  a  wise  intention  will  be  seen,  or  how  the 

orthodox   Shakespeareans   who   discover  the  profoundest 

artistic  purpose  precisely  in  those  places  where  the  master's 

**  brush  has  slipped  '*  will  explain  such  passages.     As  the 

case  stands,  the  most  obvious  way  to  explain  it  is  to  trace 

the  contradiction    in   the   character   back   to   the   general 

technique  of  the  play  and  to  the  tendency  toward  making 

the  scenes  independent.     The  Cleopatra  who  treats  Antony, 

the  heir  of  Hercules,  as  Omphale  treated  her  hero  is  an 

independent  conception,   and  the  Cleopatra  who  refuses 

I  to  accept  an  unworthy  end  of  her  life's  tragedy  has  also 

J  been  created  as  a  complete  and  separate  individual. 

I  m  An  explanation  of  the  fact  that  Shakespeare  has  given  the 

"  nrst  Cleopatra  a  character  so  inferior  to  that  of  Plutarch's 

heroine  may  be  found  in  the  traditional  view  of  her  as  the 

great  courtesan.     He  had  to  deal  with  a  public  whose 

thinking  was  so  much  fettered  by  conventional  standards 

with  regard  to  female  virtue  that  he  was  obliged  to  represent 

a  woman  who  was  liable  to  be  charged  with  adultery  as 

morally  deficient  in  other  respects  also. 

'        Lastly,  a  special  circumstance  may  have  influenced  the 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

characterization  of  Cleopatra  in  the  first  acts,  viz.,  that  in 
her  case  Shakespeare  was  probably  drawing  from  the  life 
to  an  extent  so  far  unknown  in  his  work.  The  striking 
resemblance  of  some  of  her  principal  traits  to  the  features  of 
the  *  Dark  Lady  'in  the  Sonnets,  which  makes  us  incline 
to  accept  this  view,  has  often  been  noticed  {cf,  MacCallum, 
p.  449  ;  Brandes,  p.  662  seq, ;  Wolff,  p.  257).  But  even 
apart  from  this  we  occasionally  find  in  the  play  that  special 
graphic  details  are  used  for  characterizing  her  which  are 
manifestly  derived  from  the  observation  of  some  definite 
person  to  an  extent  that  is  found  in  few  other  plays  of  Shake- 
speare. A  description  of  the  peculiar  sensual  attraction 
which  she  exercises,  given  by  Enobarbus,  is  clearly  founded 
on  an  individual  impression  received  by  a  fully  attentive 
observer  from  a  living  person.     He  says  : 

I  saw  her  once 
Hop  forty  paces  through  the  public  street ; 
And  having  lost  her  breath,  she  spoke,  and  panted. 
That  she  did  make  defect  perfection. 
And,  breathless,  power  breathe  forth.  ^ 

II,  ii 

This  is  an  unconnected  statement  quite  irrelevant  to  the 
action,  and  of  course  there  is  no  hint  of  it  in  Plutarch. 
By  a  combination  of  such  single*  realistic  touches  he  pro- 
duces a  masterpiece  of  portraiture,  a  clearly  outlined 
drawing  from  the  life,  very  different  from  the  second 
Cleopatra,  who  is  an  ideal  figure,  like  Imogen  or  Desdemona, 
and  several  degrees  farther  removed  from  reality. 

To  a  certain  extent  he  may  have  become  conscious  of 
this  dualism.  So  we  hear  it  stated  that  Cleopatra's  char- 
acter has  undergone  a  process  of  development.  Like 
Macbeth,  who  at  the  end  of  his  career  says  that  he  has 
become  a  different  man  from  what  he  was  before  {cf,  p.  79), 
Cleopatra  feels  that  she  has  changed  completely  : 

I  have  nothing 
Of  woman  in  me  :  now  from  head  to  foot 
I  am  marble-constant ;   now  the  fleeting  moon 
No  planet  is  of  mine. 

V.u 

138 


I 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S    PLAYS 


Here  a  difficulty  arises.     If  Shakespeare  in  this  passage 
explicitly  refers  to  a  development  of  Cleopatra's  character, 
can  we  still  say  that  he  is  inconsistent  in  his  characterization  ? 
This  question  must  be  answered  in  the  affirmative,  inasmuch 
as  the  Cleopatra  of  the  first  part  has  been  designed  without 
regard  to  the  mental  and  moral  physiognomy  which  the 
historical  facts  in  Shakespeare's  source  make  it  imperative 
for  Cleopatra  to  possess  toward  the  end  of  the  play.     So 
e  reference  to  the  development  of  her  character  is  merely 
kind  of  afterthought.     Had  Shakespeare  conceived  Cleo- 
patra as  a  consistent  character  from  the  very  beginning 
of  the  work,  which  he  apparently  omitted  to  do,  just  as 
he  failed  to  create  a  unity  of  action,  there  would  have  been 
at  least  some  slight  indications  of  the  traits  which  were  to 
come  out  in  the  later  development.     In  the  case  of  Lady 
Macbeth  this  fault  has  not  been  committed,  because  we 
are  prepared  for  her  final  collapse  by  a  number  of  incidents 
occurring  in  the  preceding  acts.     No  such  preparation  is 
made  for  Cleopatra's  sudden  change.     We  may  find  it 
easier  to  regard, the  absence  of  unity  in  the  character  as 
a  sign  of  development  if  we  consider  certain  rather  un- 
convincing developments  of  female  characters  in  famous 
dramas  of  the  time,  and  we  may  even  imagine  that,  in  one 
detail,  Shakespeare  was  slightly  influenced  by  them.     In 
Thomas   Dekker's    Honest  Whore  we  are  shown    how  a 
common  prostitute  is  reformed  by  love  and  changed  into 
an  honest  woman.     This  oldest  predecessor  of  the  Lady 
of  the  Camellias  receives  the  first  impulse  that  awakens 
in  her  the  desire  for  regeneration  from  a  speech  in  which 
a  man  to  whom  she  is  making  love  at  the  time  casts  in 
her  face  his  extreme  disgust  of  her  trade  and  her  person. 
(Not  dissimilar  is  the  psychological  process  in  the  famous 
Maid's  Tragedy  by  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  apparently  a 
later  play,  in  which  the  morally  degenerate  mistress  of 
the   King   is   aroused  from   her   indifference  and   turned 
into  a  new  being  by  her  brother  expressing  his  unvarnished 
disgust  at  her  depravity  and,  in  a  violent  outburst  of  indig- 
■  ■nation,  even  threatening  to  strike  her.)     It  almost  seems 
I  His  if  there  were  a  similar  crisis  in  the  life  of  Cleopatra. 


1 

CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

For  here  too  there  comes  a  moment  when  Antonyms  wrath 
surges  fiercely  up,  and  vents  itself  in  a  flood  of  moral 
invective.  It  is  the  scene  (III,  xi)  where  Antony  finds 
her  flirting  with  Caesar's  messenger,  through  whom  she 
is  about  to  open  conversations  with  his  master,  the 
critical  moment  in  which  she  appears  to  be  going  over  to 
the  opposite  side.  He  then  inveighs  with  inexpressible 
indignation  against  the  woman  for  the  sake  of  whose 
love  he  has  sacrificed  a  world,  and  who  now  desires  to 
cast  him  off  in  order  to  make  friends  with  his  inexor- 
able enemy  : 

You  were  half  blasted  ere  I  knew  you  :  ha  !  .  .  . 
I  found  you  as  a  morsel  cold  upon 
Dead  Caesar's  trencher  ;  nay,  you  were  a  fragment 
Of  Cneius  Pompey's  ;  besides  what  hotter  hours, 
Unregister'd  in  vulgar  fame,  you  have 
Luxuriously  pick'd  out  :  for,  I  am  sure. 
Though  you  can  guess  what  temperance  should  be, 
You  know  not  what  it  is. 

The  effect  of  this  moral  chastisement  is  astonishing. 
No  word  of  contradiction  betrays  that  the  woman  whom 
he  reprimands  so  severely  feels  herself  insulted.     On  the 
contrary,  like  a  child  that  has  been  punished,  she  gives  him 
henceforth  no  occasion  for  anger.     If  a  development  of 
her  character  were  to  be  admitted  its  crisis  would  lie  in 
this  passage.     But  the  comparison  with  a  proper  drama 
of  character  development  like  The  Honest  Whore  shows 
clearly   that   the   resemblance   is   only   apparent   and   the 
problem  of  an  essentially  different  kind.     If  Shakespeare 
had  really  wished  to  show  development  he  would  doubtless, 
like  Dekker  and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  have  made  the 
woman  at  the  decisive  moment  become  aware  of  her  conver- 
sion and  openly  confess  it.     Of  this,  however,  there  is  not 
the  slightest  indication  in  the  play.     It  is  not  a  question  of 
a  coherent  plan  of  psychological  development  in  the  mind 
of  the  dramatist,  but  of  the  "  step  by  step  *'  method  of 
dramatization,  as  Grillparzer  styles  it.     This  is  the  reason, 
as  has  been  demonstrated  above,  why  the  two  physiog- 
140 


I 


IN    SHAKESPEARE^S   PLAYS 


nomies,  at  the  beginning  and  at  the  end  of  the  play,  are  so 
jjf  irreconcilable. 

jjl       4.  Parts  of  the  Original  Historical  Action   not 
jj.  assimilated  (Cleopatra;  Malcolm). — In  establishing  the 
iji  fact  that  Cleopatra  in  the  concluding  acts  of  the  play  shows 
J  a  personality  not  sufficiently  in  agreement  with  that  in  the 
[j  first  part,  we  have  to  be  prepared  for  an  objection  which, 
,,  as  we  shall  see,  leads  to  a  problem  of  fundamental  im- 
'  portance  for  Shakespearean  exegesis.     Some  critics,  like 
\    Brandes  (p.  668),  maintain  that  Shakespeare  has  represented 
Cleopatra  in  a  much  less  favourable  light  than  Plutarch. 
They  are  of  opinion  that  in  Plutarch's  narrative  her  be- 
haviour toward  Caesar  after  she  has  been  taken  prisoner, 
especially  her  attempt  to  conceal  her  treasures  from  him, 
is  not  to  be  taken  seriously,  but  that  her  purpose  is  only  to 
mislead  Caesar  and  make  him  believe  her  desirous  of  con- 
tinuing her  existence,  in  order  that  she  may  not  be  prevented 
from  committing  suicide.     As  regards  Shakespeare's  repre- 
sentation, these  critics  think  that  there  she  really  endeavours 
to  come  to  an  understanding  with  Octavius,  is  quite  sin- 
^  cerely  anxious  to  save  her  treasures,  and  commits  suicide 
"'  only  when  she  finds  out  that  neither  the  admiration  of 
her  beauty  nor  any  feeling  of  compassion  can  turn  the 
cool-headed  victor  from  his  purpose  of  making  her  walk 
r  in   his   triumphal   procession.     This  interpretation,  how- 
ever, does  not  do  justice  to  the  facts.     Shakespeare  found 
in  Plutarch  that  Cleopatra  twice  made  very  serious    but 
ineffectual  attempts  to  take  her  life,  but  that  for  a  time 
she  made  Caesar  believe  that  she  was  ready  to  live  on 
when  he  frightened  her  with  the  fate  of  her  children — ^that 
Caesar  was  very  rejoiced  to  see,  as  he  thought,  a  sign  of 
^'  this  desire  in  her  explanation  that  she  had  attempted  to 
defraud  him  upon  the  advice  of  Seleucus,  her  treasurer, 
merely  in  order  to  keep  some  objects  of  value  with  which 
to  win  the  favour  of  Octavia  and  Livia.     This  explanation 
J  of  her  conduct,  however,  had  been  given  only  in  order  to 
^  lull   his   suspicions.     When,    immediately   afterward,    she 
]  received  the  information  from  Dolabella  that  her  removal 
to  Rome  had  secretly  been  resolved  upon  she  made  the 
"  141 


B 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

third  attempt  at  suicide  by  means  of  the  Nile  serpents, 
and  this  time  with  success.  From  this  account  we  learn 
that  her  resolution  had  indeed  been  shaken  for  a  while. 
This  idea,  however,  was  not  in  accordance  with  Shake- 
speare's intention  of  bringing  about  an  heroic  conclusion. 
He  omits  altogether  her  second  attempt  to  commit  suicide 
by  means  of  starvation,  and  never  puts  a  word  into  her 
mouth  that  could  throw  the  slightest  doubt  upon  her  stead- 
fastness. The  very  moment  that  Antony  is  dead  she  is 
made  to  appear  so  stricken  with  grief  that  we  feel  that 
she  has  done  with  life.  In  one  of  the  last  lines  of  Act  IV 
she  says: 

We'll  bury  him  ;  and  then,  what's  brave,  what's  noble, 
Let's  do  it  after  the  high  Roman  fashion. 
And  make  death  proud  to  take  us. 

This  idea  she  holds  fast.  But  if  she  is  resolved  to  die 
why  then  does  she  send  messengers  to  Caesar  to  inquire 
what  he  is  proposing  to  do  with  her,  and  why  does  she 
still  try  to  conceal  some  of  her  treasures,  as  Seleucus  dis- 
covers ?  ^  The  critics  have  seen  herein  a  weakening  of^ 
her  resolution,  which  they  find  quite  intelligible  in  view 
of  our  previous  acquaintance  with  her  character.  "  The 
body  of  her  dead  past,"  MacCallum  says,  "  weighs  her 
down  and  she  cannot  advance  steadily  in  the  higher  altitudes. 
She  wavers  in  her  determination  to  die,  as  is  implied  by 
her  retention  of  her  treasure,  and  *  the  courtesan's  instincts 
of  venality  and  falsehood  '  (Boas)  still  assert  their  sway." 

1  Certain  critics  have  for  this  reason  managed  to  interpret  the  wholej 
treacherous  action  of  Seleucus  as  preconcerted,  and  Cleopatra's  indignation 
as  a  premeditated  piece  of  acting.  In  support  of  this  view  they  adduce  the 
words  of  Plutarch  :  "  He  [Caesar]  took  his  leave  of  her,  supposing  he  had 
deceived  her,  but  in  deede  he  was  deceived  him  selfe."  They  also  add  North's 
gloss  :  "  Cleopatra  finely  deceiveth  Octavius  Caesar,  as  though  she  desired 
to  live."  But  this  is  a  gross  misunderstanding.  What  Plutarch  wishen 
to  say  is  that  Cleopatra's  explanation  of  her  fraud,  not  the  whole  incident, 
was  a  clever  move  for  suggesting  the  idea  to  Caesar  that  in  wanting  to  keep 
something  for  presents  she  was  thinking  of  the  future  and  had  no  wish  to  die, 
MacCallum,  who  does  not  believe  either  that  this  incident  was  preconcerted, 
thinks  he  has  found  another  way  out  of  the  difficulty  in  the  discovery  tha'; 
the  things  she  wishes  to  conceal  are  the  jewels  with  which  she  intends  t(; 
adorn  herself  afterward  when  she  goes  to  her  death  I  But  if  Shakespeare 
had  this  excellent  idea,  why  did  he  not  bring  it  to  light  himself  but  wai: 
for  MacCallum's  pen  to  come  along  and  relieve  him  of  this  necessity  ? 

142 


IN    SHAKESPEARE^S   PLAYS 


But  if  this  had  been  Shakespeare*s  intention  why  then 
does  he  not  make  her  say  a  single  word  to  her  confidantes 
to  the  effect  that  she  is  afraid  of  death  and  still  thinks  of 
subduing  Caesar  ?  Why  do  her  wonderful  speeches  express 
only  royal  self-esteem  and  iron  resolution  ?  We  see 
that  we  must  reject  this  view,  because  it  is  a  thorough 
misunderstanding  of  Shakespeare's  art-form.     The  case  is 

^   decided,  here  as  everywhere  else,  by  the  utterances  of  the 

:  heroine  herself,  which  must  be  taken  for  Gospel  truth. 
They  also  clearly  prove  how  hopeless  the  attempt  is  to 

•  explain  the  inconsistency  between  her  action  and  her 
resolution  by  means  of  an  unconscious  "  hoping  against 
hope  "  (MacCallum),  by  counter-currents  in  her  mind, 
by  the  idiosyncrasies  of  a  complex  soul.  These  motives 
too  Shakespeare  would  have  indicated  through  the  words 
either  of  the  heroine  herself  or  of  some  person  in  her 
entourage.  The  simple  truth  is  this,  that  by  raising  her 
character  to  a  higher  moral  level  he  creates  difficulties 
from  which  he  cannot  extricate  himself.  He  took  over 
from  his  original  source,  at  least  in  large  outlines,  a  course 
of  action  which  no  longer  agreed  with  the  character  as 
he  had  idealized  it.  As  a  matter  of  history,  Antony  and 
Cleopatra  did  not  die  together,  so  he  did  not  dare  to  depart 
so  far  from  history  as  to  make  her  kill  herself  over  Antony's 
body,  and  thus  we  get  a  heroine  who  presents  a  problem 
similar  to  Hamlet's,  and  for  reasons  that  are  not  unlike 

;  those  in  his  case.  She  is  resolved  ;  then  why  does  not  she 
act  ?     This  close  adherence  to  historical  fact  -produces  a  conflict 

i  between  character  and  action. 

The  case  is  of  typical  interest.  It  shows  how  Shake- 
speare may  become  dependent  on  the  historical  fact  to  an 
extent  which  seriously  imperils  the  dramatic  sense  of  the 
play.  It  is  certain  that  in  this  respect  also  his  working 
methods  cannot  easily  be  systematized  and  reduced  to  a 
simple  formula.  It  would  be  too  sweeping  a  statement  to 
maintain  that  he  does  not  weigh  the  facts  of  his  sources 
in  regard  to  their  psychological  significance  for  the  char- 
acters, but  still  in  the  end  this  is  what  it  very  nearly  comes 
to.     In  a  case  like  the  one  just  described  he  incorporates, 

143 


I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

so  to  speak,  the  architectural  design  of  the  narrative  found 
in  the  historical  source  in  his  dramatic  edifice,  but  leaves 
certain  portions  of  the  original  structure  standing,  without 
noticing  apparently  that  in  his  altered  ground-plan  they 
interrupt  the  continuity  of  the  whole  and  act  as  obstruc- 
tions. An  episode  like  the  one  with  Seleucus,  the  treasurer, 
would  in  another  place  have  been  perfectly  in  keeping 
with  the  character  of  Cleopatra,  but  after  she  has  so 
solemnly  announced  her  firm  resolution  to  die  we  no 
longer  understand  why  she  still  wishes  to  conceal  jewels. 
Here,  therefore,  it  is  the  preservation  of  historical  details 
incapable  of  being  dovetailed  into  the  new  context  created 
by  the  poet  which  gives  rise  to  difficulties  that,  of  course, 
become  the  critics'  meat  and  drink  ;  here  they  may 
exercise  their  ingenuity,  eliciting  hidden  meanings,  and 
excogitating  artistic  subtleties  of  which  neither  the  author 
nor  any  spectator  in  the  Globe  Theatre  can  have  had  th^i 
slightest  inkling.  ^ 

Closely  related  to  Shakespeare's  dependence  on  the 
external  features  of  his  original  material  is  his  general 
attitude  toward  the  psychological  probability  of  the  his- 
torically recorded  fact.  It  is  most  characteristic  of  him 
that  he  does  not  rebel  against  his  historic  model  to  which  he 
owes  so  much,  but  unhesitatingly  submits  to  it  even  where 
it  reports  events  that  are  quite  impossible  from  a  psycho- 
logical point  of  view.  For  instance,  he  found  in  Holinshed 
the  pretty  story  of  how  Macduff,  fleeing  from  Scotland  to 
escape  the  fury  of  the  tyrant  Macbeth,  comes  to  Malcolm, 
the  legitimate  pretender  to  the  throne,  and  implores  him 
to  take  in  hand  the  liberation  of  the  sorely  oppressed 
country.  Malcolm,  however,  fearing  that  the  tyrant  has 
sent  Macduff  for  the  purpose  of  sounding  and  entrapping 
him,  and  in  order  to  put  him  to  the  test,  declares  that 
Scotland  would  gain  nothing  by  such  a  change  of  rulers, 
that,  on  the  contrary,  it  had  better  follow  the  example  of 
the  fox  who  objected  to  the  swarm  of  flies  being  chased  off 
his  body  because  the  old  ones  were  at  least  fairly  satisfied, 
whereas  new  ones  would  be  still  hungry.  He  describes 
himself  as  an  insatiable  voluptuary,  avaricious  beyond 
144 


li 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

measure,  unjust,  hypocritical,  false,  mendacious,  fickle, 
malicious,  and  cruel — in  brief,  as  a  veritable  sink  of  iniquity. 
Macduff  has  come  to  terms  with  the  vices  first  described 
to  him,  but  at  last  he  loses  all  confidence  and  turns  away 
from  him  weeping,  and  with  the  cry  of  despair  that  under 
these  conditions  there  is  no  help  for  his  unhappy  country. 
This  very  recoil,  however,  proves  to  Malcolm  how  great 
his  sincerity  is  ;  the  Prince's  mistrust  disappears  ;  he 
takes  him  in  his  arms  and  lays  his  cards  upon  the  table. 

In  this  story  a  realistic  writer  would  have  found  only 
the  nucleus  of  a  dramatic  composition.  To  direct  dramati- 
zation it  is  absolutely  refractory,  for  it  must  be  evident 
to  a  child  that  a  man  having  all  the  vices  described  will 
not  reveal  himself  in  that  manner.  The  proper  thing  for 
Malcolm  to  do  was  to  pretend  to  be  such  a  man,  to  simulate 
the  character  which  he  confesses  in  words.  As  the  case 
stands,  this  Malcolm  must  be  a  most  ridiculous  simpleton, 
Delieving,  as  he  does,  in  good  earnest  that  a  grown-up 
nan  could  say  of  himself : 

It  is  myself  I  mean  ;  in  whom  I  know 

All  the  particulars  of  vice  so  grafted, 

That,  when  they  shall  be  open'd,  black  Macbeth 

Will  seem  as  pure  as  snow  ;  and  the  poor  state 

Esteem  him  as  a  lamb,  being  compar'd 

With  my  confineless  harms.  .  .  .     There's  no  bottom,  none. 

In  my  voluptuousness  :  your  wives,  your  daughters, 

Your  matrons,  and  your  maids,  could  not  fill  up 

The  cistern  of  my  lust ;  and  my  desire 

All  continent  impediments  would  o'erbear. 

That  did  oppose  my  v^^ill.  .  .  .     With  this,  there  grows 

In  my  most  ill-compos'd  affection  such 

A  stanchless  avarice,  that,  were  I  king, 

I  should  cut  off  the  nobles  for  their  lands  ; 

Desire  his  jewels,  and  this  other's  house  : 

And  my  more-having  would  be  as  a  sauce 

To  make  me  hunger  more  ;  that  I  should  forge 

Quarrels  unjust  against  the  good  and  loyal, 

Destroying  them  for  wealth.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  The  king-becoming  graces 
As  justice,  verity,  temperance,  stableness, 

K  145 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

Bounty,  perseverance,  mercy,  lowliness, 

Devotion,  patience,  courage,  fortitude, 

I  have  no  relish  of  them  ;    but  abound 

In  the  division  of  each  several  crime. 

Acting  it  many  ways.     Nay,  had  I  power  I  should 

Pour  the  sweet  milk  of  concord  into  hell. 

Uproar  the  universal  peace,  confound 

All  unity  on  earth. 

MacduiF,  however,  cannot  really  believe  this  ;  he  is 
not  such  a  simpleton,  nor  is  the  Prince  unknown  to  him. 
For  this  reason  Vischer  (ii,  p.  120)  is  not  quite  satisfied 
with  the  passage,  and  thinks  it  too  improbable  and  too 
closely  copied  from  the  original.  It  is,  however,  to  be 
taken  into  consideration  that,  to  a  certain  extent  (</.  pp.  29- 
52),  direct  self-characterization  belongs  to  the  primitive 
dramatic  traditions.  The  villain  who  informs  the  audience 
of  the  *  villainies  *  he  himself  has  set  on  foot,  Julius  Caesar 
who  discourses  on  his  own  greatness,  may  have  caused  the 
dramatization  of  this  inherently  impossible  story  to  appear 
in  a  somewhat  different  light.  This  circumstance,  how- 
ever, cannot  be  of  decisive  importance.  The  question  then 
remains  whether  it  is  the  respect  for  historical  tradition 
which  makes  the  author  feel  himself  entitled  only  to 
dramatize,  not  to  criticize — in  other  words,  whether  by 
the  mere  fact  of  their  being  historical  these  events  had 
acquired,  so  to  speak,  a  kind  of  scientific  sanction  in  hia 
eyes.  A  glance  over  a  neighbouring  field  of  investigation, 
where  conditions  are  so  similar  that  no  conclusive  answer 
is  possible  without  taking  them  into  account,  will  show 
us  that  this  view  is  entirely  out  of  the  question. 

5.  The  Filling  in  of  the  given  Outline  of  thi 
Action  (Hamlet). — One  of  the  greatest  obstacles  to  the 
establishment  of  complete  harmony  between  character  anc 
action  in  Shakespeare's  work  is  naturally  the  inferioi 
part  the  character  plays  as  compared  with  the  action  ir 
the  conception  of  the  drama.  In  real  life  the  actions 
depend  on  the  character,  the  character  on  the  disposition 
For  this  reason  we  judge  the  characters  of  men  by  thei 
actions.  Though  Shakespeare  naturally  held  the  sam< 
146 


J 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

inion,  yet  his  dramatic  practice  was  different.     Earlier 

kespearean  research,  because  it  overlooked  this  circum- 

ce,  was  unable,  in  many  cases,  to  find  out  the  truth. 

tor   Hugo   quite   seriously   believed   that   Shakespeare 

t  imagined  the  wonderful  figures  and  then  created  the 

a  for  them.     **  When  he  had  dreamt  and  found  the 

ge  of  Cordelia,"  he  says,   **  Shakespeare  created  the 

rama  of  King  Lear^     Gervinus,  too,  in  one  place  says 

^  in  plain  words  :    "  In  Shakespeare's  plays  the  action  is 

''  always    secondary,    derivative,   a   subsidiary  growth ;    the 

••  true  centre  of  unity  of  his  works  always  leads  to  the  fountain- 

'"■  bead  of  the  actions,  to  the  acting  human  beings  themselves, 

-  ind  to  the  hidden  origins,  from  which  their  actions  arise  " 

f  ni,  p.  260).     And  even  Kuno  Fischer  (p.  32)  says  in  his 

''  peculiar  Polonius-like  manner  that  all  the  stories  told  by 

^  :he  previous  critics  of  Hamlet  about  his  lack  of  energy 

^'  ire  disproved  by  the  story  of  Hamlet  itself,  by  his  fight 

^'  ivith  the  pirates,  in  which  he  displays  the  courage  of  a  lion, 

^j  2tc.     Historical  literary  research  shows  that  such  views 

directly  reverse  the  actual  dependence  of  character  and 

iction,   Shakespeare's  mode  of  work  being,  as  we  have 

ilready  seen,  quite  contrary  to  that  with  which  his  critics 

^'  :redit  him.     Almost  throughout  he  works  upon  a  given 

\  Dlot,  the  characters  of  which  he  develops,  individualizes, 

^1  md  fills  with  warm  life-blood.     But  this  is  a  method  of 

't  :omposition  along  prearranged  lines.     It  can  lead  to  quite 

>^  satisfactory  results  only  if  the  action,  which  has  not  always 

'^'  Deen  invented  by  good  psychologists,  is  changed  wherever 

t  contains  manifest  inconsistencies  so  as  to  produce  unity 

)f  character.     But  this  Shakespeare  does  only  in  a  very  tew 

:ases.     The  example  of  Cleopatra  has  already  shown  us  that 

le  is  afraid  of  departing  from  the  historical  action  in  more 

mportant  details.     Now  the  investigation  of  the  genetic 

ioj:onnexions  of  the  non-historical  dramas  will  teach  us  to 

•ecognize  the  same  peculiarity  with  similar  consequences. 

The  most  instructive  and  best-known  example  is  to  be 

bund   in   the   character   of  Hamlet.     Here  Shakespeare 

ei'  lad  before  him  a  play  which  is  lost  to  us,  the  main  out- 

Is  of  which,  however,  we  can  reconstruct  without  much 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

difficulty,  especially  as  we  possess  a  very  crude  and  dis- 
torted, but  at  the  same  time  exceedingly  instructive  copy  oi 
it  in  the  German  Hamlet^  the  so-called  Fratricide  Punished? 
In  this  work  Kyd  had  created,  as  a  counterpart  to  hi:^ 
famous  Spanish  Tragedy^  a  kind  of  "  Danish  Tragedy." 
The  Spanish  Tragedy  had  become  the  most  popular  dramo 
of  his  time.  His  Hamlet  had  found  less  favour  with  the 
public,  though  it  cannot  be  said  to  have  remained  un- 
noticed. The  observant  critic  will  not  fail  to  notice  the 
reasons  of  its  small  success.  This  play  too  opens  (cf,  Lewis, 
p.  69  seq.)  with  the  night-watch  at  Elsinore  ;  Horatio  is 
informed  by  the  members  of  the  watch  of  the  appearance 
of  the  ghost,  who  immediately  shows  himself.  Hamlel 
joins  the  company,  suffering  and  weakened  by__th£_d£atJ: 
of  his  father,  his  sorrow  at  the  marriage  of  his  mothei 
so  soon  after  the  sad  event,  and  his  own  exclusion  from  tE( 
succession  to  the  throne.  Then  the  ghost  appears  again 
gives  Hamlet  to  understand  by  signs  that  he  wishes  t( 
speak  to  him,  informs  him  of  the  nature  of  his  death,  anc 
urges  him  to  take  revenge.  Hamlet  swears  that  he  wil 
fulfil  his  desire,  then  asks  his  friends  to  promise  on  theii 
oath  that  they  will  help  him.  As  the  ghost,  however,  inter 
venes  by  loudly  echoing  his  words,  he  sees  fit  to  postpon< 
the  explanation  of  the  reason  for  his  request  which  he  ha:i 
promised  to  give  them,  and  communicates  to  Horatio  onh 
what  he  has  heard.  At  the  same  time  he  announces  t( 
him  that  he  is  going  to  simulate  madness,  which,  h( 
hopes,  will  greatly  help  him  to  fulfil  the  difficult  task  o 
murdering  the  King. 

This  motive  is  emphasized  once  more  in  Fratricid 
Punished^  and  therefore,  we  may  be  sure,  also  in  Kyd' 
Urhamlet,^     No  great  effort  is  required  to  show  that  it  i 

^  Cf.  W.  Creizenach,  Die  Schauspiele  der  englischen  Komodiantet 
KxiTSchnei's  National-Liter atur,  vol.  xxiii,  p.  125  seq. ;  Charlton  M.  Lewis,  T) 
Genesis  of  Hamlet  (New  York,  1907),  p.  47  seq.  i  G.  Landsberg,  Ophelii 
p.  4655^.,  note. 

*  II.  5  :  "  Horatio,  my  esteemed  friend,  by  means  of  this  assume 
madness  I  hope  to  find  occasion  to  avenge  my  father's  death.  You  kno\ 
however,  that  my  uncle  is  always  surrounded  by  many  retainers,  therelor( 
in  case  I  should  be  unsuccessful  and  you  should  find  my  body,  I  pray  yc 
give  it  an  honest  funeral,  for  on  the  first  opportunity  that  I  shall  find,  I  she 
try  to  get  at  him." 

148 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

very  plausible.     Indeed,  it  is  only  the  comparison  with 

d's  original  which  enables  us   to  understand  how  the 

matist  came  to  introduce  this  motive  at  all.     In  this,  in 

tales  of  Belleforest  and  also  in  Saxo  Grammaticus,  the 

inal  source  of  the  Hamlet  story,  the  murder  of  old 

let  had  been  committed  quite  openly,  at  the  time  when 

Prince  was  still  a  child.     The  fratricide  had  therefore 

ear  the  vengeance  of  the  youth  as  he  was  growing  up. 

der  these  circumstances  Hamlet,  who   was   revolving 

^  3lans  of  revenge  in  his  mind,  naturally  acted  in  the  cleverest 

possible  manner  in  shamming  madness  and  thereby  making 

•  limself  appear  harmless.     Since  Kyd,  however,  had  repre- 

5  rented  the  murder  as  having  taken  place  secretly,  and  the 

^  nurderer,  therefore,  could  have  no  idea  that  his  victim, 

^  -eturning  from  purgatory,  had  revealed  the  truth  to  his 

h  ;on,  it  was  more  probable  that  the  Prince  would  create 

^  iuspicion  against  himself  by  the  sudden  change  of  his 

^  lature.     This  very  obvious  idea  does  not  seem  to  have 

^  roubled    Kyd.     He    believed    Hamlet*s    conduct    to    be 

]  lufficiently  explained  by  the  expectation  that  as  a  supposed 

^  unatic  he  would  be  better  able  to  deceive  the  soldiers 

^  )y  whom  the  King  was  constantly  surrounded. 

■^     The  step  he  had  taken  is  soon  discovered  to  be  worse 

^  han  useless,  for  the  King,  as  might  have  been  foreseen, 

^  mmediately   takes    alarm.     Listening   to    a   conversation 

f  )etween  Hamlet  and  Ophelia  he  finds  his  suspicion  con- 

irmed  that  the  Prince  is  only  simulating  madness,  and  the 

•esolution  begins  to  take  shape  in  his  mind  to  rid  himself 

)f  this  dangerous  foe.     Hamlet,  in  the  meantime,  further 

^  )ursues  his  purpose.     The  appearance  of  the  actors  affords 

lim  an  opportunity,  which  he  eagerly  embraces,  of  remov- 

ng,  by  means  of  a  scene  inserted  in  the  play,  all  doubts 

.s  to  the  veracity  of  the  ghost.     But  when  he  finds  the 

^J  Cing  alone  and  is  given  the  first  chance  of  carrying  out 

lis  purpose  of   revenge  he  defers  the  execution  of   his 

)lan,  though  quite  convinced  now  of  the  King's  guilt, 

)ecause  he  does  not  wish  to  slay  him  while  he  is  praying. 

<[ow  follows  a  visit  to  the  Queen,   his  mother,   during 

I'^daich  Polonius  is  caught  eavesdropping  and  killed.     The 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

ghost  appears  a  second  time,  and  Hamlet  again  promises 
to  avenge  him.  Then,  however,  he  is  sent  to  England ; 
he  escapes  from  his  companions,  and  after  his  return  at 
last  finds  an  opportunity  of  accomplishing  his  revenge 
during  his  duel  with  Laertes.  He  kills  the  King,  but 
himself  falls  a  victim  in  the  attempt. 

This,  as  we  see,  is  a  very  inferior  plot.  What  probably 
attracted  Kyd  in  the  story  is  above  all  the  feeling  of  mystery 
which  pervades  the  whole,  the  mutual  deceptions,  the 
spying  and  eavesdropping,  the  game  of  intrigue  played 
under  the  mask  of  friendship  in  which  life  and  death  are 
the  stakes.  Yet  one  radical  fault  in  this  action  which 
was  certain  to  diminish  its  effect  on  the  stage  was  the 
slackening  of  the  tension.  Though  all  sorts  of  details 
had  been  introduced  to  enliven  the  action  the  effect  is 
insignificant.  The  representation  of  a  **  play  within  the 
play  "  might  interest  so  long  as  the  charm  of  novelty 
lasted.  But  this  idea  had  been  much  better  utilized  in 
a  number  of  other  dramas,  as,  for  instance,  in  The  Spanish 
Tragedy^  where  the  avengers,  after  long  and  futile  endeavours 
to  secure  expiation,  succeed  in  arranging  an  amateur  per- 
formance with  the  guilty  persons,  who  all  unexpectedly, 
when  the  play  reaches  its  tragic  climax,  change  it  into  deadly 
earnest.  Compared  with  such  effects,  the  interest  of  the 
play  in  Hamlet^  which  served  only  to  reveal  a  guilty  con- 
science, was  feeble.  A  great  deal  of  fuss  was  made  about 
a  result  which  added  so  little  to  the  progress  of  the  action. 
Another  difficulty  was  presented  by  the  introduction^  of  a 
girl  who  was  loosely  connected  with  ^e  TieFd.  But  after 
she  had  had  her  one  and  only  moment  of  importahce^^erving 
as  decoy  in  the  eavesdropping  scene,  the  poet  no  longer 
knew  what  to  do  with  her.  Another  drama  in  which  a  girlj 
going  mad  and  singing  songs,  had  proved  anefffectivrfgun! 
iO  suggested  to  him  the  idea  of  making  his  heroine~^ecom(! 
mentally  deranged.  In  contrast,  however,  to  that  oilier 
drama  in  which  the  knot  of  the  play  is  unravelled  by  meanii 
of  it  the  girl's  madness  here  has  scarcely  any  dramatic 
significance — that  is  to  say,  the  action  would  not  takd 
an  essentially  different  course  if  this  trait  were  missingj 
150 


V 


i 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


By  inventing  a  scene,  similar  to  that  extant  in  Fratricide 
■  Punished^  in  which  Hamlet  on  his  journey  to  England 
escapes  the  snares  laid  for  him  remains  doubtful.  In 
that  play  two  bandits  are  entrusted  with  the  murder  of 
'  Hamlet,  but  he  arranges  with  them  that  one  of  them  shall 
stand  in  front  of  him  and  take  aim,  the  other  behind  ; 
at  the  moment  of  firing  he  throws  himself  on  the  ground, 
so  that  they  shoot  each  other  dead.  Such  excessive  naivety 
and  drastic  clumsiness  we  are  not  accustomed  to  find  in 
Kyd.  One  thing  is  clear,  however:  the  action  in  his 
version  must  have  stuck  and  refused  to  move  on  ; 
especially  after  the  performance  of  the  inserted  play  the 
stream  of  the  action  threatens  to  be  choked  up  altogether. 
At  last  a  kind  of  conclusion  was  somewhat  forcibly  brought 
about  by  the  King  arranging  that  fencing  bout  which  must 
have  failed  to  satisfy  even  the  ordinary  spectator,  because  of 
the  utter  improbability  that  Hamlet,  who  knows  the  King 
to  be  a  most  dangerous  villain  and  consequently  mistrusts 
him,  would  have  consented  to  this  proposal. 

After  all  that  has  been  said  it  does  not  appear  quite 
certain  whether  Hamlet's  failure  to  carry  out  his  revenge 
is  due  merely,  as  Lewis  thinks  (p.  58  seq,\  to  external 
causes.  It  is  true  that  in  Fratricide  Punished  Hamlet 
never  once  reproaches  himself  with  being  remiss,  and  that 
here  the  external  obstacles  play  an  important  part.  The 
scene  where  Hamlet  finds  the  King  absorbed  in  prayer 
seems  to  ofFer  him  the  first  opportunity  of  carrying  out  his 
revenge.  Why  he  makes  no  use  of  it  is  clearly  explained 
by  him,  and  so  his  hesitation  in  this  case  cannot  be  regarded 
as  a  sign  of  a  character  disinclined  to  action.  At  the  same 
time  we  may  assume  that  this  idea  of  Kyd's  was  probably 
the  death,  not  indeed  of  the  King,  but  of  the  whole  dra- 
matic interest  of  the  piece.  We  cannot  imagine  that  the 
spectators   would    have  continued   to   trouble   themselves 

(about  a  hero  who  is  constantly  assuring  them  of  his 
thirst  for  revenge,  but  at  last,  when  he  has  the  villain 
in  his  power,  allows  him  to  escape.  It  was  quite  in 
accordance  with  this  feeling  that  the  play  was,  so  to  speak, 

L 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

given  a  fresh  start  with  a  new  appearance  and  exhortation  , 
of  the  ghost. 

We  must  never  forget,  however,  while  making  this 
reconstruction,  that  the  German  tragedy,  even  should  it 
be  directly  derived  from  the  Urhamlet^  does  not  allow  any 
inferences  to  be  drawn  regarding  the  subtler  traits  of  the 
original,  because  it  is  evident  that  they  have  become  largely 
obliterated  in  this  crude  and  garbled  version.  A  sure  sign 
of  this  is  the  absence  of  the  monologues  which  play  such 
an  important  part  in  Kyd*s  work.  It  will  therefore  be 
more  advisable  to  complete  the  psychological  portrait  of 
Hamlet  by  a  reference  to  Hieronimo,  the  famous  avenger 
in  The  Spanish  Tragedy^  also  written  by  the  author  of  the 
Urhamlet,  This  person,  who  is  in  a  very  similar  mental 
and  moral  position  to  Hamlet,  will  better  assist  us  to 
gain  an  approximate  impression  of  him  than  the  shadowy 
figure  in  Fratricide  Punished,  Hieronimo  has  a  most  ex- 
pressive mental  physiognomy.  His  profoundly  emotional 
and  infinitely  sensitive  nature  is  so  cruelly  wounded  by 
the  murder  of  his  son  that  for  a  long  time  he  is  plunged 
into  the  deepest  abyss  of  despair.  His  mind,  embittered 
and  darkened  by  suffering,  is  more  and  more  invaded  by 
a  great  disgust  of  life,  and  at  last  temporarily  eclipsed 
by  madness.  His  passionate  craving  for  revenge  being 
checked  in  the  beginning  by  his  distrust  and  his  endeavour 
to  secure  positive  evidence,  it  is  necessary  that  he  should  be 
roused  later  on  by  his  son's  betrothed  from  the  apathetic 
brooding  which  threatens  to  overwhelm  him  and  take  away 
from  him  his  power  of  acting.  The  salient  feature  in  his 
physiognomy  is  "  his  dwelling  on  an  idea,  a  passion,  which 
ceaselessly  occupies  his  mind  and  is  embodied  by  it  in  ever 
new  and  changing  images,"  ^  thereby  undermining  his  whole 
mental  constitution.  Here  we  can  say  positively  that  the 
obstacles  are  not  merely  external,  but  also  such  as  have 
their  roots  in  the  hero's  own  soul,  and  hence  there  is  no 
reason  for  supposing  that  the  poet  who  created  both  these 
figures  omitted  to  introduce  a  similar  feature  into  the 

1  Cf.  G.  A.  Bieber,  Der  Melancholikertypus  Shakespeares  und  sein  Ursprung. 
"  Angl.  Arbeiten,"  No.  3,  Heidelberg,  1913,  p.  41  seq. 

152 


^^   IN  SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

■karacter  of  Hamlet,  whose  life's  crisis  so  closely  resembles 

^at  of  Hieronimo  in  its  external  aspects  also.     We  shall 

probably  not  be  far  from  the  truth  in  assuming  that  Shake- 

I  speare  was  chiefly  attracted   by  these  things  and,   when 

I  Marston  in  1599  had  brought  the  tragedy  of  revenge  into 

fashion  again  with  his  Antonio  dramas,  was  induced  to 

meet   the  taste  of  the  public  for  such  themes  with  his 

treatment  of  the  story  of  Hamlet. 

In  this  new  treatment  of  the  subject  and  partial  revision 
of  the  old  play  Shakespeare  worked  out  the  character  in 
accordance  with  a  plan  which  in  a  simpler  form,  as  has 
been  shown,  was  in  all  likelihood  already  contained  in  the 
play,  viz.,  the  idea  of  melancholy}  When  Shakespeare 
wrote  Hamlet — in  1601 — the  *  melancholy  type*  was 
^most  a  fashionable  figure,  the  word  *  melancholy  '  itself 
Brfavourite  expression.  At  that  time  anyone  who  wished 
^  cut  a  really  distinguished  and  aristocratic  figure  pulled 
his  black  hat  with  the  long  black  plume  far  over  his  face, 
wore  a  long  black  cloak,  and  posed,  wherever  possible,  with 
his  arms  crossed  over  his  chest.  Those  wishing  to  appear 
as  **  coming  of  a  noble  family  '*  not  only  adopted,  like  the 
visitors  in  Auerbach's  cellar,  a  **  proud  and  discontented  " 
mien,  but  also  spread  round  themselves  the  sublime  and 
sombre  halo  which  surrounds  the  victim  of  melancholy. 
"  Why  so  melancholy  }  "  was  the  fashionable  question  if 
people  wished  to  be  particularly  polite.  In  a  contempora- 
neous play,  Thomas  Lord  Cromwell  (III,  ii),  a  gentleman 


1  That  Hamlet  is  to  be  conceived  as  a  melancholy  character  has  often 
been  asserted  by  earlier  Shakespearean  scholars,  one  of  the  first  being  the 
Scottish  critic  Henry  Mackenzie,  in  the  MIyyoy,  No.  99  (1780).  An  exhaustive 
scholarly  discussion  of  this  view  has  also  been  contributed  by  Loning  in  his 
work  entitled  Shakespeares  Hamlet-Tragodie,  Stuttgart,  1893.  Since,  how- 
ever, the  knowledge  which  English  and  American  scholars  have  of  German 
Shakespearean  research  rarely  reaches  farther  than  the  extracts  given  in 
the  Variorum  edition  of  Furness,  the  same  discovery  has  recently  been 
made  once  more  by  Bradley  in  his  excellent  book,  Shakespearean  Tragedy, 
London,  1904.  Neither  Loning  nor  Bradley,  however,  have  treated  the 
problem  from  the  purely  literary  point  of  view,  i.e.,  cleared  up  its  genetic 
connexions.  Cf.  on  this  point  the  author's  article  in  the  Germ.  Roman. 
Monatschr.,  iv,  1912,  No.  6  ;  E.  E.  Stoll,  Mod.  Philology,  iii  ("Shakespeare, 
Marston,  and  the  Malcontent  Type  ")  ;  Bieber,  loc.  cit.  ;  and  Radebrecht, 
Shakespeares  Abhdngigkeit  von  Marston  (Schiicking  and  Deutschbein's  "  Neue 
Anglistische  Arbeiten,"  No.  3,  1918). 

153 


II 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

of  rank   changes    places  with  his  servant   and  asks   hii 
how  he  now  feels.     The  answer  is  : 

My  nobility  is  wonderful  melancholy.     Is  it  not  most 
gentlemanlike  to  be  melancholy  ? 

This  kind  of  jest  is  not  unfrequent,  especially  in  the  comedj 
of  manners  of  that  period. 

Among  the  serious  melancholy  types  upon  the  stage 
notice  especially  the  melancholy  lover,  handed  down 
the  literature  of  fiction,  with  certain  conventional  feature 
which   still    preserved   something  of  the  rigidity   of  tj 
Provencal  theories  of  love  in  the  twelfth  century.     TJ 
melancholy  lover  is  in  a  kind  of  fever,  alternately _  hot  and' 
cold,  pale  and  ffushed,"  consumed  by  impatience,  full  oF* 
fears  and  forebodings,  sighing,  weeping,  uttering  complaints 
in    solitude   which   he   sometimes    puts   into    sentimental 
verses  ;    he  is  indifferent  to  all  demands  of  social  life  ^ndJBI 
physical  nature  ;  he  can  live  without  eating  and  sleeping^ll 
all  he  needs  is  a  little  music  and  his  private  sorrow.     The 
melancholy  of  love,  however,  is  only  a  mood,  a  transitory 
state,  which  vanishes  again  together  with  its  cause,  and 
apparently  is  not  supposed  to  be  due  to  any  particular^ 
natural  tendency.     Quite  another  thing  is  that  melancholy 
which,  though  appearing  only  under  the  influence  of  cer- 
tain proximate  causes,  rests  on  the  firm  ground  of  a  clearly 
defined  temperament.     It  is  true  that  the  manifestations  of 
both  kinds  are  in  some  respects  very  similar,  but  they  are 
so  only  in  appearance.     The  second  type  is  evolved  from 
the   medieval   doctrine   of   temperaments.     Shakespeare's 
age  had  an  idea  of  this  type  of  temperament   which  is 
very  strikingly  differentiated.     It  is  not  at  all  impossible 
that  the  essential  part  of  it  is  derived  from  the  very  play 
before  us,  viz.,  Kyd's  Urhamlet,     A  little  later  an  attempt  is 
made  to  analyse  its  peculiar  nature  by  Sir  Thomas  Overbury 
in    his   work   entitled    Characters   (1614),    which   cleverlMI 
presents  a  number  of  various  types  of  human  individual^ 
and  professions.     According  to  him  the  melancholy  person 
is  a  whimsical  fellow  who  goes  his  own  ways,  remote  froi 
other  men.     He  takes  a  completely  pessimistic  view  of  tl 


ri 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

world,  and  finds  satisfaction  only  in  continually  spinning 
out  his  destructive  and  suicidal  fancies.     Strange  visions 
,  haunt  his  mind.     **  He  thinks  business,  but  never  does 

tny  ;  he  is  all  contemplation,  no  action."  The  neglect 
nd  disorder  of  his  outward  appearance  agree  with  his 
mental  disharmony.  He  is  an  enemy  to  sun  and  warmth, 
eats  little,  and  sighs  a  lot. 

In  this  portrait  some  features  of  the  melancholy  type 
stand  out  in  bold  relief,  especially  the  unwholesome, 
diseased,  and  over-excited  state  of  his  mind,  manifested 
in  his  distrust  of  and  aversion  to  people,  in  his  inability 
to  concentrate  himself,  to  get  rid  of  tormenting  ideas, 
to  pull  himself  together.  All  this  we  should  nowadays 
declare  to  be  a  sign  of  neurasthenia.  What  surprises  us, 
however,  is  the  fact  that  the  Elizabethan  author  considers 
an  unnaturally  strong  activity  of  the  imagination  to  be  an 
inseparable  accompaniment  of  melancholy.  **  Straggling 
thoughts  are  his  content,  they  make  him  dreame  waking, 
there's  his  pleasure.  His  imagination  is  never  idle,  it 
keeps  his  mind  in  a  continuall  motion,  as  the  poise  the 
clocke  :  he  winds  up  his  thoughts  often,  and  as  often 
unwinds  them  ;   Penelope's  web  thrives  faster." 

When  we  look  for  an  incarnation  of  this  type  on  the  stage 
in  the  time  previous  to  Hamlet,  in  addition  to  Hieronimo 
in  The  Spanish  Tragedy  we  are  particularly  struck  by  the 
hero  of  Marston's  revenge-tragedies,  Antonio.  With  his 
sleeplessness,  his  many  sighs  and  sudden  outbursts  of 
passionate  complaints,  his  tardiness  of  action,  his  pessi- 
mistic reflections,  his  slight  tendency  to  dissimulation,  his 
high  culture  and  intelligence,  his  excessive  irritability,  and 
his  abrupt  spasms  of  fury — things  of  which  Overbury  says 
nothing — he  would  remind  us  vividly  of  Hamlet  even  if 
he  did  not,  like  the  latter,  come  upon  the  stage  dressed  in 
black  garments  and  reading  a  book. 

Still  more  striking  in  certain  traits  is  the  resemblance 

*  to  the  portrait  drawn  by  Overbury  on  the  one  hand,  and 

Hamlet  on  the  other,  of  a  certain  melancholy  figure  which 

was  probably  meant  to  be  a  caricature — perhaps  of  the 

^Jrhamlet,     This  is  young  Lord  Dowsecer  in  Chapman's 

I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

comedy,  A  Humorous  Dafs  Mirth  (1597),  who  is  expressly 
designated  as  suffering  from  the  '  humour  *  of  melancholy. 
The  King  and  his  Court  divert  themselves  with  placing 
a  few  objects  of  everyday  use  in  the  way  of  this  queer 
fellow,  who  is  introduced  as  a  highly  cultured  pessimist 
and  misanthrope.  He  promptly  takes  up  these  thing 
and,  to  the  amusement  of  the  listeners,  makes  them  th 
subjects  of  a  monologue  and  proceeds  from  them,  just  a 
Hamlet  does  from  the  skull,  to  pessimistic  reflections 
castigating  the  vanities,  abuses,  and  annoyances  of  the 
world,  and  now  and  then  demanding  their  abolition  with 
a  rhetorical  gesture.  Very  characteristic  are  the  aversion 
and  disgust  with  which  he  refers  to  procreation  and  his 
exaggerated  and  almost  ludicrous  cynicism.  His  father 
says  to  him  :  "I  wish  thou  wouldst  confess  to  marry,"  and  , 
he  answers  : 


i 


To  marry,  father  ?  why,  we  shall  have  children. 

Father.  Why,  that's  the  end  of  marriage,  and  the  joy  of 
men. 

Dowsecer,  Oh,  how  you  are  deceived  !  You  have  but  me, 
and  what  a  trouble  am  I  to  your  joy  !  But,  father,  if  you  long 
to  have  some  fruit  of  me,  see,  father,  I  will  creep  into  this 
stubborn  earth  and  mix  my  flesh  with  it,  and  they  shall  breed 
grass,  to  fat  oxen,  asses,  and  such-like,  and  when  they  in  the 
grass  the  spring  converts  into  beasts'  nourishment,  then  comes 
the  fruit  of  this  my  body  forth  ;  then  may  you  well  say,  seeing 
my  race  is  so  profitably  increased,  that  good  fat  ox  and  that 
same  large-eared  ass  are  my  son's  sons,  that  calf  with  a  white 
face  is  his  fair  daughter  ;  with  which,  when  your  fields  are 
richly  filled,  then  will  my  race  content  you  j  but  for  the 
joys  of  children,  tush,  'tis  gone — children  will  not  deserve, 
nor  parents  take  it  :  wealth  is  the  only  father  and  the  child, 
and  but  in  wealth  no  man  hath  any  joy.^ 

The  additional  traits  we  find  in  this  figure  of  melancholy 
complete  the  representation  of  the  type.  Here  also  we 
note  as  characteristic  features  a  high  degree  of  education 
— he  enters  meditating  on  a  quotation  from  Cicero  (the 


I 


*  Compare  the  similar  remarks  of  Hamlet  (II,  iii) :  "  How  a  king  may  go 
a  progress  through  the  guts  of  a  beggar." 

156 


I 


P         IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

melancholy  man  of  Overbury  likewise  is  given  to  intel- 
lectual pursuits) — a  whimsical  depreciation  of  and  turning 

^  away  from  life,  a  kind  of  pessimism  which  in  this  case 
leads  to  occasional  lapses  into  extreme  philosophical 
materialism,   but   is   also  found   combined  with  rigorous 

'  moral  principles.  The  most  significant  traits,  however,  are, 
as  elsewhere,  the  eternal  persistence  in  the  train  of  gloomy 
reflections  on  men  and  the  world,  fantastical  ideas  which 
that  period  considered  such  essential  constituents  of  the 
melancholy  nature  that  Ben  Jonson  once  in  an  enumeration 
of  the  temperaments  contrasts  the  slow-phlegmatic  with 
the  fantastic-melancholy.  Moreover,  though  this  character 
is  to  a  certain  extent  a  caricature,  it  is  not  regarded  exclu- 
sively as  comical,  and  it  is  very  characteristic  that  the  King, 
after  listening  to  him,  refuses  to  identify  his  behaviour 
with  madness  and  prefers  to  speak  of  it  as  "  a  holy  fury," 
even  acknowledging  that  "he  is  more  humane  than  all 
we  are.** 

The  same  type,  in  a  slightly  different  shape,  turns  up 
again  in  Shakespeare's  Jaques  in  As  Ton  Like  It^  who  actu- 
ally styles  himself  a  melancholy  man.  He  loves  solitude,  is 
**  compact  of  jars,**  as  the  Duke  says  of  him,  a  pessimist,  a 
wit,  knows  the  ways  of  the  world,  and  is  an  unfailing  judge 
of  its  abuses,  has  a  great  power  of  self-criticism,  an  inclina- 
tion to  brooding  and  laziness,  no  interest  in  women,  and 
a  decided  love  of  music.  His  vocation  in  life  seems  to 
be  discovering  bitter  truths  and  cleverly  formulating  them. 
His  character  further  resembles  that  of  Dowsecer  in  being 
moved  by  a  sense  of  critical  superiority  to  attempt  a 
reformation  of  the  world.     He  says  : 

give  me  leave 
To  speak  my  mind,  and  I  will  through  and  through 
Cleanse  the  foul  body  of  the  infected  world. 

II,  vii 

The  examples  adduced  will  suffice  to  enable  us  to 
recognize  this  type  which,  embodied  in  a  variety  of  figures, 
but  fundamentally  unchanged,  lives  on  in  the  dramatic 
literature  of  the  time.     Its  most  fascinating  representative 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

is  Hamlet.  It  is  true  that  we  have  to  distinguish  in  his 
character  the  mask  from  the  original  face.  Hamlet,  as 
we  know,  declares  after  the  appearance  of  the  ghost  that 
he  Ts^qlng  to  take  on  "an  antic  disposiHqh '^  ^,_  v)^  yet 
those  scenes  in  which  there  is  no  necessity  for  the  mask 
sufficiently  inform  us  about  his  true  nature  .^ 

It  is  indeed  impossible  to  throw  Hamlet's  character  more 
strongly  into  relief  than  is  done  in  the  opening  scenes. 
The  very  first  words  the  King  addresses  to  him  in  the 
First  Quarto  give  us  the  decisive  cue  :  "  What  meanes 
these  sad  and  melancholy  moods  ?  **  This  remark  directs 
the  eyes  of  all  the  spectators  toward  him.  They  must, 
however,  have  been  struck  by  his  appearance  before, 
because  in  the  glittering  and  sumptuous  assembly  where 
the  King,  attended  by  his  train,  is  giving  audience  Hamlet 
alone,  among  gorgeously  dressed  courtiers,  wears  an 
**  inky  cloak  "  and  "  solemn  black."  He  has  put  it  on 
as  sign  of  mourning,  but  no  one  else  is  still  in  mourning, 
and  therefore  all   the  onlookers,  from   the   boxes   to   the 

1  If  we  fix  our  attention  on  the  manifestations  of  his  character  from  the 
very  beginning  of  the  play,  we  shall  be  better  able  to  recognize  it  than  by 
investigating  minutely  what  Hamlet  was  before  the  events  related  in  the 
play.  This  point  of  view,  which  is  taken,  e.g.,  by  Kuno  Fischer,  Bradley,  etc., 
must  be  regarded  as  quite  erroneous,  if  only  for  the  reason  that  it  always 
comes  perilously  near  confounding  art  and  reality.  Only  what  has  been 
present  in  the  poet's  consciousness  can  be  adduced  for  the  purpose  of  ex- 
plaining artistic  creations.  In  the  case  of  an  imagined  figure  we  cannot 
speak  of  its  past  unless  the  poet  himself  does  so.  To  attempt  its  recon- 
struction from  the  given  facts  is  ridiculous.  As  well  might  we  look  under 
the  frame  of  a  picture  for  a  continuation  of  the  scene  represented  on  the 
canvas.  Hence  it  is  amazing  that  even  a  great  and  serious  critic  like  Dowden 
should  think  it  worth  while  to  reflect  on  the  probability  of  Hamlet's  having 
been  influenced  by  the  fact  that  during  the  reign  of  the  strong-willed  elder 
Hamlet  his  introspective  son  was  not  compelled  to  take  an  active  part  in 
affairs.  This  would  be  an  ingenious  inference  in  the  case  of  a  real  person, 
but  it  is  comical  if  we  are  dealing  with  a  fictitious  character,  whose  nature 
can  obviously  not  be  determined  by  such  reflections,  since  it  is  conceived  in 
the  mind  of  its  creator  in  the  state  demanded  by  the  dramatic  action.  It  is 
ridiculous  of  Kuno  Fischer  to  maintain  that "  Claudius  is  elected  king  probably 
for  economic  reasons,"  and  of  Thummel  to  connect  the  skull  of  Yorick,  the 
jester,  in  the  last  act  with  the  personality  of  the  deceased  King  and  assert 
that  the  warlike  and  ever  active  father  of  Hamlet  had  felt  the  need  of  creating 
a  kind  of  artistic  relief  to  the  tragedy  of  life.  This  is  to  transfer  the 
methods  of  historical  research  to  the  realm  of  fancy,  which  is  subject  to  quite 
different  laws.  Critics  like  these  resemble  the  farmer  in  the  Drury  Lane 
gallery  who  upon  hearing  Richard  III  cry  out  "  a  kingdom  for  a  horse  " 
offered  him  a  two-year-old  brown  gelding  :  they  confound  appearance  and 
reality. 

158 


I 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


end  of  the  pit,  at  once  are  sure  that  this  is  the  "  melancholy 
gentleman."     The  stage  types  of  the  time  are  each  dis- 
tinguished by  a  peculiar  costume — the  steward  by  his  chain 
and  velvet  coat,  the  harlot  by  a  glaring  *  loose-bodied  * 
satin  gown,  the  king  by  a  long  beard  and  red  robe,  the  fool 
by  his  motley,  and  so  the  melancholy  gentleman  also  reveals 
himself  by  his  dress  and  bearing.     This  first  impression 
is   not   deceptive,   because   it   is   confirmed   by  what  the 
spectators  see  and  hear.     Evidently  he  sits  on  his  chair 
**  with  veiled  lids,'*  as  his  mother  says,  and  bears  in  his 
expression,  in  his  sighs  and  tears,  as  he  himself  informs 
us,  "  The  trappings  and  the  suits  of  woe."     The  somewhat 
snappy  retort  to  his  mother's  question,  "  Seems,  madam  ! 
nay,  it  is  ;    I  know  not  *  seems,'"  the  surprisingly  laconic 
answers,   the  outbreak  of   despair  after  the    Court  have 
retired  :  "  O  !  that  this  too  too  solid  flesh  would  melt  .  .  .," 
which  reveals  a  degree  of  pessimism,  a  disgust  of  the  world, 
incapable  of  being  surpassed,  all  confirm  this  impression. 
We  see  that  he  is  in  a  condition  reminding  us  of  the 
neurasthenic  type  of  Overbury.     Horatio  enters  and  accosts 
him  :  "  Hail  to  your  lordship,"  and  he  replies  mechanically, 
absorbed  in  thought  :   "I  am  glad  to  see  you  well,"  then, 
recollecting  himself  and  looking  up,  adds  :  .  "  Horatio,  or 
I  do  forget  myself."     **  Speak  to  him,"  says  Overbury  of 
the  melancholy  man  ;  "he  hears  with  his  eyes,  eares  follow 
his  mind,  and  that's  not  at  leysure."     The  idea  of  his 
father  comes  into  his  mind  and  instantly  his  irritated  brain 
reacts  so  powerfully  that  he  sees  him  standing  before  him  : 
"  My  father — methinks  I  see  my  father,"  whereupon  his 
friend,  puzzled,  but  impressed  by  the  apparition  of  the  pre- 
ceding night,  asks  him  :  "  O  where,  my  lord  ?  "  receiving 
the  reassuring  answer  :    "  In  my  mind's  eye,  Horatio." 
All  this  takes  place  before  the  ghost  has  yet  revealed  to 
him  his  dreadful  secret  and  laid  upon  him  the  arduous  task. 

The  key  to  the  figure  of  Hamlet  is  to  be  found  at  once^ 
in  the  impression  of  this  first  scene.     Hefe"we"see'yet 
'anodieF  Instance   of  Shakespeare's   commonest   technical 
device,  which  he  applies  more  consistently  than  any  other 

itistic  process,  viz.,  to  give  a  clearly  marked  outline  of 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

the  characters  in  the  exposition  and  to  make  their  first 
appearance  more  especially  yield  as  much  information  as 
possible.  The  definition  given  by  Overbury  of  this  type: 
of  character  and  so  faithfully  followed  by  Shakespeare  i 
in  this  scene  is  observed  throughout  the  rest  of  the  play.  | 
In  several  passages  the  external  symptoms  of  his  condition,  | 
his  sighs,  his  sleeplessness,  his  habit  of  walking  up  and  down 
in  solitude,  are  especially  emphasized.  It  is  interesting  to 
note  that  Hippolito  in  Dekker*s  Honest  Whore^  after 
becoming  melancholy,  also  paces  restlessly  up  and  down  his 
room.  ("  He  sups  up  a  draught  of  as  much  aire  at  once  as 
would  serve  at  thrice,"  Overbury  says  ;  "  he  denies  nature 
her  due  in  sleep.**)  He  complains  of  bad  dreams.  The 
actor  that  wishes  to  represent  mm  properTy  ought  therefore 
to  adopt  from  the  very  beginning  an  air  of  being  languid 
and  exhausted  by  lack  of  sleep,  exhibit  a  strong  trait  of 
morbidity,  give  clear  signs  of  the  inward  unrest  which 
makes  him  cross  and  recross  his  room,  and  put  an  expression 
into  his  eyes  as  though  they  were  afraid  of  broad  daylight, 
like  those  of  the  melancholy  Vindici  in  The  Revenger's 
Tragedy,  If,  then,  we  are  asked  to  define  the  first  principle 
of  Hamlet's  nature  we  must  reply,  disregarding  entirely 
the  apparent  violence  of  his  passion,  that  it  is  weakness  and 
irritability.  His  abnormal  irritability  clearly  appears  on 
several  occasions,  especially  in  the  scene  at  Ophelia/s 
grave,  where  the  fact  of  Laertes  loudly  lamenting  his  dead 
sister  drives  Hamlet  into  that  "  fit  "  for  which  he  afterward 
apologizes  to  Horatio,  pleading  his  inability  to  control 
himself  ("  His  madness  is  poor  Hamlet's  enemy ").  To 
this  fit  there  are  exact  parallels  in  the  cases  of  two  other 
melancholy  characters,  Hieronimo  and  Marston's  Antonio, , 
who  too  are  unable  to  bear  the  idea  of  another  person 
daring  to  suffer  more  under  misfortunes  than  themselves.^ 
This  irritability  is  also  the  cause  of  Hamlet's  extraordinary 
intolerance^  which  he  manifests,  e.g,j  in  his  meetings  with 
Polonius.  If  we  require  any  further  proof  we  may  find 
it  in  Hamlet's  self-characterization,  in  which  he  speaks 
twice  {cf,  p.  31)  of  this  weakness,  once  plainly  styling  it 

^  Cf.  Radebrecht,  p.  71  seq. 
160 


ms 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


IS  "  weakness  and  melancholy,"  the  other  time  characteriz- 

Iing  himself  as  the  counter-pole  to  Hercules. 
■B^ow  the  objection  might  be  raised  that  weakness  and 
irritability    or    a    clearly    defined    temperament    are    not, 
properly  speaking,  the  ultimate  foundation  of  character. 
"  Temperament,"    says    Kuno    Fischer   (Hamlet,   p.  79), 

I  "  is  the  musical  mode  in  which  our  feelings  are  expressed, 
but  not  the  music  itself  ;  it  is  the  rhythm  of  life,  not  its 
theme."  It  might  seem  that  from  the  kind  of  description 
indicated  above  no  conclusion  can  be  reached  as  to  whether 
a  character  is  noble  or  mean,  whether  a  mind  is  well  stored 
or  poorly  equipped,  whether  the  reasoning  faculty  is  keen 
or  blunt.     People  have  even  gone  so  far  as  to  see  in  the 

,  whole  melancholy  disposition  of  Hamlet  merely  a  derivative 
quality  proceeding  as  a  necessary  consequence  from  his 
wounded  moral  idealism,  the  strength  of  that  emotion  being 
only  a  symptom  and  measure  of  this  deeper  principle. 
This  conclusion,  however,  must  be  challenged.  Though 
we  admit  that  the  outbreak  of  Hamlet's  melancholy  is 
evidently  caused  by  his^greaFHisappointmentyat  the  marriage 
of  his  mother,  yet  we  marnS"n~that~:this"TnTrumsfance 
might  have  afFected  another  kind  of  character,  possessing 
maybe  as  much  or  even  more  moral  idealism,  quite 
differently.     It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  the  extent  and 

;  degree  of  the  reaction  is  determined  by  the  emotional 
susceptibility,  not  by  the  moral  idealism.  Now  JIamlet 
possesses  .this  emotional  susceptibili_tj__and  irritability 
in  a  highly  morbid  degree".'  Moreover,  if  Shakespeare 
had  seen  in  the  fact  that  Hamlet  allows  his  constitution 
to  be  so  utterly  ruined  by  his  sad  emotional  experiences  a 
sign  of  a  particularly  noble  disposition  he  would  assuredly 
have  put  this  idea  into  the  mouth  of  some  other  person. 
In  reality,  however,  he  holds  precisely  the  opposite  view  ; 
he  is  an  unreserved  advocate  of  resistance  against  the 
evils  of  life,  and  therefore  sees  the  greatest  merit  in  not 
allowing,  to  use  his  own  expressions,  the  "judgment" 
to  be  overcome  by  the  **  blood." 

Now  if  the  Elizabethan  spectator  regarded  Hamlet  as 
-*    "  melancholy   man,"   /.^.,    as   an   imaginative ^    brooding 

L  161 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

intellectualist  with  morbid  traits^  we  can  see  how  explanations 
that    assign   an   undue  weight  to  accidental    phenomena 
must  necessarily  co-operate  with  distortions  of  the  text 
in  order  to  achieve  their  end.     The  melancholy  type,  as 
we  have  seen  already  in  Overbury,  is  incapable  of  any 
concentrated  systematic  activity.     Hamlet   too   is   unable  i 
to  pursue  a  plan.     The  melancholy  person  always  sinka|| 
back  into  his  reverie  and  must  be  pushed  from  without 
This  is  true,  e.g,^  of  Hieronimo,  the  avenger  in  The  Spanish' 
Tragedy^  an  early  specimen  of  the  type,  who,  despite  the 
tremendous  passion  of  revenge  that  devours  him,   must 
in  the  end  receive  an  energetic  impulse  from  Bellimperia, 
in   order   to   achieve   his    purpose.     But   the   melancholy 
person  is  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  bIoodsKeH7~and~~does 
not  shrink  from  murder  as  being  in  itself  a  frightful  d^^ 
Here  comes  in  the  error  of  a  great  many  critics,  who  con- 
ceive Hamlet  as  having  far  too  delicate  a  mental  organiza- 
tion to  be  capable  of  committing   murder  in  pursuance 
of  a  revenge  demanded  of  him.     In  ever  new  forms  this 
explanation  of  Hamlet  is  brought  forward,  which  in  many 
respects  might  appear  as  the  most  natural  solution  of  the 
problem.     The  reader  sympathizes  with  Hamlet^and  says 
to  himself  :    Here  is  a  delicately  constituted  creature  of 
brain  and  nerves,  with  modern  ways  of  thinking  and  feeling, 
just  like  yourself,  in  the  midst  of  people  whom  he  has 
left  far  behind  in  respect  of  mental  development.     Would 
you  not,  in  his  position,  act  precisely  as  he  does  }     This 
conception,    which   is   fundamentally   wrong,    is    founded 
upon  certain  traits  which  are  especially  apparent  at  the 
beginning.     There    can    be    no    doubt   that    Shakespeare 
refined  and  ennobled  the  feelings  of  his  hero  in  many 
directions  in  an  unprecedented  manner,   though  leaving 
intact  his  fundamental  character.     In  many  passages  he 
represents  him  as  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  purest  humanity. 
His  words  about  his  dead  father  are  full  of  that  piteous 
tenderness  which  tell  of  a  wound  still  unhealed — we  must 
remember  that  Shakespeare*s  father  had  died  in  the  year 
which  saw  the  production  of  Hamlet — they  breathe  the 
aspiration  of  a  noble  heart  to  offer  the  deceased  in  his 
162 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


I 

thoughts  a  kind  of  compensation,  by  means  of  his  passionate 
^^dmiration,   for  the  wrong  done  to  his  memory  by  the 
indifference  of  his  widow  and  the  speedy  forgetfulness  of 
■the  others.     A  most  distinguished  and  sympathetic  trait 
"s  the  way  in  which  the  innermost  depths  of  his  soul  are 
cruelly  affected  by  this  purely  spiritual  and  unselfish  dis- 
appointment.    A  fine  manly  friendship,  setting  aside  all 
tonsiderations  of  rank,  unites  him  to  Horatio,  whom  he 
ntreats  to  style  himself  not  his  servant  but  his  friend — a 
genuine  affection  like  that  entertained  by  Schiller's  young 
)on    Carlos    for    his    beloved    Posa.     How    hearty    an^ 
ourteous   is   his   first  reception   of  his   old  companions, 
Rosencrantz    and    Guildenstern ;    how    noble    and    truly 
generous  his  acknowledgment  of  the  good  qualities  pos- 
sessed by  Laertes,  his  enemy ;  how  strongly  pronounced 
is  his  preference  for  what  is  simple  and  natural,  and  his 
dislike,  even  his  hatred,  of  affectation  and  pretence  ! 

All   these   are   beautiful   traits,    unmistakable   signs   of 
re  humanity  and  exquisite  tact  ;    hence  they  have  been 
ken    as    revealing    the    poet's    own    personality.      His 
ehaviour  toward  Ophelia  and  Polonius,  however,._§lxows  no 
:ace  of  them.     The  cause  of  this  contradiction  is  not  to 
e  sought  in  the  conflict  between  the  character  and  the 
ction.     Rumelin's  idea  is  that  the  same  Hamlet  in  whom 
hakespeare  has  put  so  much  of  himself  is  no  longer  fit 
;o  be  the  hero  of  the  Northern  legend,  the  bloody  avenger 
nd  fivefold  murderer.     He  thinks  that  Shakespeare  ought 
have  remoulded  the  material  and  given  the  theme  a 
ore  humane    and  symbolic    aspect,  as    Goethe  did    in 
is  Iphigenie.     By  making,  says    Rtimelin,  this    man    of 
elicate  feeling,  who  is  so  sensitive  to  the  moral  deficiencies 
of  others  and  the  depravity  of  the  world,  able  to  kill,  inci- 
dentally as  it  were,  three  innocent  people  and  then  behave 
as  if  nothing  had  happened,  he  produces  an  impression 
upon    us   comparable   to   that   which   we   should   receive 
if  Goethe's   Iphigenie  in  an  entr'acte  were  to  immolate  a 
number  of  captives  on  the  altar  of  Diana,  whose  priestess 
she   is.     In  this  criticism  there  is  a  certain  amount  of 
__truth,  but  it  misses  the  fact  that  Hamlet — at  least  in  the 

*■ 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

condition  in  which  we  see  him — is  just  as  little  the  male 
ideal  of  the  Elizabethan  Age  as  he  is  that  of  our  modern 
times. 

Some  momentary  flashes  of  irony  and  cynicism,  certai 
harsh  and  cutting  remarks  (**  We  shall  obey,  were  sh 
ten  times  our  mother,"  III,  ii),  his  occasional  manifesta- 
tions of  a  certain  malignity,  a  pleasure  in  unmasking 
evildoers,  which  especially  appears  in  his  fierce  joy  at  the 
self-betrayal  of  the  King,  may  be  explained  as  a  reaction 
against  the  tremendous  emotional  tension,  which  finds 
relief  in  this  way.  Very  likely,  however,  this  interpreta- 
tion would  be  wrong,  for  other  melancholy  personalities 
also,  in  quite  different  situations,  show  the  same  trait, 
which  is  closely  connected  with  their  morbid  weakness, 
though  Hamlet  alone  vents  his  excitement  in  that  hilarity 
which  is  demanded  by  the  peculiar  exigencies  of  the  situa- 
tion. A  good  actor  ought  strongly  to  emphasize  this 
trait. 

The  neurotic  condition  of  Hamlet  should  never  be  lost 
sight  of.  It  is  not  necessary  to  make  him  express  it  by 
such  external  means  as,  according  to  a  trustworthy  descrip- 
tion, were  once  employed  by  Sarah  Bernhardt  in  Berlin. 
In  the  play-scene  she  climbed  up  the  balustrade  behind 
which  the  royal  murderer  was  sitting  with  his  consort 
and  **  grinned  in  his  face  with  distorted  features  like  a 
malignant  ape  showing  his  teeth."  The  fundamental  idea, 
however,  of  her  rendering,  viz.,  to  represent  Hamlet  as  a 
man  suffering  from  nervous  disorder  and  being  haunted 
by  hallucinations,  doubtless  rests  on  a  sound  historical  basis. 
The  diseased  quality  of  this  nature  is  best  expressed  by 
the  actor  alternating  between  the  one  extreme  of  morbid 
self-absorption  and  the  other  of  absolutely  unrestrained" 
exaltation. 

His  incredibly  excited  manner  is  described  by  Quee 
Gertrude  in  the  First  Quarto,  where  she  says  of  his  behaviou: 
in  the  interview  which  leads  to  the  killing  of  Polonius,' 
**  He  throws  and  tosses  me  about."     Further,  a  curiou 
passage  in  a  contemporaneous  poem  written  about  a  person 
who  has  been  made  half  mad  by  love  runs  as  follows  : 
164 


i 


I 

ml 

n 

I 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

Puts  off  his  cloathes,  his  shirt  he  onely  wears. 
Much  like  mad  Hamlet, 

Lus  giving  some  idea  of  the  remarkably  odd  way  in  which 
the  character  was  at  that  time  represented  !  ^ 

Only  by  keeping  all  this  in  mind  shall  we  be  able  to 

Komprehend  Hamlet*s  treatment  of  the  body  of  Polonius. 
t  again  shows  the  morbid  traits,  purpos^y  elaborated,  of 
the  melancholy  character  who,  according  to  the  opinion  of 
the  period  (as  we  find  also  in  Burton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholy)^ 
niaypccadonally  create^  the  impressionof  beijig  morally 
irresponsible.    The  same  morbidity  of  mind  is  shown  in 

(lis    behaviour    toward    his    mother.     These    things,    i.e.^ 
iamlet's   luxuriating   in   the   minute   description   of  the 
exual  relations  between  his  mother  and  his  stepfather, 
•  the  warning  he  gives  her  not  to 


wk\ 


Let  the  bloat  king  tempt  you  again  to  bed  ; 
Pinch  wanton  on  your  cheek  .  .  . 


re  either  passed  over  by  critics  of  Hamlet  in  silence  as 
unfit  for  treatment,  or  made  the  pivot  of  the  whole  problem. 
Both  conceptions  are  equally  wrong.  The  indulging  in 
erotic  imaginations  and  the  interest  taken  in  procreation 
and  the  peculiar  qualities  of  women,  due  to  a  feeling  of 
disgust,  are  regular  traits  of  the  melancholy  character. 
We  find  this  note  sounded  already  in  the  case  of  young 
Lord  Dowsecer,  and  again  and  again  it  enters  as  a  compo- 
nent part,  in  the  most  varied  forms,  into  the  delineation  of 
melancholy.  As  late  as  1603,  in  Marston's  Malcontent^ 
the  further  development  of  the  type,  we  have  in  the  cen- 
tral figure  this  preoccupation  with  immorality  and  similar 
furious  attacks  delivered  upon  it. 

The  melancholy  character,  feeding  his  discontent  with 

I  constant  brooding  and  proudly  fond  of  his  loneliness, 
inevitably  develops  into  a  censor  of  morals,  a  function 
which   he   can,   of  course,   exercise   only   if  he   takes   a 

i  high  ethical  standpoint.     It  is  true,  no  doubt,  that  the 

1  Cf.  the  poem  in  Munro,  Shakespeare  Allusion  Book,  London,  1909,  p.  133. 
It  is  interesting  to  note  that  King  Lear  too  when  overwhelmed  by  madness 
begins  to  throw  ofE  his  clothes. 

16; 


I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

melancholy  character's  moral  censure  was  not  taken  quite 
seriously  by  his  age  ;  his  utterances  appeared  to  some  as 
extravagant/  and  were  certainly  received  with  laughter 
by  the  ordinary  Elizabethan  audience,  which  never  took 
a  very  advanced  view  of  ethical  questions.  In  all  these 
things  the  moral  standards  have  become  very  much  changed 
during  the  last  few  centuries,  so  that  the  statements  made 
then  no  longer  appear  in  quite  the  same  light.  We  cat^S' 
therefore  apply  to  many  of  Hamlet's  sayings  Shakespeare's^*' 
own  word  :  "This  was  sometime  a  paradox,  but  now 
the  time  gives  it  proof."  Fortunately  for  the  work  o: 
exposition,  Hamlet  by  his  utterances  gives  plenty 
unmistakable  proofs  of  his  melancholy  ;  but  such  pessi 
mistic  opinions  as  that  the  world  "  is  an  unweeded  garden 
that  grows  to  seed  "  were  also,  we  may  be  sure,  taken  merely 
as  expressions  of  an  almost  insane  mind  by  a  period  which 
was  firmly  convinced  that  everything  is  most  excellently 
arranged  by  a  wise  providence.  Such  sayings  are  estimated 
like  the  famous  passage  in  hear : 

As  flies  to  wanton  boys  are  we  to  the  gods. 
They  kill  us  for  their  sport,  IV,  i,  36 

and  like  the  wonderful  words  about  the  nature  of  life 
spoken  by  Macbeth  after  his  breakdown  : 

It  is  a  tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 
Signifying  nothing.  V,  v,  26 

It  remained  for  a  later  century  to  construct  a  philosophy 
on  the  foundation  of  pessimism,  and  then,  of  course,  the 

^  When  Lord  Dowsecer,  speaking  of  the  usual  relation  between  men  and 
women,  indignantly  says, 

"  But  to  admire  them  as  our  gallants  do, 
'  Oh,  what  an  eye  she  hath  !   O  !   dainty  hand, 
Rare  foot  and  leg  !  '  and  leave  the  mind  respectless, 
This  is  a  plague  that  in  both  men  and  women  -m 

Makes  such  pollution  of  our  earthly  being  ..."  1 

one  may  be  in  doubt  whether  the  author  is  quite  serious.  When,  however, 
the  hero  finds  a  sword  laid  in  his  way  and  angrily  exclaims  :  "  .  .  .  as  if  there 
were  not  ways  enough  to  die  by  natural  and  casual  accidents,  diseases,  surfeits, 
brave  carousfes,  old  aqua-vitae,  and  too  base  wives,  and  thousands  more  : 
hence  with  this  art  of  murder ! "  the  audience  certainly  received  these 
'  pacifist '  utterances  with  laughter. 

166 


i 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


:pression  of  melancholy  was  taken  much  more  seriously 
than  by  the  period  to  which  it  was  addressed. 

But  let  the  matter  rest  there.     The  development  of 

.ese  sides  of  the  melancholy  character  has  enabled  the 

let  to  lay  on  some  especially  effective  colours,  to  show 

e  great  moral  pathos  of  the  hero  in  his  aversion  to  hypo- 

•isy  and  his  striving  for  truth,  and  to  reveal  his  strong 

Ltirical  vein.     Yet  it  has  also  caused  the  whole  problem 

"  the  play  to  be  regarded  from  a  wrong  point  of  view, 

id  undue  prominence  to  be  given  to  the  intellectual  and 

leoretical  aspect  of  Hamlet's  outbreaks  of  feeling.     By 

•itics  of  this  school  Hamlet  is  said  to  possess  sufficient  _ 

bergy    and    "  physical    strength "    for    action    (Goethe), 

but  to  be  too  much  occupied  with  the  breakdown  of  his 

ethical  idealism.     He  is  represented  as  little  interested  in, 

rnDT  not  much_  moved  by,  the  individual,  because  he  is  a 

■[enius,    Z.^.,    a    perfectly    *  objective '    character    who    is 

"passing  through  the  great  crisis  of  his  mind  and  must 

first  find  his  way  again  in  the  world,  which  sounds  more 

like  Dostoievski  than  Shakespeare  1   (Turck).     Hamlet  is 

regarded  as  paralysed  by  the  conflict  between  his  desire 

for  revenge  and  a   Weltschmerx  produced .  by  disgust  of 

the  world  on  the  one  hand,  and,  on  the  other,  a  disposition 

inimical  to  the  world  and  to  life  (Kuno  Fischer).     Such 

:ritics    put   the   consequents   before   the   antecedents,   the 

jfFects  before  the  causes.     If  they  had  referred  to  the  com- 

nion  drama  of  Hamlet^   The   Spanish   Tragedy^  with   its 

[most  identical  problem,  they  would  have  perceived  that 

the  Elizabethan  poet  the  attitude  of  an  avenger  who 

lespite  an  absence  of  sufficient  external  obstacles  fails  to 

:complish  his  end  depends  neither  on  his  genius  (Tiirck) 

ir  on   his   philosophy.     Though  the   pessimism   of  old 

ieronimo  is   not  nearly  so  intense  as  that  of  Hamlet, 

his  power  of  action  is  not,  therefore,   shown  to  be  any 

stronger. 

VK   The  point  of  departure  for  the  explanation  of  Hamlet, 

Are  must  again  insist,  lies  in  the  morbid  weakness  of  will 

Hf  the  melancholy  character.     How  great  a  prominence 

^p  to  be  given  to  it  is  best  seen  in  the  contrast  between  him 

I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

and  Laertes.     The  latter  is  conceived  as  a  counter-player 
to  Hamlet.     A  counter-player  is  a  dramatic  figure  that » 
solves    similar    problems    by    different    means.     Hamlet 
himself — and  once  more  Shakespeare's  art  is  seen  to  be 
an   explicit  art — draws   attention   to   this   contrast  (V,  ii)  \ 
when  he  says  :  ' 

By  the  image  of  my  cause,  I  see 
The  portraiture  of  his. 

His  energy  in  avenging  his  father  forms  the  most  effective 
contrast  to  the  irresolution  of  the  PrlnJCfil  This  contrast 
Shakespeare,  true  to  his  general  habit  of  showing  at  once 
in  the  introduction  the  foundations  on  which  the  whole 
dramatic  edifice  is  constructed,  prepares  and  indicates  in 
the  very  first  scenes  of  the  play.  The  drama  begins  by 
Laertes  energetically  insisting  on  having  his  will  and 
carrying  his  point,  whereas  the  Prince  easily  yields  to  per- 
suasion and  gives  up  the  wish  he  had  already  expressed 
of  returning  to  Wittenberg.  Apparently  a  similar  contrast 
already  existed  in  the  Urhamlet^  and  it  is  accentuated  by 
the  fact  that  the  jolly  and  active  young  fellow  is  attracted 
by  Paris,  where  one  can  enjoy  life,  where  is  to  be  found 
the  home  of  fashion  and  the  atmosphere  of  the  great  world, 
while  the  brooding  and  introspective  student  desires  to 
attend  the  seat  of  learning,  the  German  university  of 
Wittenberg.  This  trait  is  quite  in  keeping  with  the  general 
melancholy  type  in  the  drama,  for  Hieronimo,  Antonio, 
Dowsecer,  and  Jaques  agree  with  Hamlet  in  possessing 
a  certain  amount  of  learning,  either  a  critical  knowledge 
of  books  or  an  impersonal  interest  in  science.  His  period 
regarded  the  poet-scholar  as  the  ideal  of  a  certain  social 
class,  and  had  a  general  tendency  to  bring  art  and  science 
into  an  intimate  relation.  That  is  why  he  too  has  strongly 
developed  artistic  leanings,  writes  poetry,  has  a  knowledge 
of  theatrical  matters,  plays  the  flute,  and  is  fond  of  music, 
these  being  accomplishments  in  which  the  Shakespearean 
man  of  action  is  deficient.  All  this  rich  mental  life,  how- 
ever, is  unable  to  provide  him  with  motives  for  action. 
With  the  weapons  of  the  weak,  irony  and  scorn,  he  opposes 
J68 


IN   SHAKESPEARE^S   PLAYS 

hostile  world  which  contains  no  secrets  his  keen 
intellect  cannot  penetrate.  Where  his  rival  uses  brute 
force  he  eludes  his  adversaries  by  means  of  clever  equivoca- 
tions, though,  with  the  profound  self-knowledge  which 
distinguishes  him,  he  cannot  but  be  bitterly  sensible  that 
this  conduct,  at  bottom  so  unworthy,  is  a  moral  blemish. 

His  actions — whenever  he  goes  so  far  as  to  act — are 
only  seemingly  inconsistent  with  this  weakness.  A  certain 
harmony  of  character  and  action  was  in  all  likelihood 
present  already  in  Kyd's  play,  with  this  difference,  possibly, 
that  greater  stress  may  have  been  laid  on  the  external 
obstacles.  Fratricide  Punished  gives  evidence  of  this. 
Though  the  Prince  in  that  play  assumes  the  mask  of  madness 
in  order  to  have  a  better  chance  of  getting  near  the  well- 
guarded  King,  we  are  not  meant  to  conclude  that  he  was 
incapable  of  action.  In  the  case  of  Hamlet  this  motive 
is  wanting.  As  no  reason  is  stated  for  his  dissimulation, 
it  has  been  traced  back  exclusively  to  subjective  motives. 
Bradley — who  in  this  case  as  in  others  is  essentially  in 
agreement  with  the  rest  of  the  critics — sees  in  Hamlet's 
attempt  to  disguise  himself  an  instinct  of  self-protection, 
a  feeling  that  this  mask  will  relieve  him  of  the  fearful 
burden  that  threatens  to  crush  his  heart  and  brain.  Only 
Stoll  objects  to  this  view  as  far  too  speculative  (p.  269). 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  cannot  well  comprehend  why  that 
which  in  Kyd's  drama  so  clearly  appears,  upon  reference 
to  the  original  {cf.  p.  149),  as  a  blunder  must  be  interpreted 
as  a  clever  piece  of  psychological  analysis  in  the  case  of 
Shakespeare.  The  true  explanation  is  that  Shakespeare, 
here  as  in  other  instances,  after  fixing  upon  the  plot  as  a 
whole,  takes  over  the  inherent  faults  into  the  bargain 
without  examining  them  too  closely. 

Equally  wrong,  no  doubt,  is  the  endeavour  to  find  special 

motives,  never  openly  expressed,  for  Hamlet's  behaviour 

toward  Ophelia  (**  Get   thee   to   a   nunnery "),  and  Stoll 

is  perfectly  right  in  objecting  to  the  view  that  Hamlet'^ 

I  bitterness  against  women  is  meant  to  reflect  his  personal 

[disappointment  because  of  his  experiences  with  Ophelia 

'  and  his  mother.     We  have  seen  that  declamations  against 

169 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

women  belong  to  that  *  humour '  or  that  aversion  to  life  which  * 
is  part  of  the  melancholy  character,  and  therefore  they  con- 
tinually recur  in  the  representations  of  the  type.^  j 
It  has  already  been  mentioned  that  Hamlet  in  Kyd*s 
drama  (according  to  the  evidence  furnished  by  Fratricide 
Punished)  is  some  degrees  more  energetic,  full  at  any  rate 
of  a  passionate  hatred  of  the  King,  and  is  not  represented 
as  such  a  creature  of  brain  and  nerves  as  in  Shakespeare's 
play.  Therefore  we  may  suppose  that  the  great  turning- 
point  of  the  piece,  the  prayer  scene  and  Hamlet's  renuncia- 
tion of  revenge  in  it,  was  not  exactly  improbable  either, 
though,  perhaps,  never  quite  unexceptionable.  Shakespeare 
took  it  over  without  giving  it  any  new  interpretation 
{cf,  below).  The  decisive  actions  which  Hamlet  performs 
there,  the  killing  of  Polonius,  the  boarding  of  the  pirate 
ship,  the  dispatch  of  the  King  in  the  duel  scene,  are  all 
measures  that  do  not  necessarily  conflict  with  the  char- 
acter itself.     Hamlet  is  not  cowardly,  butjweak. Even 

the  weak  man  may  pull  himself  together  fn  order  to  act 
when  he  gets  excited.  The  excitement  makes  him  strong 
for  a  moment  only.  This  happens  to  Hamlet  at  the  very 
beginning  of  the  play  (I,  iv),  when  the  appearance  of  the 
ghost  puts  him  into  such  a  state  that  the  faithful  Horatio  i 
exclaims,  quite  terrified,  *'  He  waxes  desperate  with  imagina- 
tion," for  at  just  that  moment  the  Prince  feels  himself  so 
strong  that  "  each  petty  artery  in  this  body  [is]  as  hardy  i 
as  the  Nemean  lion's  nerve."  The  unnatural  state  is  then, 
of  necessity,  displaced  by  the  corresponding  prostration. 
The  other  heroes  of  Shakespeare  who  suffer  from  weakness 
of  will  are  not  much  different  in  this  respect.  A  very 
similar  case  is  presented,  for  instance,  by  Richard  II  ;  none 
of  Shakespeare's  characters  exhibits  a  greater  lack  of  will-  ■ 
power.  He  too  finds  that  the  task  of  defending  his 
crown  which  has  been  laid  upon  him,  even  though  not 
announced  to  him  by  any  ghost,  exceeds  his  power  of 
action  ;   he  folds  his  hands  resignedly  and  consumes  what 

1  Here  we  might  also  instance  Dowsecer,  who  speaks  in  a  very  similar 
manner  without  any  personal  experience  {cf.  p.  156),  also  Malevole  in  The  ' 
Malcontent,  it  being  of  little  moment  in  this  connexion  that  this  play  was 
written  after  Hamlet,  not,  as  Stoll  thinks,  before.     Cf.  Radebrecht,  p.  79  seq. 
170 


I 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


strength  of  will  he  has  in  pessimistic  reflections.  He 
pillows  himself  to  be  thrust  from  his  throne  and  cast  into 
3rison.  But  he  resembles  Hamlet  in  having  sudden 
oursts  of  passionate  energy,  which  in  his  case  appear 
■pcially  in  moments  of  personal  danger  (V,  iv),  and 
le  sells  his  life  dearly. 

Shakespeare  found  in  the  figure  of  the  Urhamlet^  which 

s  proved  by  the  cognate  principal  character  of  The  Spanish 

Tragedy  to  have  possessed  a  far  more  diversified  and  fasci- 

lating  physiognomy  than  is  commonly  assumed,  a  splendid 

nodel  for  his  art  of  dramatic  refinement.     As  regards  the 

'est   of  the   characters,   however,    he   received   from   his 

predecessor  an  inheritance  which  was  not  in  every  respect 

satisfactory.     It  is  part  of  the  principle  of  the  drama  that 

3n  the  one    hand    the  characters  must   not  possess   any 

jonspicuous   quality  that   does   not  influence  the  action, 

\Wt  on  the  other   hand   the  action  must  not  depend  on 

,  qualities  which  do  not  appear  in  the  course  of  the  drama. 

:  iiiis  strict  observance,  in  the  vast  majority  of  cases,  of  the 

Srst  rule  is  one  of  Shakespeare's  chief  merits..-    An  excep- 

'  lion  is  the  curious  melancholy  of  Antonio  in  The  Merchant 

?/  Venice^  which  at  the  beginning  of  the  play  completely 

I  dominates   him.     The   question    may   be   asked  whether 

in  an   earlier  play,   which   Shakespeare  drew  upon,   this 

I  quality  made  Antonio  too  careless  and  passive  against  the 

few^  so  that  he  was  guilty  of  facilitating  the  game  of  his 

dangerous  foe.     Whatever  may  be  the  case  in  that  play, 

,  n  Hamlet  we  have  another  exception  not  dissimilar,  in  a 

i  dramatic  respect,  to  the  one  just  mentioned,  in  the  mad- 

'  less  of  Ophelia.    The  origin  of  this  trait  may  perhaps 

DC  explained  in  the  way  already  indicated,  viz.,  that  in  an 

Dlder  play  a  mad  girl  appeared  whose  madness  was  used 

:o  set  the  stone  rolling  and  disentangle  the  complication. 

Under  the  influence  of  her  madness  she  roams  through 

:he  woods  and  enters  a  cave,  where  she  finds  traces  of  a 

nurder  which  serve  to  show  up  the  intrigue  of  the  play. 

SFo  such  dramatic  purpose  is  intended  by  the  madness  of 

Dphelia.     It  is  important  for  the  action  only  inasmuch  as 

t  indirectly  brings  about  the  scene  at  the  grave,  and  it  is 

171 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

open  to  doubt  whether  this  scene  justifies  such  a  dramatic 
development  of  the  original  conception  of  Ophelia's  char- 
acter. In  dealing  with  the  problem  in  this  manner,  however, 
werunthedangerof  confiningShakespeare  to  the  Procrustear 
bed  of  prescribed  formulae.  It  is  perfectly  evident  that 
qualities  of  character  which  have  no  bearing  upon  the  actior 
are  avoided  by  the  dramatist,  especially  for  the  reason  thai 
they  excite  an  interest  and  call  forth  expectations  whicl: 
are  afterward  not  fulfilled  by  any  dramatic  developments 
but  vanish  without  leaving  a  trace.  The  figure  of  Ophelia 
however,  is  of  such  a  peculiar  kind  that  it  cannot  giv( 
rise  to  any  such  expectations.  It  is  a  beautiful  dramatic 
luxury  which  sets  at  defiance  the  artistic  principle  so  ofter 
repeated  in  modern  times,  that  all  superfluous  details  ir 
art  are  to  be  avoided  as  detrimental. 

As  regards  the  second  part,  of  the  above-mentioned 
rule — namely,  that  the  action  must  not  be  dependent  or 
qualities  which  are  not  shown  by  the  respective  persons 
in  the  course  of  the  drama — Shakespeare's  practice  is  quite 
different.  It  is  obvious  that  this  eventuality  can  arise  onl) 
where  decisive  incidents  are  assumed  to  have  happenec 
before  the  beginning  of  the  drama.  This  is  the  case  ir 
Hamlet,  A  dreadful  crime  has  been  committed,  pre- 
supposing a  character  such  as  can  be  found  only  among  the 
outcasts  of  humanity.  A  trustful,  unsuspecting  brothei 
has  been  assassinated;  the  man  who  has  blackened  his 
soul  with  this  enormous  guilt  must  manifest  a  nature  tc 
correspond  with  it.  We  expect  his  malevolence  anc 
baseness  to  appear  in  his  character.  The  qualities  whicF 
make  him  a  murderer  should  come  out  clearly  in  hif 
relation  to  his  environment  even  after  he  has  attained  hij 
object.  In  this  figure,  however,  we  notice  a  conflict  be- 
tween dramatic  appearance  and  reality  similar  to  that  whicl 
some  critics  have  tried  to  find  in  Julius  Caesar.  The  objec 
tion  urged  against  Julius  Caesar,  that  his  character  i; 
assumed  to  be  quite  different  from  what  it  appears  to  ou: 
eyes  in  his  actions,  unquestionably  holds  good  in  the  cas( 
of  Claudius,  his  behaviour  not  corresponding  in  the  leas; 
with  what  we  hear  of  him.  The  events  supposed  to  hav<! 
172 


i 


IN    SHAKESPEARE^S   PLAYS 

urred  before  the  beginning  of  the  action  reveal  him  as  an 
lost  incredible  criminal.  The  ghost  of  the  murdered 
ig  speaks  of  him  as  one  "  whose  natural  gifts  were  poor  to 
se  of  mine."  Hamlet's  descriptions  make  him  out 
:unning  voluptuary,  a  "  vice  of  kings,"  "  a  king  of 
eds  and  patches."  According  to  this  information  we 
uld  expect  to  find  him  a  vile  sneak,  a  scoundrel  anxiously 
suspiciously  watching  over  the  crown  he  has  stolen, 
he  very  least  a  man  whom  the  great  lie  on  which  he  has 
It  his  very  existence  as  king  has  given  an  uneasy  or  an 
ficial  air.  All  the  more  surprised  are  we,  when  first 
king  his  acquaintance  in  the  great  state  scene  (I,  ii), 
y  the  most  princely  deportment  with  which  he  discharges 
le  duties  of  his  royal  office.  In  a  magnificent,  well- 
ered  speech  from  the  throne,  which  is  as  distinguished 
the  greatness  of  the  thoughts  as  it  is  manly,  even 
estic,  in  tone,  he  treats  of  the  affairs  of  the  state  and 
own  with  complete  assurance  and  apparently  with  a 
ectly  clear  conscience.  Not  the  slightest  note  of  in- 
erity  arrests  our  attention,  no  reluctance  to  mention  his 
dered  brother's  name  can  arouse  the  faintest  suspicion, 
tically,  he  is  more  than  equal  to  his  task  ;  with  the 
test  energy  he  takes  the  measures  which  are  necessary 
iew  of  the  Norwegian  danger  ;  then  with  bland  con- 
ension  which  befits  especially  his  position  as  a  king 
lately  crowned  he  turns  to  the  affairs  of  those 
ediately  attendant  upon  him.  Here  also  he  shows 
itelligence  and  tact.  All  this,  if  we  are  to  believe  the 
ritics  (cf.  Loning,  p.  287),  is  but  pretence  and  hypocrisy. 
"his  view,  however,  rests  on  a  naive  inability  to  distin- 
uish  between  art  and  reality.  It  is  certain  that  in  reality 
il  he  says  would  necessarily  be  false,  but  in  the  drama 
ypocrisy  would  also  have  to  betray  itself  in  some  form 
r  other.  Now  Shakespeare  has  made  no  efforts  what- 
/er  to  express  this  hypocrisy.  Attempts  to  discover  the 
g*s  character  behind  his  words  spring  merely  from  the 
t  subjective  imagination.  No  tender  stepfather  could 
ress  himself  more  appropriately  than  he  does.  He  ad- 
ses  Hamlet  with  evident  warmth  of  heart,  and  does  not 

173 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

lose  his  composure  when  he  receives  equivocal,  scornful.i 
and  snappy  answers.  On  the  contrary,  he  opens  his  re' 
marks  in  the  superior  manner  of  a  benevolent  eldei 
brother  ;  he  acknowledges  that  Hamlet's  profound  sorro\^' 
at  the  loss  of  his  father  does  him  honour  (I,  ii,  87)  ;  then 
however,  he  uses  strong  but  not  unjust  words  in  order  tc 
reprimand  him  for  the  excess  of  his  grief,  his  morbid  in 
dulgence  in  it,  and  asks  him  to  moderate  himself.  He  i; 
not  insensible  of  the  change  in  Hamlet's  outward  positior 
which  has  been  produced  by  the  death  of  his  father.  Ii 
seems  as  if  he  tactfully  avoids  mentioning  expressly  thai 
Hamlet's  depression,  in  his  opinion,  is  partly  due  to  thii 
cause.  In  terms  as  loving  and  considerate  as  only  a  de- 
voted stepfather  could  find,  he  assures  Hamlet  that  he  wil 
not  fail  him.  Hamlet  has  probably  been  sitting  turnec 
away  and  apathetic  during  the  whole  of  this  long  speech 
now  his  mother  adds  a  few  words — two  lines — to  thos( 
of  her  husband,  and  the  Prince  answers,  without  taking  th( 
slightest  notice  of  his  stepfather,  in  a  single  laconic  sentence.! 
which  he  very  ostensibly  addresses  to  his  mother  :  "  1' 
shall  in  all  my  best  obey  you,  madam."  Again  the  King 
pretends  not  to  notice  Hamlet's  hostility  toward  himself^; 
and  heartily  expresses  his  joy  at  Hamlet's  resolution  tc| 
give  up  his  journey  to  Wittenberg.  He  then  shows  a' 
new  side  of  his  apparently  most  amiable  character  in 
promising  a  great  banquet  and  openly  avowing  how  much 
he  himself  is  looking  forward  to  this  pleasure.  Nobody 
would  recognize  in  the  behaviour  of  this  clear-sighted, 
intelligent,  dignified,  and  tactful  prince  the  malignant 
villain  and  degenerate  assassin.  The  only  thing  an  actor 
could  do  in  order  to  make  the  audience  begin  to  suspect 
his  character  already  in  this  scene  would  be  to  lay  stress 
on  this  amiability.  Wherever  the  occasion  is  suitable,  e.g»^ 
when  the  King  encourages  Laertes  to  make  his  request: 
in  the  words 

What  wouldst  thou  beg,  Laertes, 
That  shall  not  be  my  offer,  not  thy  asking  ? 

and  also  when  he  addresses  Hamlet,  his  tone  ought  t( 
174 


I 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


Dne  of  insinuating  and  cloying  sweetness,  and  we  may 
assume  that  the  Elizabethan  actor  from  the  first  inter- 
preted the  part  on  these  lines.  It  is  this  very  same  trait 
^(which  Hamlet  refers  in  the  reflection :  "  That  one  may 
ile  and  smile  and  be  a  villain."  Evidently  the  purpose 
to  arouse  suspicion  by  this  excessive  graciousness,  this 
lost  officious  behaviour,  of  the  King.  That  this  feel- 
is  not  immediately  aroused  in  us  is  due  to  our 
iern  mentality.  An  English  national  peculiarity,  it  is 
,  even  to-day  compels  the  self-respecting  man  care- 
to  guard  his  *  dignity  *  and  forbids  him  to  show  too 
^ch  amiability.  Shakespeare  can  conceive  of  no  greater 
)ression  of  contempt  than  the  reproach  made  to 
inry  IV  that  he  had  "  smiled  his  way  up  to  the  throne.** 
this  as  it  may,  we  do  not,  by  the  emphasizing  of  this 
ft  either  at  the  beginning  or  afterward,  gain  that 
lediate  impression  of  the  crowned  criminal  which  we 
^ht  to  receive  according  to  the  story.  It  is  true  that 
treacherous  way  in  which  he  attempts  to  rid  him- 
of  Hamlet,  and  especially  the  villainous  instigation 
^Laertes,  establishes  a  certain  harmony  between  his  char- 
5r  and  the  account  of  his  previous  deeds,  though  here 
is  acting  in  self-defence.  What  ill  agrees  with  this 
iception,  however,  is  his  great  loving  tenderness  toward 
wife.     Of  her  he  says  : 

She's  so  conjunctive  to  my  life  and  soul, 
That,  as  the  star  moves  not  but  in  his  sphere, 
I  could  not  but  by  her. 

IV,  vii 

tis  assassin  is  not  only  one  of  the  most  tender  husbands 

ikespeare  has    drawn,   but  also  a    true  altruist  in  his 

.pathy  for  an  unfortunate  girl  like  Ophelia,  and  a  hero 

\o  claims  our  admiration  by  his  intrepidity  in  dangerous 

>ments,  as  when  Laertes  raises  a  mutiny.     Against  all 

[s  evidence  we  are  asked  to  believe  that  the  theatrical 

rformance  arranged  by  Hamlet  has  so  stirred  up  the 

ig*s  conscience  that  the  whole  moral  depravity  of  his 

laviour  comes  home  to  him  (III,  iii)  and  causes  him 

175 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

to  reflect  on  the  "  blackness  of  his  bosom,**  to  make  to 
himself  what  we  may  call  a  full  confession  of  his  guilt  : 

O,  my  offence  is  rank,  it  smells  to  heaven  ; 
It  hath  the  primal  eldest  curse  upon't  ; 
A  brother's  murder  I 

This  is  not  very  convincing.     However  much  the  qualities 
of  this  figure  during  and  before  the  action  may  conflict, 
it    is    certain    that   we  are     presented  with   an    extremely 
energetic  and  intelligent  man  upon  whom  the  theatrical 
performance  could  hardly  have  this   effect.     Only  quite 
unstable  or  broken  characters  would  under  such  circum- 
stances, at  such  moments,  plunge  into  prayer  for  the  purpose 
of  remorseful    self-contemplation.     Here  also  the  primi- 
tive psychology  of  the  model  has  been  uncritically  taken 
over.     We  see   how  Shakespeare  with  great  equanimity 
works  out  what  is  demanded  by  the  plan  already  contained 
in  the  story.     A  further  consideration  is  that  the  action 
could  not  dispense  with  the  prayer  scene,   inasmuch  as 
it  is  the  only  means   of  giving   the   spectator   the   final 
confirmation,  which  is  urgently  required,  that  the  events 
related  by  the  ghost  have  actually  taken  place  in  the  manner 
described.     There  is  still  another  point  of  view  from  which 
Shakespeare  may  have  regarded  this  scene  :    his  purpose 
throughout  his  work  is  to  make  his  villains  recognize  the 
culpable  nature  of  their  actions,  and  this  is  done  in  the 
King's  monologue.     We  thus  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  parts  of  this  figure  are  not  all  of  one  cast,  but  are  formed 
in  accordance  with  the  -part  each  one  has  to  take  in  the  action, 
Shakespeare  here  evidently  worked,  as  Grillparzer  says, 
"  step  by  step,"  and  each  single  part  manifests  the  tendency, 
which  was  fully  described  before  (p.   m),  toward  inde- 
pendence of  the  scene  and  heightening  of  the  scenic  effect. 
6.  Action  adjusted  to  the  Development  of  Char- 
acter (Lear). — Though  Shakespeare  usually  to  a  surprising 
degree  adapts  himself  to  the  given  action,  we  yet  see  in 
a  few  instances  that  he  departs  from  the  course  prescribed 
by  it.     The  most  remarkable  case  of  this  kind  is  King 
Lear,     It  is  true  that  here  the  playwright  found  a  story 

176 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


I 

■hich  was  of  very  doubtful  value  as  a  dramatic  plot,  a 
^ing  who  makes  the  division  of  his  realm  among  his  children 
depend   on   the   magniloquence   of  their   protestations   of 
I  love — the  idea  strikes  one  as  though  it  had  been  invented 
I  by  the  author  of  The  Playboy  of  the  Western  World^  and  can, 
I  indeed,  have  arisen  only  in  a  nation  which  is  inclined  to 
be  intoxicated  by  fine  and  well-set  phrases.^     The  various 
versions  and  arrangements  of  this  theme  in  existence  before 
Shakespeare's  time  had  not  attempted  to  render  the  subse- 
quent course  of  the  action  psychologically  consistent  with 
the    initial    situation.     Everywhere    the    King    is    treated 
cruelly  by  the  daughters  he  has  preferred,  until  he  flees, 
degraded  to  the  condition  of  a  beggar,  to  the  daughter 
who  had  been  disowned  by  him,  but  who  wins  back  his 
^'  kingdom  for  him  and  puts  him  on  the  throne  again.     The 
^^  strangeness    of    the    introductory    action    compelled    the 
^^  I  dramatist  either  to  provide  different  motives  for  the  issue 
^  of  the  conflict,  or  to  adjust  the  subsequent  course  of  the 
^  action  to  the  first  part  of  it.     The  author  of  the  older  play 
'^l  of  King  Leir^  which  was    hardly  used    by  Shakespeare, 
^\  adopted   the   former   alternative,    Shakespeare   the   latter. 
f^'  Many  details  of  this  perplexing  tangle  of  vicissitudes  may 
i^'  have  suited  his  mood  at  the  time.     It  was  that  period  of 
0^'  his  creative  activity  when  his  aim  was  to  represent  the 
tt^  overthrow  of  a  great  nature  brought  about  by  a  certain 
^  blindness  to  things  which  to  the  common  sense  of  the 
ii'  average  mind  cannot  appear  for  a  moment  otherwise  than 
^  En  their  true  aspect.     In  this  way,  for  example,  his  Othello 
««  Iworks  his  own  ruin  and  his  infatuated  Antony  runs  his  head 
^^'  against  the  wall. 

Not  only  in  the  world  of  the  poet's  own  thoughts  do  we 
.:  End  figures  closely  related  to  King  Lear.  The  suggestions 
i:yO  which  this  character  is  due,  at  least  in  its  most  compre- 
lAnjbLensive  outlines,  came  to  him  from  the  works  of  other 
ilDoets,  a  very  common  occurrence  with  him,  as  we  know. 
eilFhe  old  man  who  goes  mad  with  continual  fretting  had 


H 


1  The  story  is  first  related  by  the  Welshman  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth  in 
c  Histona  Reg.  Brit.,  c.  1136.  The  name  of  Lear  is  Celtic,  the  subject 
sibly  Irish.     Cf.  Rhys  in  Craig's  edition,  p.  xxxv  seq. 

177 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

already  fascinated  the  public  in  the  guise  of  Kyd's  old 
marshal  Hieronimo,  and  to  a  lesser  degree  in  that  of  Titus 
Andronicus.     Furthermore,  it  is  evident  that  immediately 
before  the  creation  of  Lear  the  author's  mind  had  had 
stamped  upon  it  the  image  of  another  strong-willed  old 
man  who  believes  himself  superior  to  his  whole  environ- 
ment, and  then,  struck  by  Fate  just  where  he  is  most 
vulnerable,  knows  no  limit  to  his  rage,  kicks  against  the 
pricks,  and  is  driven  into  madness  by  his  futile  resistance 
to  his  destiny.     This  is  the  Atheist  in  Tourneur*s  drama.i 
The  decisive  impression,  however,  of  his  figure  of  Lear 
Shakespeare  had  received  from  the  story  itself.     There  the 
behaviour  of  the   King,   especially  in   the   initial   action, 
shows  an  extraordinary  irascibility.     On  this  fundamental 
trait    Shakespeare    based    the   whole    character.     Only   a 
short,   though   important,    passage   is   devoted   to   giving 
reasons  for  Lear's  behaviour,  the  device  employed  being 
the  reflection  of  his  character  in  the  minds   of  Goneril 
and  Regan.     We  learn  that  he  was  hot-headed,  **  the  best 
and  soundest  of  his  time  hath  been  but  rash,"  that  "he  hath 
ever  but  slenderly  known  himself,'*  but  that  now  age  has 
weakened  still  further  his  **  poor  judgment  "  and  makes 
his  choleric  disposition  break  out  in  "  inconstant  starts." 
Though  this  review  of  the  situation  is  given  by  the  two 
wicked  sisters,  yet  the  poet's  technique  (cf,  p.  66  seq.) 
leaves  no  doubt  that  it  is  to  be  taken  as  substantially  correct. 
Still,  this  is  not  much  ;   we  are  not  given  more  than  a  hint, 
which  is  not  sufficient  to  explain  the  much  disputed  intro- 
ductory action.     Here  the  question  as  to  the  relation  of 
character  and  action  once  more  becomes  very  acute.     The 
critics,  indeed,  hold  divergent  views.     Riimelin  (p.   60) 
designates   the  whole   scene   as   absurd,   saying  that  thes 
introduction  is  good  enough  for  a  fairy-tale  but  not  for  a 
soul-stirring  tragedy.     A  renowned  old  King,  he  thinks, 
ought  long  to  have  known  the  disposition  of  his  children, 
and  could  not  deprive  a  beloved  daughter  of  her  inheritance 
merely  because  her  simple  words  did  not  come  up  to  the 

^  Cf.  the  author's  essay  "Eine  Anleihe  Shakespearesbei  Tourneur,"  Englische 
Studien,  vol.  1,  p.  80  seq. 

178 


I 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

exaggerations  of  her  sisters.     Who  acts  thus,  in  Rumelin's 

opinion,  has  not  much  reason  to  lose  and  is  probably  not 

quite    responsible    from    the    very   beginning.     Kreyssig 

(ii,  p.  113)  also  thinks  little  of  the  scene.     According  to 

him  the  first  words  of  the  King  are  those  of  a  man  who  has 

'  a  screw  loose.'     Brandes,    who  in  important  questions 

mostly  follows  Kreyssig,  also  considers  (p.  642)  the  action 

as  absolutely  contrary  to  reason,  and  possible  only  in  the 

world  of  fairy-tales.     Others,   however,   have  thought  it 

necessary   to    defend    Shakespeare.     Thus,    for   instance, 

Vischer  (iii,  p.  286  se^,)  thinks  he  can  invalidate  Rumelin's 

objections  by  saying  that  this  critic  cannot  get  away  from 

a  purely  realistic  conception  of  the  events  of  the  play. 

His  own  view  is  that  the  introductory  action  should  be  taken 

more  symbolically,  and  that  it  only  condenses  into  a  short 

space  of  time  what  in  reality  was  spread  over  many  years. 

1|  The  King's  yearning  for  tenderness,  Cordelia's  shy  reluct- 

^^j  ance  to  show  her  love,  the  adroit  utilization  of  the  father's 

'I  weakness  by  the  other  daughters,  according  to  this  critic 

'^  presuppose  a  fairly  long  time  without  which  they  could  not 

''  bring  about  the  King's  final  resolve  to  disinherit  Cordelia. 

^  ?  Vischer  concludes,  therefore,  that  the  poet  wished  to  create 

R symbolical  scene  by  concentrating  all  these  actions  into 
le  dramatic  moment. 

This  explanation,  however,  is  untenable  because  it  distorts 
the  facts — a  practice  which  makes  so  much  symbolical 
interpretation  of  an  art  which  is  essentially  realistic  appear 
extremely  doubtful.  It  would  be  scarcely  possible,  for 
Instance,  to  explain  the  famous  scene  between  Richard  III 
and  Anne  in  which  he  woos  the  widow  of  his  victim  at 
the  very  bier  of  her  husband  by  the  theory  that  it  is  not 
so  much  to  be  taken  in  a  literal  sense  as  to  be  considered 
the  first  beginning  of  a  new  love  affair  that  springs  up 
beside  the  corpse  of  the  victim.  This  would  be  taking 
away  the  whole  point  of  the  scene.  It  is  much  the  same 
in  the  case  of  Lear.  The  very  suddenness  of  the  resolu- 
tion is  the  decisive  point.  Vischer's  Idea  is  a  psychological 
process  of  an  altogether  different  kind.     Shakespeare  did 

(t  dream  of  making  Cordelia's  reserve  and  coyness  the 
179 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

cause  of  a  slow  estrangement  between  herself  and  her 
father.  Had  he  wished  to  express  this  he  could  have  made 
Lear  designate  his  action  as  a  kind  of  final  test  to  which 
he  intended  to  put  her.  We  know,  however,  that  on 
the  contrary  Lear  is  so  full  of  tender  love  for  Cordelia 
until  the  moment  when  she  opens  her  mouth  to  utter 
the  fatal  words  that  he  markedly  prefers  her  to  the  other 
sisters. 

In  this  manner,  therefore,  it  is  impossible  to  solve  the 
difficulties  described  above,  and  Vischer's  confident  assertion 
that  Schiller  and  Goethe  would  certainly  have  pronounced 
the  piece  to  have  a  wonderful  exposition  could  not  count 
on  finding  much  credence,  even  if  there  did  not  exist  a 
statement  made  by  Goethe,  as  unfortunately  there  does, 
to  the  effect  that  the  exposition  is  simply  absurd.  The 
question  must  also  be  raised  whether  Bradley  (p.  249) 
has  really  mastered  these  difficulties,  which  he  probably 
underestimates  (p.  71),  in  considering  the  opening  scene 
as  not  at  all  incredible  and  describing  the  marriage  of  Othello, 
the  Moor,  and  Desdemona,  the  daughter  of  the  Venetian 
senator,  as  not  less  strange.  He  finds  a  good  reason  for 
Lear's  behaviour  in  the  **  unfortunate  speech  ''  of  Cordelia, 
who,  he  thinks,  is  not  quite  aware  that  saying  less  than  the 
truth  may  also  be  equivalent  to  not  telling  it,  and  who  is 
also  partly  to  blame  for  the  consequences  on  account  of 
the  disappointment  and  disgrace  she  has  caused  her  father 
at  the  great  moment  he  had  so  carefully  planned.  To  this 
view  we  must  object  that  it  misjudges  the  problem. 
Nobody  will  dispute  that  the  thwarting  of  his  most  eccentric 
plan  by  Cordelia  was  apt  to  put  her  father  out  of  humour, 
even  to  anger  him,  but  that  it  should  change  his  love  for 
his  daughter  to  savage  hate  would  be  inconceivable,  even 
if  his  love  for  Cordelia  had  been  on  a  par  with  that  which 
he  felt  for  his  other  daughters.  The  fact  that  she  is  his 
darling,  however,  shows  that  he  is  well  aware  of  her  superior 
worth.  How  is  it  possible,  then,  that  this  knowledge 
could  be  extinguished  by  a  single  outburst  of  ill-humour 
and  be  replaced  by  the  most  senseless  misconception  of 
her  character  }  Bradley  replies  ;  The  King  has  a  long  1""'' 
180 


I 


(IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 
f  absolute   power   behind   him,    in   which   he   has   been 
attered  to  an  almost  incredible  extent ;  as  a  consequence, 
n  arrogant  self-will  has  been  bred  in  him,  the  slightest 
pposition  to  which  makes  him  fly  into  a  passion.     But  a 
omineering    spirit    and    an    excessive    vanity    need    not 
ecessarily  destroy  all  power  of  judgment.     For  the  rest, 
e  dragging  in  of  previous  events  (cf,  above,  p.  158  n.) 
ot  mentioned  by  the  poet  is  always  a  most  questionable 
ndertaking.     Besides,  all  those   critics  who  are  so  fond 
f  depicting  a  reign  of  the  King  which  was   filled  with 
ttery  seem  entirely  to  forget  the  fool  and  the  good  Kent, 
less  than  the  honest  Gloster. 

The  problem  cannot  be  solved  in  this  way.     What  we 

ve  to  decide  is  rather  whether  the  behaviour  of  the  King 

ward  his  daughter  can  be  brought  into  agreement^  not  with  the 

ws  of  reason^  but  with  the  rest  of  his  conduct.     The  question 

hether    this    behaviour    itself   is    reasonable    or    lunatic, 

hether  the  assumption  of  madness  might  eventually  be 

etrimental  to  the  tragic  effect,  etc.,  may  in  the  meantime 

€  left  out  of  consideration  altogether. 

Now  it  is  impossible  to  overlook  the  fact  that  Shakespeare 

s  certainly  tried  very  carefully  to  bring  about  an  agree- 

ent  between  the  behaviour  of  Lear  in  the  introductory 

ene  and  the  subsequent  part  of  the  action.     The  first 

dication  of  this  endeavour  is  found  in  the  conversation 

the   sisters,  who  report  what  we  are  told  again  later 

,1  that  the  abnormal  excitement  and  exaltation  is  now 

ginning  to  be  much  more  noticeable  in  his  behaviour 

than   before.      Then   in   the   banishment  of  the  faithful 

Kent  we  witness  a  further  instance  of  this  change,  which 

is  hardly  less  remarkable  than  the  preceding  incident  had 

..    been.    In  both  he  is  equally  immoderate.     He  is  not  satisfied 

with  banishing  Kent,  but  must,  in  addition,  threaten  him 

with  capital  punishment.     He  does  not  merely  withdraw 

A  his  favour  from  Cordelia,  but  immediately  goes  so  far  as 

J  to  treat  her  like  the  scum  of  the  earth  ;    the  "  barbarous 

" '  Scythian  "  is  as  dear  to  him  as  she,   and  he  spitefully 

1  "  These  dispositions,  which  of  late  transport  you 
From  what  you  rightly  are."         I,  iv,  242 

181 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

designates   her   as   "  new   adopted   to   our   hate/'      This 
attack  is  not  followed  by  any  return  to  a  saner  attitude. 

The  same  traits  are  manifested  by  Lear  when,  after  his  .. 
abdication,  he ,  is  living  on  the  charity  of  others.  His  | 
impatience,  lack  of  self-control,  capriciousness,  and 
arrogance  remain  unchanged.  When  the  fool  fails  to 
respond  to  a  sign  given  by  him  he  reviles  the  whole  world 
for  being  asleep.  To  the  remarks  made  by  the  faithful 
fool  he  repeatedly  replies  by  threatening  him  with  a  whip. 
When  Kent,  in  disguise,  applies  to  him  in  order  to  re- 
join his  service,  unknown  to  him,  he  uses  such  language 
as  a  policeman  might  use  to  a  burglar,  and  then  promises  j 
magnanimously  to  take  him  into  his  service  if,  after  he  has 
dined,  he  finds  that  he  still  likes  him.  Such  being  his 
treatment  of  his  faithful  followers,  he  naturally  behaves 
with  still  greater  rudeness  toward  those  who  provoke  him. 
He  strikes  Goneril's  gentleman-in-waiting,  he  insults  the 
negligent  steward  with  the  words,  **  You  whoreson  dog! 
you  slave  !  you  cur!  *'  and  is  delighted  when  Kent  trips 
the  fellow  up  and  throws  him  to  the  ground.  Thereupon, 
when  Goneril  daree  to  remonstrate  with  him,  certainly 
not  out  of  any  feeling  of  kindness,  but  at  least  provisionally 
observing  the  forms  of  outward  politeness,  he  considers 
himself  highly  offended  in  his  dignity  even  by  this  slight 
rebuke,  and  breaks  out  in  a  paroxysm  of  fury  that  makes 
him  weep  with  rage  and  hurl  a  veritable  flood  of  execrations 
at  his  daughter,  cursing  not  only  herself  as  a  degenerate 
bastard,  but  the  very  child  in  her  womb  (I,  iv,  295).  Not 
satisfied  with  having  given  the  most  unsparing  expression 
to  his  indignation,  he  adds  scorn  to  insult  by  asking  the 
woman  who  has  offended  him  :  **  Your  name,  fair  gentle- 
woman ?  **  The  same  love  of  theatrical  ostentation  is 
shown  later  in  the  scene  with  Regan  (II,  iii),  when  in  order 
to  heighten  the  effect  of  his  bitter  words  he  kneels  down, 
by  way  of  trial,  as  he  says.  (This  is  a  most  ingenious  and 
successful  way  of  following  up  the  theatrical  idea  whic, 
had  induced  Lear  to  arrange  the  opening  scene.)  The 
after  Regan  has  finally  disillusioned  him,  he  is  seized  an 
shaken  in  every  limb  by  such  a  fit  of  frenzy  that  even 
182 


nu 

I 

n^ 

I 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

irceives  himself  to  be  struggling  with  a  malady,  and 
lakes  violent  efforts  to  free  himself  from  the  "  hysterica 
)assio  "  (a  term  frequently  used  in  that  time  to  designate 
'  amp  in  the  stomach).  The  enormous  excitement  of  the 
isuing  scenes,  in  which  he  is  degraded  to  the  condition 
a  beggar,  -throws  his  reason  completely  out  of  gear. 
Every  one  of  these  actions  shows  a  remarkable  lack  of 
loderation,  just  as  his  behaviour  to  Kent  and  his  un- 
linished  confidence  in  Regan  despite  his  experiences 
ith  Goneril  betray,  to  put  it  mildly,  a  total  lack  of  judg- 
lent,  and  both  of  these  qualities  are  in  perfect  harmony 
with  his  conduct  in  the  opening  scene.  Nevertheless,  the 
poet  evidently  does  not  wish  him  to  forfeit  thereby  the 
sympathy  of  the  spectator,  though  it  is  put  to  a  very  severe 
test.  There  are  several  things  not  only  in  the  mental 
condition  but  also  in  the  character  of  Lear  which  at  first 
sight  repel  our  modern  feeling  and  which  are  not  quite 
compatible  with  the  ideal  picture,  gradually  evolved  by  a 
long  tradition,  of  the  poor,  noble,  dignified  King  who  is 
so  cruelly  treated  by  his  children.  We  have  already  drawn 
attention  to  the  traits  which  are  indicative  of  a  certain 
brutality,  fierceness,  arrogance,  and  capriciousness  ;  to 
them  we  must  add  also  a  distinctly  vindictive  spirit  which 
makes  him  find  consolation  in  the  hope  that  he  will  one 
day  be  able  to  pay  back  his  daughters  in  their  own  coin. 
Further,  it  has  been  suggested  by  Kreyssig  (p.  115)  that 
to  be  so  unspeakably  offended  by  ingratitude  is  not  a  sign 
of  a  very  noble  character.  Though  ingratitude  hurts, 
yet  one  who  does  good  merely  from  inward  compulsion, 
to  whom  the  generous  deed  is  an  end  in  itself — and  only 
such  a  character  can  we  call  truly  unselfish — will  find  no 
venom  in  his  disappointment.  None  will  become  incensed 
and  embittered  by  ingratitude  but  he  who  has  acted  from 
calculation  and  has  seen  his  calculation  fail.  There  can 
be  no  doubt  that  Lear  is  embittered  to  a  high  degree. 
Lastly,  we  may  see  an  unpleasant  trait  in  the  habit  which 
the  old  King  has  of  pitying  himself.  No  one  speaks  so 
much  of  his  venerable  white  hairs  as  he. 

All  these  things  might  induce  us  to  regard  Lear  from 

183 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

a  point  of  view  different  from  what  the  poet  intended. 
For  this  reason  it  is  important  to  bear  in  mind  that  in  the 
play  itself  no  sympathetic  figure  reproaches  Lear  for  any 
of  the  traits  rnentioned  ;    they  all  look  at  the  situation 
entirely  from  his  standpoint,  and  this  is  also  what  Shake- 
speare  wishes    the    spectator    to   do.     The    predominant 
impression  is  to  be  that  of  the  monstrous  irreverence  show; 
to  three  of  the  most  venerable  human  qualities  here  unite 
in  one  person:  fatherhood,  old  age,  and  kingship.     Stre: 
is  laid,  above  all,  on  the  unspeakable  insult  offered  to  th 
pride  of  a  king  who  yet  retains  his  dignity  in  his  associatio 
with  beggars  as  well  as  in  his  madness.     This  trait  has  bee: 
given  an  especial  prominence.     It  agrees  with  the  thoug 
we  constantly  find  in  Shakespeare,  that  the  true  king 
best  shown  by  the  way  in  which  he  preserves  his  dignit 
(Katharine,  the  wife  of  Henry  VIII,  is  a  model  of  humili 
and  Christian  charity;   yet  even  she,  though  on  the  poi: 
of  death,  dismisses  from  her  service  a  messenger  [IV,  ii 
merely  because  in  his  hurry  he  had  entered  without  kneel 
ing,  and  with  the  address  "  Your  Grace  "  instead  of  "  Your 
Highness.") 

Lear  thus  appears  like  an  old,  gnarled,  stubborn  oak- 
tree,  vigorously  resisting  the  tempest,  unyielding,  majestic, 
deep-rooted,  upheld  only  by  its  own  strength,  and  towering 
above  all  its  fellows.  His  weaknesses  may  almost  be  said 
to  be  the  necessary  concomitants  of  his  strong  qualities. 
His  vindictiveness  appears  to  be  a  result  of  his  strength, 
his  savage  maledictions  seem  due  to  his  fiery  temperament, 
his  behaviour  to  people  of  lower  rank  would  not  have 
dishonoured  him  in  that  period,  when,  as  is  well  known. 
Queen  Elizabeth  herself  boxed  her  servants*  ears  with 
her  own  hands,  and  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  that  model 
of  "  ancient  Roman  honour,"  publicly  spat  on  the  Jew. 
King  Lear,  therefore,  is  meant  to  be  a  sublime  and  truly 
noble  figure,  and  the  Earl  of  Gloster  has  good  reasons 
for  designating  him  in  his  madness  as  a  "  ruin*d  piece 
of  nature." 

This  view  does  not  exclude  what  Kreyssig  says  of  him 
"  He  can  conceive  of  no  other  relation  between  himself  an 
184 


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IN   SHAKESPEARE'S    PLAYS 

society  than  that  on  his  side  there  should  be  the  right  to 
claim  obedience  and  service  and  the  power  of  dispensing 
mercy,  and  on  the  other  the  duties  of  supplication,  grati- 
tude, and  devotion."  A  convinced  royalist  like  Shake- 
speare would  see  no  disparagement  in  this  criticism,  for 
this  is  practically  his  own  conception  of  the  proper  relation 
between  king  and  subject.^  The  attitude  of  the  spectator, 
however,  to  the  facts  described  above  is  sure  to  be  influenced 
by  this  consideration,  and  the  degree  of  his  sympathy  will 
largely  depend  on  whether  he  looks  for  the  humanly  valu- 
able part  of  a  tragic  character  in  some  feeling  which  he 
considers  as  worthy  from  a  social  point  of  view  or  whether 
he  would  be  prepared  to  regard  such  a  character  in  actual 
life  with  nothing  more  than  an  aesthetic  interest. 

It  is  true  that  a  number  of  expositors  (Dowden,  Bradley, 
etc.)  see  in  Lear's  tragedy  a  great  process  of  purification, 
by  means  of  which  he  is  freed  from  the  dross  of  vanity  and 
selfishness  and  is  led  out  of  his  blindness  to  a  proper 
recognition  of  the  true  values  of  life.  It  is  just  his  suflFer- 
ings,  they  think,  which  draw  him  closer  to  us  by  bringing 
out  his  true  human  nature.  By  way  of  proof  they  adduce 
the  words  in  which  he  shows  for  the  fool  a  sympathy 
formerly  unknown  to  him,  and  further  the  passage  in  which, 
being  himself  exposed  to  the  inclemency  of  the  weather, 
he  for  the  first  time  remembers  the  houseless  wretches 
who  have  to  roam  about  with  no  protection  : 

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  super  flux  to  them 
And  show  the  heavens  more  j  ust. 

Ill,  iv 

1  Cf.  the  passage,  which  is  perhaps  the  most  significant  one  in  this  respect, 
iii  Henry  V,  IV,  i,  where  it  is  even  denied  that  the  King  is  responsible  to  God 
lor  those  about  to  be  killed  in  the  war  he  has  set  on  foot,  the  fallacious  reason 
being  given  that  heaven  may  let  the  victims  perish  on  this  occasion  because 
of  their  sins. 

185 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

They  also  point  to  the  recognition  and  contempt  of 
empty  appearance  which  are  the  products  of  his  madness, 
his  magnificent  trenchant  criticism  of  authority  that  lacks 
true  moral  sanction  ;  "  Thou  hast  seen  a  farmer's  dog 
bark  at  a  beggar  ?  And  the  creature  run  from  the  cur  ? 
There  thou  might'st  behold  the  great  image  of  authority  : 
a  dog's  obeyed  in  office."  Lastly,  his  deepened  sensi- 
bility is  mentioned,  as  revealed  by  his  preferring  the 
company  of  Cordelia  in  his  prison  to  all  other  joys  in  the 
world. 

But  the  question  is  whether  it  is  really  consistent  with 
Shakespeare's  philosophy  to  see  in  this  sequence  of  events 
an  ascent  of  the  character  to  a  higher  plane,  a  process  of 
purification  and  perfection. 

If  we  take  up  and  examine  singly  the  supposed  stages 
of  this  upward  evolution  we  cannot  unreservedly  agree 
with  this  conception.  Does  Shakespeare,  for  instance, 
associate  compassion  for  the  poor  and  wretched  with  a 
higher  moral  standpoint  ?  We  know  that  the  social  sense 
was  very  little  developed  in  him.  If  in  this  manifestation 
of  pity  for  the  poor  naked  wretches  the  emergence  of  a 
higher  morality  was  to  be  shown,  we  ought  really  to  wonder 
why  it  stands  quite  alone  in  his  works.  This  fact,  indeed, 
tends  to  justify  Crosby  when  he  accuses  Shakespeare  of  a 
total  lack  of  social  sense,  because  we  seek  in  vain  throughout 
his  works  for  a  single  admission  that  poor  people  are  some- 
times unjustly  left  to  starve  and  suffer  want,  that  they 
occasionally  raise  just  complaints,  and  that  their  endeavours 
to  make  these  heard,  so  far  from  being  ridiculous,  are 
indeed  the  most  serious  facts  of  history.  There  is  no 
passage  where  Shakespeare  formulates  a  demand  corre- 
sponding to  the  spirit  of  Lear's  reflection  in  describing  an 
ideal  figure  or  laying  down  rules  of  life  (like  those  given 
to  Laertes  by  his  father).  It  is  quite  probable  that  Lear's 
words  are  intended  to  furnish  him  with  a  sympathetic 
trait — that,  as  Edgar  in  the  same  drama  once  says  of  him- 
self (IV,  vi),  he  is  **  by  the  art  of  known  and  feeling  sorrows  " 
**  pregnant  to  good  pity.**  But  we  may  be  quite  sure  that 
Shakespeare,  for  the  reasons  adduced,  would  never  ha 
i86 


I 


I 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


I  tak< 

I 


taken  this  matter  so  seriously  as  to  see  in  it  a  purification 
firom  adherent 'dross,  whatever  his  interpreters  may  do  ! 
fS  That  Lear  in  the  further  course  of  his  madness  comes  to 
ject  all  that  is  unnatural  and  all  claims  that  are  morally 
ijustified,  though  sanctioned  by  tradition  and  authority, 
cannot  be  disputed.     But  it  must  be  noticed  that  in  this 
he  does  little  more  than  follow  the  beaten  track  of  the 
melancholy  type,  whose  *  humour  '  especially  delights  in 
I  unmasking  all  kinds  of  shams;   and  the  fact  of  his  being 
I  greatly  attracted  by  the  naked  Edgar,  the  **  thing  in  itself," 
I  is  a  further  manifestation  of  the  Melancholy  Man's  predi- 
lection for  the  Diogenes  attitude.     Lear  shows  himself  a 
truer  representative  of  the  melancholy  type  in  yet  another 
respect,  viz.,  in  his  arguing  and  railing   against  women 
{cf,  p.  156  seq,).     His  furious  tirade  against  the  unchastity 
of  women — 

Down  from  the  waist  they  are  Centaurs 
Though  women  all  above  .  .  . 

IV,  vi 
— has  really  nothing  to  do  with  his  own  affairs. 

Undoubtedly  Lear's  criticism  shows  profound  insight  ;i/ 
but  this  recognition,  as  it  stands  here,  is  but  an  aspect  of 
a  mood  and  dependent  on  a  state  of  mental  derangement 
which  may  under  certain  circumstances  disappear  again, 
as  is  shown  by  the  example  of  other  melancholy  characters. 
It  would  have  to  be  confirmed  by  him  in  some  form  or 
other  after  his  reason  had  been  restored  to  sanity  in  order 
to  make  us  see  in  it  a  real  revolution  of  his  philosophic 
outlook  and  a  stage  of  his  development. 

This  condition  seems  perhaps  to  be  fulfilled  indirectly 
by  his  behaviour  to  Cordelia,  whose  love  he  accepts  with 
the  unrestrained  happiness  of  one  who  has  got  to  know 
the  world  too  well  to  expect  from  it  anything  further. 
But  even  his  relation  to  Cordelia,  when  regarded  from  this 
point  of  view,  would  appear  in  a  false  light.  What  attracts 
Lear  to  Cordelia  and  makes  him  regard  a  life  with  her  in 
the  quiet  dungeon  as  supremely  desirable  is  doubtless  the 
recognition  of  the  true  worth  of  her  love,  and  his  deeply 
pathetic  cry  when  she  is  dead,  "  Howl,  howl,  howl,  howl  I 

187 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

O!  you  are  men  of  stones  !  '*  shows  that  by  her  death  the 
innermost  core  of  his  existence  has  been  destroyed.  But 
this  change  is  not  to  be  regarded  as  a  development  of  his 
character.  That  he  has  completely  given  up  every  idea 
of  his  kingdom,  that  he  shows  no  further  outburst  of  vindic- 
tiveness  or  indignation  at  the  insults  he  has  received,  is  really 
contrary  to  his  nature  and  is  due  to  the  state  of  physical 
decrepitude  into  which  he  has  fallen  after  his  madness 
has  left  him.  The  thunderstorm  has  felled  the  oak. 
His  predominant  feeling  is  one  of  weariness.  He  is  no  longer 
able  completely  to  grasp  what  is  happening.  He  must 
make  an  effort  to  render  the  course  of  events  clear  to  him- 
self. When  he  recognizes  Cordelia,  who  tenderly  and 
with  hot  tears  in  her  eyes  bends  over  him,  he  so  misunder- 
stands the  situation  that  he  says:  "  If  you  have  poison  for 
me  I  will  drink  it."  Gradually  his  mind  becomes  more  lucid 
again.  But  when  he  says  of  himself,  "  Pray  you  now, 
forget  and  forgive  :  I  am  old  and  foolish,''  this  recognition 
contains  a  sad  truth,  especially  in  view  of  his  former  high 
opinion  of  himself.  Nothing  is  m^ore  touching  than  the 
fact  that  he  is  no  longer  the  old  Lear. 

Edmund,  too,  now  calls  him  the  "  old  and  miserable 
king  "  (V,  iii,  47).  Extreme  weakness  and  helplessness, 
an  infinitely  pathetic  relapse  into  childish  ways  of  thinking 
and  feeling,  make  him  find  supreme  felicity  in  Cordelia's 
tenderness ; 

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  we'll  wear  out. 
In  a  wall'd  prison,  packs  and  sects  of  great  ones 
That  ebb  and  flow  by  the  moon. 

This  is  not  a   purified  Lear  from  whose  character  the 
flame  of  unhappiness  has  burnt  away  the  ignoble  dro 
188 


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nrnss. 

J 


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IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


but  a  nature  completely  transformed,  whose  extraordinary 
vital  forces  are  extinguished,  or  about  to  be  extinguished. 
'  This  is  the  whole  course  of  the  drama:  the  story  of  a 
I  breakdown,  of  a  decay  accompanied  by  the  most  wonderful 
and  fascinating  phenomena  comparable  to  the  autumn 
decline  of  the  year  when  the  dying  leaves  appear  in  their 
most  beautiful  colours.  It  is  not  a  development,  but  a 
decadence  manifesting  itself  in  a  variety  of  forms,  among 
others  in  that  feeling  of  weakness  which  creates  in  the 
masterful  old  man,  who  so  far  has  been  centred  entirely 
in  himself,  a  sympathetic  interest  in  the  distress  of  others 
which  he  has  never  known  before.  Shakespeare^s  astonish- 
ing wisdom  and  experience  of  life  are  shown  by  the  fact  that 
he  does  not  describe  the  great  mental  revolutions  without 
reference  to  the  corresponding  physical  alterations. 

It  is  therefore  a  complete  misunderstanding  of  the  true 
state  of  affairs  to  regard  Lear  as  greater  at  the  close  than 
at  the  beginning.  He  has  become  a  different  person  ; 
he  is  nearing  his  end.  This  is  why  Shakespeare  had  no 
use  for  the  conclusion  of  the  story  of  Lear  as  it  had  been 
handed  down  by  tradition.  According  to  the  legend  the 
old  King,  after  the  victory  of  Cordelia's  troops,  ascended 
his  throne  again  as  "  a  sadder  and  a  wiser  man,"  so  to 
speak,  and  occupied  it  for  some  years  more.  For  Shake- 
speare's broken  old  man  this  was  unthinkable.  The 
conflict  between  the  action  and  the  character  would  have 
been  too  patent,  even  grotesque.  He  had  therefore  to 
bring  Lear's  life  to  an  end.  This  he  did,  anticipating 
at  the  same  time  the  end  of  Cordelia,  but  still  maintaining 
a  certain  connexion  with  the  original  source,  because 
from  Spenser's  Faerie  Queene  we  learn  that  after  a  long  and 
happy  reign,  when  smitten  at  last  by  misfortune,  she  had 
hanged  herself  in  prison.  By  converting  her  voluntary 
death  into  a  murder  which  cost  Lear  his  life  he  did  indeed 
heap  a  load  of  tragedy  on  the  spectator's  mind,  a  thing 
against  which  the  latter  had  been  rebelling  for  centuries 
as  against  an  intolerable  excess  of  horror.^      On  the  other 

1  Tate's  version,  made  in  1681,  which  makes  the  conflict  end  in  a  concilia- 
tory manner,  held  undisputed  sway  until  1768,  and  later  on  still  appeared 
occasionally  on  the  English  stage. 

189 


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CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

hand,  however,  he  secured  by  this  issue,  better  than  by  , 
any  other,  the  possibility  of  working  out  the  process  of 
dissolution  in  Lear  to  its  last  stage.     His  master-hand  even 
succeeded  in   building  up  on  this  foundation  the  most 
tragic  effects   of  the  whole   play.     A  soul-stirring  anti- 
climax is  produced  as  his  mental  fire,  which  is  slowl]^ 
flickering  out  and  again  and  again  being  obscured  by  thB 
clouds  of  insanity,  is  once  more  fanned  into  a  short,  violent 
flame  by  the  cruelty  of  the  injuries  he  receives,  a  flame 
in  which  the  last  sparks  of  the  powerful  self-consuming 
passions  flash  forth,  followed  by  eternal  night.     Here  the 
action  and  the  character-drawing  are  harmoniously  blende 
in  one  perfect  close. 

7.  The  General  Causes  of  Disagreement  between 
Character  and  Action. — We  have  seen  that  Shakespeare, 
as  a  rule,  starts  with  the  action  and  follows  it  closely  as  long 
as  possible.  It  is  true  that  in  many  cases  he  seems  to  us 
to  be  more  under  its  influence  than  is  good  for  the  drawing 
of  character.  But  the  method  of  explaining  all  the  plots 
in  which  discrepancies  may  be  observed  between  the  action 
and  the  characters  by  reference  to  the  original  story  is 
not  applicable  in  all  cases.  Even  in  plots  that  are  due 
entirely  to  his  own  invention,  or  have  been  constructed 
by  him  from  materials  already  in  existence  and  serving 
as  a  scaffolding  for  the  erection  of  the  dramatic  edifice, 
the  psychological  foundations  are  not  everywhere  of  the 
strongest  kind,  and  much  of  it  seems  to  have  no  visible 
foundation  whatever.  This  criticism  may  be  raised,  for 
instance,  against  the  sub-plot  in  King  Lear,  Shakespeare 
took  this  from  a  story  he  found  originally  in  Sidney's 
Arcadia^  relating  how  the  bastard  son  of  an  old  prince  by 
hypocrisy  and  deceit  poisons  his  stepfather's  mind  against 
his  legitimate  heir,  and  at  last  induces  him  to  order  the 
execution  of  his  own  child.  Too  late  he  recognizes  that 
his  credulity  has  delivered  him  into  the  hands  of  a  villain, 
who  thrusts  him  from  the  throne,  sends  him  into  exile, 
and  has  his  eyes  put  out.  Thereupon,  however,  the 
legitimate  son,  whose  life  had  been  spared  by  the  execu- 
tioner, turns  up  again  and  heaps  coals  of  fire  on  the  head  of 
190 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

his  father,  who  is  wandering  about  blind  and  helpless,  by 
devoting  to  him  all  his  love  and  self-sacrificing  care.  The 
original  account,  as  we  see,  does  not  say  that  the  father  is 
estranged  from  his  son  all  at  once  by  a  single  stroke  of 
villainy  on  the  part  of  the  bastard.  But  this  is  what 
Shakespeare  makes  of  it.  The  development  of  the  action 
in  his  play  proceeds  at  a  breakneck  pace.  First  he  shows 
how  the  father,  the  Earl  of  Gloster,  upon  receipt  of  a 
most  clumsily  forged  letter  forthwith  renounces  his  beloved 
i  and  devoted  son  Edgar  and  puts  the  slanderer  in  his  place  ; 
then  he  asks  us  to  believe  that  the  victim  unhesitatingly 
follows  the  slanderer's  advice  to  flee  from  his  father,  and 
even  helps  to  make  the  way  clear  for  the  bastard's  villainy, 
allowing  his  father  to  surprise  him  in  a  pretended  duel 
for  which  there  is  no  real  ground  and  which  serves  only 
to  ruin  him.  All  this  is  so  flagrantly  untrue  to  human 
nature  that  one  is  at  a  loss  to  understand  how  Shakespeare, 
with  all  his  knowledge  of  men's  souls,  could  make  them 
behave  in  this  way.  For  this  reason  notable  critics  of 
independent  judgment,  particularly  Riimelin,  have  rightly 
,  confessed  themselves  puzzled  by  this  procedure,  and 
I  Tolstoi  has  taken  faults  like  these  for  points  of  departure 
i  in  his  vehement  attacks  on  Shakespeare's  art.  ■  The  essential 
impossibility  of  the  whole  action  lies  in  the  fact  that  it 
totally  disregards  all  that  must  be  assumed  to  have  occurred 
I  before  the  beginning  of  the  play.  It  is  plain  that  in  reality 
the  bastard  cannot  simply  transform  himself  one  fine  morn- 
ing into  a  villain.  On  the  contrary,  his  acquaintances 
must  to  a  certain  extent  be  familiar  with  his  malignant  and 
brutal  disposition.  We  notice,  indeed,  that  Shakespeare 
has  made  a  sort  of  attempt  to  tone  down  this  improb- 
ability by  inserting  the  statement  about  the  bastard  that 
;  he  had  spent  nine  years  abroad.     This  is  done  to  make  it 

Erobable  that  the  others  are  not  very  well  informed  about 
is  true  nature.  All  the  greater,  however,  is  the  knowledge 
and  understanding  which  the  father  and  the  legitimate 
son  may  be  assumed  to  have  of  each  other's  characters, 
and  all  the  more  improbable  is  it  that  the  father  would 
allow  himself  to  be  caught  by^such^a^clumsy  trick  of  the 

191 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

bastard's,  with  whom  he  has  had  little  intercourse  as  yet, 
and  that  the  son  himself  should  not  demand  to  have  an 
interview  and  explanation  with  him,  etc.,  etc.  One  can 
only  wonder,  therefore,  at  the  fact  that  some  critics  and 
careful  readers  have  not  taken  the  slightest  exception  to 
this  scene. 

This  plot,  however,  is  only  a  particularly  striking  instance 
of  a  general  tendency  that  appears  in  a  more  or  less  strongly 
marked  manner  throughout  Shakespeare's  dramatic  work. 
An  explanation  of  it  has  been  sought  by  Raleigh  (p.  134 
seq^^  who  says  that  "  his  opening  scenes  are  often  a  kind  of 
postulate,  which  the  spectator  or  reader  is  asked  to  grant. 
At  this  stage  of  the  play  improbability  is  of  no  account; 
the  intelligent  reader  will  accept  the  situation  and  becom.e 
alert  and  critical  only  when  the  next  step  is  taken  "  which 
follows  from  it.  The  poet's  purpose  is  only  to  make  us 
unquestioningly  assume  the  possibility  that  such  and  such 
people  may  find  themselves  in  such  and  such  a  situation. 
On  such  presuppositions  his  plays  are  founded.  Only 
then  "  the  characters  begin  to  live  "  and  "  come  into  ever 
closer  and  more  vital  relation  to  the  course  of  events.'* 
We  must  object,  however,  to  Raleigh's  view  on  the  ground 
that,  apart  from  other  errors,  it  fails  to  recognize  a  very 
important  fact,  viz.,  that  psychological  enigmas  of  the  kind 
we  have  just  been  dealing  with  are  presented  not  merely  in 
the  opening  scenes,  but  that,  as  the  whole  course  of  our 
investigation  shows,  such  discrepancies  are  found  also  in 
other  passages  throughout  the  plays. 

Others  have  tried  to  make  the  general  romantic  character 
of  Shakespeare's  art  responsible  for  these  dramatic  faults, 
averring  that  he  is  inclined  to  take  liberties  with  the  laws 
of  reality,  and  have  pointed  to  the  apparitions,  legendary 
themes  (like  the  casket-choice  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice)^ 
the  impossible  disguises,  and  many  other  absurdities  in  his 
plays.  Now  it  is  undeniable  that  Shakespeare  is  an  out- 
and-out  romantic,  and  that  romanticism  loves  to  stray  from 
the  paths  of  everyday  life  and  to  seek  that  which  is  strange, 
foreign,  and  adventurous.  But  we  demand  of  it  that  in 
doing  so  it  should  remain  in  harmony  with  its  own  innermpsj 
192 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

nature.  No  poet  has  shown  more  clearly  than  Shakespeare 
what  heights  can  be  attained  by  this  combination  of  roman- 
ticism and  ideal  truth.  Romanticism  is  neither  in  itself 
indifferent  to  correct  psychological  representation,  nor  is 
false  psychology,  as  some  appear  to  imagine,  necessarily 
romantic.  For  this  reason  it  is  impossible  to  identify,  as 
has  been  done,  say,  the  introductory  action  of  Hamlet  or 
of  The  Merchant  of  Venice  with  the  Gloster  action  described 
above.  An  apparition  may  be  impossible  from  the  point 
of  view  of  natural  science,  but  it  is  no  psychological  impossi- 
bility. As  regards  the  story  of  Shylock,  similar  contracts 
are  known  to  history.  So  the  spectator  finds  no  diffi- 
culty in  entering  into  these  psychological  situations.  Still 
less  justice  is  there  in  the  censure  passed  by  Riimelin 
(p.  65  seq?)  on  the  action  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  This  critic 
says  that  the  stratagem  proposed  by  Friar  Laurence,  of 
saving  Juliet  by  means  of  a  deathlike  sleep,  is  unthink- 
able, whereas  a  confession  or  flight  would  have  been  quite 
feasible.  This  is  a  failure  to  appreciate  the  romantic 
atmosphere  of  the  piece,  in  which  the  strangeness  of  the 
proposal  ceases  to  excite  the  incredulity  of  the  spectator. 
I  More  difficult  does  he  find  it  to  believe  in  the  various 
I  disguises.  Still,  here  his  mind  is  finally  set  at  rest  by 
the  tacit  agreement  which  assumes  as  possible  a  blind- 
ness to  masks  which  does  not  occur  in  real  life.  But  it 
is  quite  otherwise  when,  in  an  action  which  is  on  the 
whole  realistic  enough  and  constructed  and  developed  with 
psychological  consistency,  he  comes  to  a  passage  containing 
what  he  has  to  regard  as  an  impassable  breach.  In  such 
cases,  when  a  figure  acts  in  such  a  way  as  he  could  not 
imagine  himself  or  any  other  person  capable  of  acting 
in  under  the  same  circumstances^  we  have  to  do  not  with 
romanticism,  but  simply  with  weakness. 

We  ask  ourselves  how  such  a  weakness  is  to  be  explained, 
and  how  we  are  to  regard  this  occasional  conflict  between 
character  and  story  in  Shakespeare's  dramas.  In  order 
properly  to  understand  it  we  must  above  all  realize  that 
many  of  the  scenes  in  question  are  extraordinarily  effective 
on  the  stage.  The  action  develops  before  the  eyes  of  even 
"  N  193 


1 


CHARACTERPROBLEMS 

the  dullest  and  slowest  spectator  in  the  most  lively  and 
most  impressive  manner.  The  intrigue  of  the  Bastard, 
for  example — which  in  the  original  is  naturally  a  process 
occupying  a  considerable  space  of  time — is  condensed 
into  a  few  effective  stage  pictures.  The  Bastard  introduces 
himself  to  the  audience  as  an  intriguer  ;  with  well-acted 
clumsiness  he  tries  to  conceal  a  letter  from  his  father,  who 
now  enters.  This  letter,  which  is  supposed  to  have  been 
written  by  the  son,  is  read  out  and  proves  to  be  the  right 
hook  for  catching  the  unsuspicious  father.  He  swallows 
the  bait,  and  the  effect  is  seen  at  once  in  his  disappoint- 
ment, grief,  and  indignation.  He  renounces  his  son.  The 
latter  enters,  and  is  frightened  and  driven  away  by  the 
Bastard's  half-true  communication  that  his  father  is  enraged 
against  him.  The  intrigue  has  taken  the  most  conspicuous, 
the  most  *  expressionist  *  shape  imaginable.  Shakespeare 
might  instead  of  this  opening  have  given,  for  instance,  a 
conversation  between  two  persons  intimately  acquainted  with 
each  other  in  which  the  events  leading  up  to  the  decisive 
moment  could  have  been  explained  with  psychological 
consistency.  In  that  case,  however,  the  dramatic  action 
would  have  been  completely  arrested,  and,  as  Creizenach  [ 
very  aptly  remarks,  an  inflation  of  the  sub-action  would 
have  been  produced.  For  this  reason  Shakespeare  intro- 
duces the  decisive  starting-point  itself,  regardless  of  the 
Joss  to  psychological  truth  which  must  inevitably  result 
from  such  a  condensation  of  these  happenings.  Of  a  very 
similar  nature  are  the  other  cases  in  which  he  follows 
his  original,  e,g.,  the  Malcolm  scene  (cf.  p.  144  se^,). 

But  the  fact  that  the  unconvincing  scenes  are  not  devoid 
of  effect  on  the  stage,  though  interesting  in  itself,  does  not 
bring  us  much  nearer  the  solution  of  our  problem,  for  why. 
are  these  scenes  not  a^  the  same  time  effective  on  the  stage 
and  psychologically  consistent,  a  combination  Shakespeare 
brings  about  with  wonderful  success  in  other  places? 
From  whatever  angle  we  look  at  the  problem,  there  seems 
to  be  no  other  way  of  solving  it  than  to  admit  the  possibility! 
that  Shakespeare  occasionally  neglects^  in  the  most  flagrant  \ 
manner y  to  employ  his  highest  artistic  faculties. 
194 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

This  neglect,  in  many  instances,  will  be  perceived  even 
by  the  most  uncritical  eye.  Especially  is  this  the  case 
in  the  lightly  constructed  comedies.  A  good  example  is 
afforded  by  the  unspeakably  clumsy  intrigue  in  Much 
Ado  about  Nothings  where  a  villain,  out  of  pure  love  of  evil- 
doing,  separates  a  betrothed  pair  by  making  her  chamber- 
maid appear  at  the  lady's  window  and  sending  a  servant 
up  to  her  on  a  ladder.  The  lady's  lover  is  made  a  witness 
of  the  scene  ;  he  promptly  falls  into  the  snare  laid  by  the 
villain  ;  his  faith  in  his  gentle,  beautiful,  and  angelic 
betrothed  vanishes  immediately,  but  he  keeps  his  discovery 
to  himself  until  he  meets  her  at  the  altar,  and  flings  her 
wickedness  in  her  face.  She  drops  down  in  a  swoon  and 
he  leaves  her.  There  would  have  been  an  instantaneous 
explanation  if  the  chambermaid  had  not,  without  any 
reason  whatsoever,  stayed  away  from  the  wedding.  Then 
the  enraged  lover  is  informed  that  his  betrothed  is  dead. 
After  everything  has  been  cleared  up  he  is  asked  by  the 
lady's  father  to  receive  another  bride  from  his  hand  by  way 
of  atonement  for  the  little  faith  he  has  had  in  her  whom  he 
supposes  to  be  dead.  He  declares  himself  willing  to  make 
her  his  wife  without  having  seen  her,  and  thereupon 
receives  back  the  girl  he  thought  he  had  lost  I  It  is  quite 
superfluous  to  point  out  the  psychological  absurdities  that 
have  here  been  heaped  one  upon  another. 

Let  us  take,  for  another  example,  the  action  in  AlVs  Well 

that  Ends    WelL     Boccaccio   had   told   the   story   of  the 

Count  of  Rousillon  who  will  not  marry  upon  command, 

but  sends  the  woman  whom  the  King  of  France  has  ordered 

him  to  marry  the  brusque  and  scornful  message  that  he 

will  not  recognize  her  as  his  wife  until  she  comes  back 

to  himx  with  a  ring  he  is  wearing  on  his  finger  and  a  child 

by  him.     When  she  makes  the  impossible  possible  he  is 

touched  and  put  to  shame.     That  she  has  exposed  herself 

to  such  a  humiliating  situation  is  a  proof  of  a  great  love, 

which  conquers  even  him,  and  may  be  regarded  on  her  part 

;as  an  expiation  of  the  wrong  she  has  done  in  making  him 

'  her  husband  by  force  majeure,     Shakespeare  has  not  worked 

^his  story  out  happily  in   every   point.     He  makes  the 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

loving  wife  accomplish  her  end  by  changing  places  with  an 
honest  young  Florentine  girl  whom  her  husband  tries  to 
seduce.  This  girl  turns  up  when  the  Count,  his  wife  ^ 
having  disappeared,  wishes  to  marry  a  second  time.  For  J 
a  while,  until  his  wife  herself  appears  on  the  scene,  she  ' 
plays  the  part  of  the  innocent  victim  and  lays  claim  to  him.  | 
But  we  are  surprised  to  see  the  noble  Count  defending 
himself  with  the  most  villainous  calumnies.  He  casts 
suspicion  on  the  honour  of  the  beautiful  Florentine  girl, 
whom  he  knows  to  be  spotless,  calls  her  a  common  soldiers*  ^ 
wanton,  says  that  he  is  her  victim,  and  so  becomes  guilty 
before  our  eyes  of  what  we  should  call  a  serious  crime, 
which,  however,  we  are  highly  astonished  to  see  taken  so 
lightly  by  all  those  concerned.  We  need  not  wonder  at 
this,  because  an  equally  superficial  view  is  taken  of  the 
whole  problem  of  winning  the  husband*s  love.  The  few 
short  sentences  Boccaccio  devotes  to  this  part  of  the  story 
tell  us  far  more  about  it.  That  love  can  give  no  bills  of 
exchange  no  one  in  the  piece  seems  to  recognize.  Another 
fault  is  the  lack  of  agreement  between  the  character  of  the 
heroine  and  the  action  of  the  play.  A  woman  who  has 
energy  enough  to  win  a  man  twice  in  the  way  indicated 
ought  to  possess  more  will-power  and  not  show  the  senti- 
mental traits  which  come  out,  particularly  in  her  conversa- 
tions with  the  Countess.  And  she  would  hardly  go  about 
weeping  in  such  a  manner  that  even  the  steward  becomes 
an  involuntary  witness  of  her  love  complaints. 

We  ought  also  to  examine  more  closely  certain  parts 
of  the  action  in  Measure  for  Measure,  Shakespeare  is 
here  confronted  by  a  difficult  problem  ;  a  sister  has  the 
chance  to  save  her  brother's  life  by  abandoning  herself  for 
a  night  to  Angelo,  the  Duke's  deputy.  In  the  old  play 
by  Whetstone,  the  original  source,  the  sacrifice  is  actually 
made  ;  the  villain,  nevertheless,  orders  the  execution  to 
take  place,  and  only  a  touch  of  human  kindness  in  the 
gaoler  preserves  the  brother  from  death.  The  sister  is 
ignorant  of  this  change,  and,  beside  herself  with  indignation, 
applies  to  the  King.  The  King  now  commands  that  the 
villain  shall  marry  the  sister  and  then  be  beheaded,  but  the 
196 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

sister  entreats  the  King  to  save  her  husband's  life,  despite 
all  the  wrong  he  has  done  her.  The  King,  however, 
refuses  to  listen  to  her,  and  shows  mercy  only  when  the 
brother,  who  has  escaped  death,  reveals  himself  as  still 
living.  The  way  in  which  Shakespeare  deals  with  this 
complicated  subject  is  most  remarkable.  Though  usually 
we  cannot  reproach  him  with  any  tendency  to  disentangle 
complicated  plots  in  the  Family  Herald  style,  yet  here  he 
succeeds  in  evading  the  given  solution.  His  humane 
delicacy  of  feeling  evidently  rebels  against  the  idea  of 
representing  on  the  stage  a  noble,  innocent  girl  abandoning 
herself  against  her  will  to  a  man  in  order  thereby  to  pur- 
chase anything — even  the  life  of  her  own  brother.  That 
this  woman  afterward  begs  for  the  life  of  the  villain  would 
have  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that,  in  the  meantime, 
she  has  begun  to  love  him  despite  his  unworthiness. 
Though  this  is  psychologically  not  impossible,  yet  it  is  a 
complicated  problem.  Now  Shakespeare  tries  to  evade 
difficult  problems  of  the  female  soul,  a  peculiarity  in  which 
he  clearly  distinguishes  himself  from  contemporary  authors 
like  Dekker,  Heywood,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  etc.  They 
— in  this  respect  much  more  progressive  than  he — have 
a  certain  preference  for  placing  in  the  centre  of  their  repre- 
sentations the  changeable  nature  of  the  female  character, 
as  in  A  Woman  killed  with  Kindness^  The  Honest  Whore^ 
The  Maid's  Tragedy,  Shakespeare,  then,  seeks  a  way  out 
of  the  difficulty.  It  is  interesting  to  see  how  he  finds  it. 
He  puts  a  new  figure  on  the  boards.  The  villainous 
Angelo,  who  makes  the  criminal  proposal  to  the  poor 
Isabella,  in  Shakespeare's  play  has  at  one  time  been 
betrothed  to  a  girl  whom  he  jilted  when  she  lost  her  fortune. 
To  this  woman,  then,  whose  name  is  Mariana,  Isabella 
hurries  and  asks  her  secretly  to  change  places  with  her 
and  in  her  stead  go  to  the  meeting  with  Angelo,  which  is 
to  take  place  in  the  dark.  What  an  unheard-of,  what  a 
revolting  thing  to  ask  of  a  poor  forsaken  girl  !  But  will 
she  not  refuse  to  make  this  sacrifice  of  her  dignity  }  Is 
not  the  other  girl  obliged  to  use  entreaties  and  tears  and 
go  down  on  her  knees  in  order  to  move  her  }     Nothing 

197 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

of  the  kind  !  Mariana  is  ready  in  a  moment  to  entrap  the 
faithless  lover  by  this  union  in  the  dark.  It  is  astonishing 
to  see  with  how  little  self-esteem  a  woman  is  credited  here. 
This  solution  corresponds  to  the  mentality  of  Boccaccio, 
the  son  of  the  fourteenth  century.  It  is  on  a  level  with  the 
morality  of  the  middle  and  lower  classes  of  medieval  society, 
but  certainly  not  with  the  ideas  of  the  beginning  of  thi 
seventeenth  century,  the  views  of  which  regarding  womei 
as  we  meet  with  them  in  Overbury,  Hall,  etc.,  after  a] 
represent  a  considerably  higher  moral  standard  than 
found  in  those  earlier  times.  Are  we  to  assume,  thei 
that  Shakespeare,  who  in  other  places  gives  evidence 
such  an  exquisite  feeling  for  human  dignity,  was  not  alive 
to  the  questionable  character  of  this  solution  ?  ^ 

No  one  would  be  inclined  to  hold  this  view  of  the  poet 
who  has  created  such  infinitely  sensitive  and  profoundly 

1  In  the  light  of  what  has  just  been  said  it  is  not  without  interest  to  look 
at  the  explanation  which  has  been  given  of  the  action  in  The  Winter's  Tale 
(Act  I).  There  King  Leontes  of  Sicily  is  seized  by  an  absolutely  groundless 
jealousy  of  Polixenes,  King  of  Bohemia,  his  guest.  Beside  himself  with  rage 
at  having  been,  as  he  imagines,  wronged  by  his  friend  in  his  conjugal  rights, 
he  gives  Camillo,  his  steward,  the  order  to  murder  the  ofiEender.  The  honest 
Camillo  sees  that  he  is  not  amenable  to  rational  argument,  and  therefore 
adopts  the  only  practical  course  of  being  perfectly  candid  with  the  threatened 
guest,  who  thereupon  immediately  makes  up  his  mind  to  flee  the  country, 
accompanied  by  Camillo.  It  is  true  that  in  this  way  he  does  not  show  a  great 
consideration  for  the  wife  of  his  host,  on  whom  the  suspicion  has  fallen  equally 
with  himself.  This  ungenerous  behaviour  has  greatly  displeased  Furness, 
the  American  Shakespearean  scholar  and  distinguished  editor  of  the  Variorum 
Shakespeare.  He  therefore  makes  the  most  painful  efforts  to  extract  a  mean- 
ing from  the  text  which  represents  the  guest  as  not  sufficiently  informed 
of  the  fact  that  the  King's  worst  suspicion  falls  upon  his  wife  also,  and  makes 
him  hold  the  opinion  "  that  this  flight  of  his  is  all  that  is  needed  eventually 
to  restore  sunshine  to  the  Court."  "  For,"  we  are  told,  "  purposely  to  leave 
the  queen  behind  to  bear  the  full  brunt  of  Leontes'  revenge  would  be  so 
contemptible  as  to  forfeit  every  atom  of  our  respect  for  him." 

Unfortunately,  however,  this  interpretation  of  the  text,  which  has  also 
been  approved  and  transcribed  by  the  editor  of  the  play  in  the  "  Arden  " 
edition,  is  quite  out  of  the  question.  The  suspected  King  of  Bohemia  knows 
perfectly  well  what  he  is  accused  of,  and  so  does  the  spectator.  What 
other  crime  does  Furness  imagine  that  he  could  think  himself  accused 
of  ?  The  reference  to  adultery,  contained  in  the  words  that  he  "  had  touch' d 
his  queen  forbiddenly,"  is  unambiguous  enough  and  cannot  be  used,  in 
combination  with  an  unusual  expression  in  a  subsequent  passage  (I,  ii,  259 
seq.),  for  imputing  to  the  Bohemian  king  an  odd  misunderstanding  of  the 
state  of  affairs  which  the  author  never  thought  of.  The  only  purpose  of  all 
this  is  obviously  to  make  the  King  act  in  a  more  chivalrous  manner  toward  a  lady, 
as  if — cf.  the  cases  discussed  above — the  most  indispensable  quality  of  a 
Shakespearean  hero  were  a  highly  chivalrous  behaviour  toward  ladies  ! 

198 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

emotional  women  as,  for  instance,  Desdemona.  The^ 
reason  for  this  is  clearly  his  taking  the  most  convenient 
solution  that  came  to  his  hand,  and  in  this  case  he  must 
have  felt  sure — a  fact  most  significant  of  the  views  held  by 
his  spectators  as  to  the  relation  of  the  sexes — that  he  was 
not  giving  any  offence  to  his  audience.  And  it  is  also 
most  probable  that  nothing  but  this  preference  for  the 
line  of  least  resistance  led  him  to  those  often  criticized 
conclusions,  of  which  we  have  an  example  in  Measure  for 
Measure,  There,  for  the  purpose  of  quickly  bringing 
about  a  happy  ending,  the  villainous  and  criminal  Angelo 
is  forgiven  his  dark  designs,  frustrated  after  a  great  deal 
of  trouble,  anxiety,  and  grief,  on  the  ground,  which  is 
more  than  doubtful  from  a  moral  point  of  view,  that  they 
had  been  only  bad  intentions,  and  that  intentions  were 
only  thoughts,  and  thoughts  need  not  be  punished.  This 
conclusion  was  evidently  written  rather  hastily.  When 
at  the  end  the  brother,  whom  everybody  supposes  to  be 
dead,  unexpectedly  turns  up  again  alive,  neither  he  nor 
his  sister,  who  for  his  sake  has  undergone  the  greatest 
mental  sufferings,  has  a  word  to  say  to  the  other.  It 
seems  that  the  poet  has  simply  forgotten  this.^ 

It  is  not  necessary,  however,  to  wander  so  far  from  our 
point  of  departure.  Traits  incompatible  with  one  another 
are  also  evident  in  the  character  of  Gloster  in  King  Lear. 
Bradley  was  the  first  to  point  out  a  great  number  of  incon- 
sistencies in  that  play.  The  list  of  them  might  easily  be 
extended  by  examples  from  other  dramas.  The  peculiar 
practice  we  are  dealing  with  here  can  be  understood  properly 
only  if  we  consider  it  in  connexion  with  all  the  similar 
peculiarities  in  Shakespeare.  We  cannot  fail  to  notice 
that  because  of  it  his  creative  activity,  regarded  as  a  whole, 
again  and  again  produces  the  impression,  despite  the  care- 
fully thought  out  construction  of  great  parts  of  his  work — 
<?.^.,  of  a  tragedy  like  Othello — of  an  instinctive^  impulsive^ 
and  altogether  sketchy  mode  of  working.  His  development 
-proceeds    more    or    less    unconsciously.     His    enormous    steps 

1  That  these  are  traits  typical  of  the  Elizabethan  drama  is  shown  by 
Creizenach,  loc.  cit.,  iv,  p.  306  seq. 

199 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

in  advance  are  never  consciously  secured  and  maintained^  and 
they  are  regularly  followed  by  relapses  into  the  most  -primi- 
tive form.  This  we  have  seen  already  in  such  simple 
matters  as  the  monologue.  It  also  appears  in  the  return 
to  the  epical  kind  of  drama  represented  by  Antony  and 
Cleopatra^  in  which  he  again  abandons  the  concentrated 
form  of  action  which  in  other  plays  is  his  most  splendid 
achievement.  It  is  further  shown  in  the  most  various 
aspects  of  his  art.  Original  observations  of  nature, 
more  acute  than  any  made  by  his  contemporaries,  are 
intermingled  with  worthless  stereotyped  patterns  handed 
down  by  literary  tradition.  He  preserves  with  a  conscien- 
tiousness unparalleled  in  his  time  the  local  colour  in  pieces 
like  Romeo  and  Juliet^  and  elsewhere  intersperses  his  plays 
with  staggering  breaches  of  the  illusion  and  quite  de- 
liberate anachronisms.  He  characterizes  the  speaker  in 
one  instance  by  the  most  subtle  inflections  of  expression, 
and  in  another  makes  all  his  figures  talk  in  the  same  key 
{cf,  p.  94  seq^.  He  feels  himself  obliged  to  state  so 
thoroughly  all  the  reasons  for  lago's  wickedness  that  we 
may  almost  say  he  has  given  us  too  many,  and  on  the  other 
hand  he  asks  us  to  accept  the  malignity  of  Lady  Macbeth 
without  being  told  a  word  about  its  cause.  This  amazing 
irregularity  produces  differences  of  value  in  his  work  which 
only  those  can  fail  to  perceive  who  find  all  his  productions 
of  equal  excellence  simply  because  they  are  altogether 
lacking  in  the  specific  power  of  discrimination. 

Nor  is  it  admissible  to  claim  for  all  these  things  a  pro- 
found artistic  purpose.  From  this  fault  even  such  a  widely 
read  and  carefully  trained  student  of  the  Elizabethan 
drama  as  Creizenach  is  not  quite  free,  when  in  many  of 
Shakespeare's  plays  he  discovers  the  conscious  "  method  '* 
(iv,  p.  325)  "  of  making  the  principal  characters  stand  out 
in  bolder  relief  by  means  of  a  comparatively  less  plasti 
modelling  of  all  the  others.'*  This  conception  is  ai 
anachronistic,  and  rests  on  the  very  same  foundation 
as  the  opinion  of  Brandes,  which  we  have  touched  upo 
in  another  place,  that  the  lax  form  of  Antony  and  Cleopatr 
had  been  chosen  in  order  to  do  justice  to  the  greatness  of 
200 


it 

I 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

the  events  {cf.  p.  135).  Not  earlier  than  the  twentieth 
century,  with  its  differentiation  and  utilization  of  all  artistic 
means,  was  it  possible  to  suppose  that  in  the  treatment  of 
single  parts^  in  order  to  secure  a  heightening  of  the  total  effect^ 
the  more  -primitive  form  should  be  intentionally  and  methodically 
preferred  to  the  more  advanced.  This  explanation,  as  we 
can  easily  see,  is  devised  by  means  of  unconscious  trains 
of  thought  from  such  modern  tendencies  in  art  as,  e.g,^ 
Lenbach's  treatment  of  figure  outline  in  his  portraits  and 
in  Rodin's  suggestions  in  marble.  But  how  could  Shake- 
speare have  deliberately  placed  before  his  audience  a  method 
which  has  given  offence  to  highly  cultured  outsiders  even 
in  our  times  ?  Moreover,  this  view  does  not  even  explain 
why  the  psychological  blanks  and  errors — e,g,^  in  Macbeth 
{cf,  p.  144  seq,) — should  be  regarded  as  of  unqualified 
advantage  to  the  main  action  ;  one  might  rather  say  that 
the  advantage  is  of  such  a  doubtful  nature  that  we  can 
hardly  attribute  it  to  Shakespeare's  conscious  intention,  for, 
as  Browning  says  in  a  similar  connexion  : 

.  .  .  any  sort  of  meaning  looks  intense 
When  all  beside  itself  means  and  looks  nought. 

Fra  Lippo  Lippi 

With  respect  to  this  matter  Bradley  is  certainly  right  when 
he  says  somewhere  that  Shakespeare,  after  all,  lacked  the 
conscience  of  the  artist  who  is  determined  to  do  everything  as 
well  as  he  can. 

The  only  access  to  the  solution  of  this  problem  is  through 
the  personality  of  Shakespeare.  This  personality,  however, 
is  not  sufficiently  clear  and  distinct  to  permit  more  than 
feebly  supported  conjectures  to  be  based  on  it.  But  we 
are  involuntarily  reminded  of  the  traditional  description 
of  Henry  Fielding — recently  discredited  by  W.  Cross — 
who  was  said  to  be  so  utterly  indifferent  to  the  theatre, 
for  which  he  wrote  in  order  to  make  a  living,  that  he  did 
not  think  it  worth  while  to  work  for  it  with  more  than  half 
his  power,  and  who  even  experienced  a  kind  of  ironical 
satisfaction  when  the  audience,  by  hissing  the  weak  passages 
in  his  plays,  showed  more  taste  than  he  had  credited  them 

201 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

with.  To  this  analogy  it  may  be  objected  that  Shakespeare 
enjoyed  great  popularity  with  his  audiences,  and  was 
evidently  on  good  terms  with  the  public  ;  still,  a  careful 
review  of  all  the  extant  references  to  the  dramatists  of  the 
time  shows  that  he  was  ranked  only  as  one  artist  among  many^ 
though  his  achievements  tower  high  above  theirs.  This 
estimation  was  possible  only  on  the  supposition  that  he 
failed  to  make  his  audiences  appreciate  many  things  in 
which  he  was  far  in  advance  of  his  age,  and  which  perhaps 
he  himself  rightly  regarded  as  the  best  portions  of  his  art. 
One  can  well  imagine  that  to  see  them  neglected  reacted 
upon  his  creative  activity. 

This  reason,  however,  is  only  the  most  conspicuous 
link  in  a  chain  of  possibilities  which  may  easily  lead  us  too 
far  into  the  realm  of  airy  conjectures,  and  we  do  not  hesitate 
to  admit  that  perhaps  a  good  deal  could  be  said  in  favour 
of  the  view  which  finds  in  this  habit  of  careless  composi- 
tion nothing  but  a  necessary  concomitant  of  Shakespeare*s 
natural  disposition.  His  gigantic  imagination  presupposes 
an  emotional  life  which  has  great  difficulty  in  imposing 
laws  upon  itself.  Grillparzer  says  of  Shakespeare  very 
profoundly,  **  Like  God,  he  thinks  in  terms  of  imagina- 
tion and  creation  **  (JVerke^  ii,  p.  190).  And,  indeed,  this 
soul  realizes  itself  in  ceaseless  new  experiences  ;  it  depends 
on  the  succession  of  a  thousand  moods,  in  each  of  which 
it  sees  the  things  around  itself  in  a  different  light.  It  is 
too  rich  to  need  to  put  its  talent  out  to  usury,  too  little 
conscious  of  itself  to  submit  to  self-discipline,  too  creative 
to  be  interested  in  theories.  He  is — in  this  sense  his 
contemporaries  were  perfectly  right — nature  herself^  and 
if  we  include  within  the  definition  of  art,  as  was  done 
by  that  age,  the  conscious  and  consistent  observation  of 
certain  clearly  formulated  rules  in  the  treatment  of  reality, 
Ben  Jonson  was  thoroughly  justified  in  his  apparently 
paradoxical  pronouncement  on  the  greatest  artist  of 
ages  :   Shakespeare,  he  said,  "wanted  art.'* 


202 


MOTIVES  FOR  ACTION 

MOTIVES  EXPLICITLY  STATED  (ShYLOCK,  IaGO, 
Hamlet,  Prince  Henry). — In  no  department 
of  Shakespeare's  art  do  we  find  such  irregularity 
as  in  his  dealing  with  the  motives  for  action.  It  has  there- 
fore become  the  happy  hunting-ground  of  the  most  daring 
and  extravagant  critics,  the  starting-point  of  the  most  funda- 
mentally diverse  interpretations  of  his  characters.  But  as 
has  been  shown  in  the  preceding  chapters,  it  will  not  be 
impossible  to  base  our  conclusions  on  the  firm  ground  of  facts 
if  we  try  to  form  a  picture  of  his  method  of  working  that  is 
not  contradictory  to  the  results  we  have  so  far  obtained. 

The  first  peculiarity  that  strikes  us  is  one  that  cannot 
surprise  us,  knowing,  as  we  do,  how  he  strove  after  a  plain 
and  popular  form  of  expression.  Information  that  in  a 
modern  drama  must  be  deduced  from  the  action  itself, 
or  gathered  indirectly  from  the  dialogue  of  the  principal 
or  secondary  personages,  the  monologues  of  the  heroes 
serving  at  most  to  supplement  it,  is  here  imparted,  in  all 
essentials,  by  just  these  monologues,  which  especially  in 
the  great  tragedies  give  us,  ready  made,  all  the  knowledge 
necessary  for  our  judgment  of  the  speaker's  character, 
Brutus,  for  instance,  unreservedly  opens  his  soul  to  the 
penetrating  gaze  of  the  spectator,  and  exposes  the  motives 
of  his  actions  in  his  monologue,  and  Macbeth,  with  that 
self-knowledge  of  which,  against  all  probability,  even  the 
villains  of  Shakespeare  are  capable  {cf.  p.  35  seq.)^  care- 
fully enlightens  the  audience  : 

I  have  no  spur 
To  prick  the  sides  of  my  intent,  but  only 
Vaulting  ambition,  which  o'erleaps  itself 
And  falls  on  the  other.  I,  vii 

203 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

What  clearly  distinguished  reasons,  too,  does  Shylock  ,\ 
give  when  he  discloses  the  threefold  root  of  his  hatred  j 
against  Antonio  in  the  following  speech  :  i 

I  hate  him  for  he  is  a  Christian, 

But  more  for  that  in  low  simplicity 

He  lends  out  money  gratis  and  brings  down 

The  rate  of  usance  here  with  us  in  Venice. 

If  I  can  catch  him  once  upon  the  hip, 

I  will  feed  fat  the  ancient  grudge  I  bear  him. 

He  hates  our  sacred  nation,  and  he  rails. 

Even  there  where  merchants  most  do  congregate. 

On  me,  my  bargains  and  my  well-won  thrift. 

Which  he  calls  interest.  I,  iii 

This  absolutely  plain  and  unmistakable  exposition  of. 
the  Jew's  point  of  view  has  been  seized  upon  and  sub- 
jectively interpreted,  according  to  their  own  personal 
point  of  view,  by  critics  who  are  accustomed  to  read  more 
between  the  lines  than  in  them.  They  have  endeavoured 
to  upset  the  ethical  balance  which  Shakespeare  intended  to 
establish  between  the  parties,  being  induced  to  take  this 
line  by  the  fact  that  the  standards  of  morality  have  changed 
in  many  respects  since  his  time.  We  now  regard  Shylock's 
enemies,  the  gay  cavaliers  and  dowry-hunters,  the  royal 
merchant  suffering  from  an  aristocratic  weariness  of  the 
world,  largely  as  drones  for  whom  we  have  but  little 
sympathy.  On  the  other  hand,  we  sympathize  with  the  Jew, 
who  voices  the  bitter  feeling  of  his  race,  due  to  incessant 
insults,  in  such  powerful  and  touching  language.  The 
contention  of  these  critics  would  be  acceptable  only  if  the 
Jew's  behaviour  were  not  in  agreement  with  the  reasons 
expressed  in  his  words.  Now  the  fact  is  that  there  is  a  per- 
fect agreement.  As  most  characteristic,  we  need  point  out 
only  the  cunning  manner  in  which  he  utilizes  the  chance  of 
laying  a  snare  for  the  merchant  by  getting  him  to  sign  the 
bond.  When  Antonio's  friend,  grown  suspicious,  warns 
him  against  signing  the  gruesome  document  Shylock 
pretends,  with  masterly  hypocrisy,  that  the  whole  affair 
is  nothing  more  than  a  joke  ;  he  even  goes  the  length  of 
204 


I 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


simulating  offence  because  the  arrangement  is  taken  seriously 

O  father  Abram,  what  these  Christians  are. 
Whose  own  hard  dealings  teaches  them  suspect 
The  thoughts  of  others  !     Pray  you,  tell  me  this  ; 
If  he  should  break  his  day,  what  should  I  gain 
By  the  exaction  of  the  forfeiture  ? 

I,  iii 

We  see  clearly  that  a  conception  which  regards  Shylock 
as  the  avenger  who  by  chance  obtains  an  opportunity  of 
exacting  retribution  for  his  downtrodden  race,  and  who 
cannot  be  expected  to  show  mercy  to  his  enemies  who, 
on  their  part,  treat  him  without  pity,  strays  far  from  the 
poet's  intention.  This  passage  alone  suffices  to  show  how, 
on  the  contrary,  he  tries  to  entrap  his  unsuspecting  enemy 
by  cunning  and  perfidy.  Nor  can  we  overlook  the  fact 
that  the  fury  of  the  Jew,  due  to  sordid  avarice  against 
the  merchant  who  lends  money  without  interest,  and  the 
hatred  against  the  Christian,  which  springs  from  racial 
pride,  are  meant  to  be  important  motives,  in  conjunction 
with  the  vindictiveness  of  one  who  has  been  oppressed  and 
ill-treated. 

Scientific  Shakespearean  criticism,  however,  has  never 
taken  the  so-called  Shylock  question  very  seriously  ;  the  text 
of  the  drama  was  too  clear  an  argument  against  it.  Still, 
the  case  is  useful  as  affording  instruction  of  the  degree  of 
arbitrariness  and  neglect  of  the  text  to  which  Shakespearean 
exegesis  can  sink  in  a  comparatively  simple  instance. 
Similar  mistakes,  of  almost  the  same  gravity,  are  committed 
ion  other  occasions  by  many  of  the  most  exact  interpreters 
who  in  the  case  of  Shylock  rightly  admit  the  poet's  own 
words  to  be  the  only  canon  of  judgment.  A  case  in  point 
is  that  of  lago.  We  have  already  spoken  of  his  character, 
and  that  of  the  model  from  which  it  was  taken.  The 
motives  of  his  actions  are  clearly  indicated  in  his  mono- 
logues and  his  confidential  communications.  These,  how- 
ever, a  number  of  very  notable  critics  refuse  to  take  for 
Gospel  truth,  because  lago  says  things  of  himself  which  they 
cannot  believe,  in  view  of  his  character,  to  be  the  real 

205 


I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

incentives  of  his  actions.  He  states  that  his  ambition  has 
been  wounded  by  the  preference  shown  to  Cassio,  that  his 
jealousy  and  desire  of  revenge  have  been  aroused  by  the 
suspicion  that  the  Moor  has  seduced  his  wife  ;  further, 
that  he  loves  Desdemona  and  wishes  to  possess  her,  that 
he  also  thinks  it  possible  that  she  loves  Cassio,  that  he 
fears  Cassio's  attentions  to  his  wife,  and,  lastly,  that  he 
is  vexed  at  Cassio's  integrity — these  are  all  reflections 
which  Coleridge  was  one  of  the  first  to  discredit  by  the 
famous  saying  :  "  The  motive-hunting  of  a  motiveless 
malignity." 

This  view  is  shared  by  the  great  majority  of  German 
Shakespearean  critics,  who  also  refuse  to  take  these  reasons 
seriously.     Kreyssig  is  of  opinion  that  lago,  by  this  kind 
of  talk,  is  trying  to  hide  his  own  malignity  from  himself, 
as  may  be  clearly  recognized  from  his  accusing  his  wife  of 
infidelity,  though  he  himself  is  more  than  half  doubtful 
of  this  possibility.     He  is  not  jealous  either,  continues  the 
same  critic,  only  he  enjoys  playing  the  part  of  the  injured 
husband,  who  therefore  is  justified   in    seeking  revenge, 
and  in  the  same  manner  he  drags  in  specious  reasons  from 
the  most  remote  quarters.     Gervinus  and  Ulrici  agree  in 
finding  in  lago  an  unconscious  tendency  to  persuade  him- 
self of  having  valid  reasons  for  his  conduct,  and  thus  to 
suppress  any  faint  stirrings  of  conscience.     Brandes  allows 
that  in  the  other  monologues  of  Shakespeare  the  characters 
reveal  themselves  without  reserve,  and  that  even  a  villain 
like  Richard  III  is  quite  honest  in  his  soliloquies  ;   in  the 
case  of  lago,  however,  says  Brandes,  the  reasons  stated  by 
him  are  not  his  real  motives,  but  "  attempts  made  without 
much  sincerity  to  understand  himself,  merely  self-palliat- 
ing self-explanations.'*     lago  in  his  monologues  is  always 
furnishing    specious   reasons    for    his   hatred.     Similarly, 
Bradley  concludes  that  the  reasons  cannot  be  the  right 
ones    because    lago's  conduct  in    nowise  corresponds   to 
his  motives  ;   he  does  not  create  the  impression  of  a  man 
suffering    from    frustrated    ambition    or    burning    hatred, 
sexual  jealousy  or  concupiscence. 

In  order  to  be  able  to  decide  these  questions  we  must 
206 


I 


***"    IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

first  of  all  adhere  closely  to  the  text  of  Shakespeare.  It 
is  true  that  there  we  find  lago  expressing  his  mortifica- 
tion to  Roderigo  that  he  has  been  passed  over  in  favour  of 
the  bookish  scholar  Cassio,  and  has  risen  no  higher  than 
to  be  the  Moor's  **  ancient,"  and  we  may  be  sure,  therefore, 
that  this  reason  is  meant  to  be  of  importance  here  ;  but  the 
decisive  part  is  played  in  the  tragedy  by  the  monologues 
of  the  opening  scenes,  in  which  the  na'ive  technique  of 
the  author  makes  the  villain  unmask  himself  before  the 
audience,  not  merely  in  part,  but  altogether.  In  these  two 
monologues,  however,  lago  says  no  word  of  the  slight  he 
has  received  by  not  being  promoted.  Yet  on  both  occasions 
he  utters  the  suspicion  that  the  Moor  has  seduced  his  wife, 
and  his  resolve  to  be  avenged.  Apparently,  therefore, 
his  hope  of  being  promoted  after  the  removal  of  Cassio 
is  only  a  subsidiary  motive.  The  question  now  arises 
whether  he  really  believes  in  the  Moor's  guilt  or  not. 
Brandes  confesses  himself  unable  to  see  how  lago  could 
have  believed  in  it,  because  he  is  far  too  intelligent  to  think 
himself  deceived  by  the  Moor,  having  stated,  only  a  few 
lines  before,  that  Othello  is  "  of  a  constant,  loving,  noble 
nature."  This  objection  of  Brandes,  however,  is  refuted 
by  two  facts.  On  the  one  hand,  as  has  been  demonstrated 
above  (p.  59  seq,\  no  capital  must  be  made  out  of  the 
opinion  the  villain  expresses  about  the  hero.  On  the  other 
hand,  a  later  passage  of  the  drama  (IV,  ii)  proves  that 
lago  has,  after  all,  been  seriously  troubled  by  his  suspicion 
of  the  Moor  and  has  worried  his  wife  with  it,  because 
Emilia,  in  a  passage  interwoven  with  great  dramatic  skill 
for  the  purpose  of  explanation,  refers  to  it,  saying  of  the 
slanderer  of  Desdemona,  who  is  unknown  to  her : 

Some  such  squire  he  was 
That  turn'd  your  wit  the  seamy  side  without, 
„  And  made  you  to  suspect  me  with  the  Moor. 

I 

The  author  has  evidently  imagined  this  reason  to  be  the 
principal  motive  of  lago's  conduct.  That  he  makes  him 
take  it  more  seriously  than,  after  all,  he  ought  to  take  it 

207 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

is  suggested  by  an  extremely  primitive  touch.     lago  is  made 
to  say  : 

I  hate  the  Moor  ; 

And  it  is  thought  abroad  that  'twixt  my  sheets 

He  has  done  my  office  :   I  know  not  if 't  be  true  ; 

But  I  for  mere  suspicion  in  that  kind 

Will  do  as  if  for  surety. 

So  here  we  find  an  undercurrent  of  his  thought  inten- 
tionally brought  to  light  in  the  most  naive  form.  So  far  as 
this  reason  is  to  he  regarded  as  a  specious  one^  it  is  noted  ai 
such  in  quite  unmistakable  words.  When  the  poet,  however, 
makes  him  say, 

That  Cassio  loves  her  ;   I  do  well  believe  it ; 
That  she  loves  him,  'tis  apt  and  of  great  credit, 

11,  i 

we  first  of  all  experience  a  kind  of  surprise.  Is  it  possible 
that  the  shrewd  intriguer  should  not  recognize  the  harm-| 
lessness  of  the  relations  existing  between  those  two  people, 
that  he  should  be  stupider  than  the  "sick  fool  *'  Roderigo, 
who  rightly  observed  nothing  but  politeness  and  friendli- 
ness in  the  mutual  behaviour  of  Desdemona  and  Cassio.? 
We  must  adhere  closely  to  the  facts  in  order  to  find  the 
proper  answer.  lago  has  just  been  intently  watching  the 
two  in  conversation  and  following  the  little  gallantries 
of  the  good,  simple  Cassio  with  malicious  asides.  Whih 
he  is  doing  this  the  idea  arises  in  his  sordid  mind  that 
Cassio  may  be  in  love  with  her.  That  this  for  a  certain 
time  is  really  his  opinion  is  confirmed  by  the  scene 
immediately  following  (II,  iii),  in  which  he  apparently  tries 
to  sound  the  unsuspecting  Cassio  : 

Cassio.  Welcome,  lago  ;  we  must  to  the  watch. 

lago.  Not  this  hour,  lieutenant,  'tis  not  yet  ten  o'  the 
clock.  Our  general  cast  us  thus  early  for  the  love  of  his 
Desdemona  ;  who  let  us  not  therefore  blame  :  he  has  not  yet 
made  wanton  the  night  with  her,  and  she  is  sport  for  Jove. 

Cassio.  She's  a  most  exquisite  lady. 

lago.  And,  I'll  warrant  her,  full  of  game. 

Cassio.  Indeed,  she's  a  most  fresh  and  delicate  creature. 
208 


t 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

logo.    What  an  eye  she  has  !     Methinks  it  sounds  a  parley 
to  provocation. 

Cassio,    An  inviting  eye  ;  and  yet  methinks  right  modest. 
lago.    And  v^hen  she  speaks,  is  it  not  an  alarum  to  love  ? 
Cassio.    She  is  indeed  perfection. 
lago.    Well,  happiness  to  their  sheets  !     Come,  lieutenant. 

It  is  permissible  to  see  here  an  attempt  on  the  part  of 
lago  to  force  matters — i.e,^  to  induce  Cassio  to  talk.  His 
frivolous  tone,  with  the  deliberate  lies — Desdemona's 
eye  "  a  parley  to  provocation  **  1 — is  intended  to  untie 
Cassio's  tongue  and  make  him  confess  his  desire.  But 
the  decency  of  Cassio  and  the  purity  of  his  heart  render 
these  attempts  ineffectual.  He  does  not  even  suspect  the 
drift  of  the  other's  remarks.  If  V7e  adopt  this  explanation 
of  the  scene — as  is  done  by  Wetz  (p.  281) — there  can 
remain  no  doubt  that  lago  had  really  for  a  time  seriously 
entertained  the  suspicion  which  he  pronounces  in  the 
monologue,  and  that  the  scene  has  been  inserted  in  order 
to  show  how  entirely  devoid  of  foundation  it  is.  As  regards 
the  line,  however, 

That  she  loves  him,  'tis  apt  and  of  great  credit, 

it  does  not  mean,  as  Vischer,  for  instance,  thinks  it  does, 
that  lago  here  for  a  moment  believes  in  Desdemona's  love 

I  for  Cassio  or  suggests  this  belief  to  himself.  He  only 
wishes  to  say  that  his  plan  of  making  Othello  jealous  of 
Cassio  is  favoured  by  the  fact  that  her  love  for  the  hand- 
some Cassio  must  appear  as  thoroughly  "  apt  and  of  great 
credit." 

^1  When  lago  further  says  that  he  too  loves  Desdemona, 
Inot  out  of  lust,  but  rather  in  order  to  satisfy  his  thirst  for 
Itevenge  on  the  Moor,  further  reflections  on  the  **  love  *' 
of  lago  are  rendered  unnecessary  by  the  recognition, 
resulting  from  the  context,  that  here  by  "  I  love  ''  is  meant 

I V  wish  to  possess  her."  This  is  also  proved  by  the  fact 
mat  lago  is  only  at  the  commencement  of  his  intrigue  and 
still  deliberating  whether  he  shall  take  his  revenge  in  this 
manner  or  by  instigating  the  Moor  to  be  jealous  of  Cassio. 

Bthis,  as  we  see,  is  well  thought  out,  and  in  no  wise 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

makes  the  impression  of  mere  far-fetched  specious  reasons 
invented  on  the  spur  of  the  moment. 

Iago*s  fear  now  that  Cassio  may  be  his  rival  for  the 
affection  of  his  wife  must  appear  highly  improbable,  even 
ridiculous,  in  view  of  the  actual  facts  ;  because,  in  the 
first  instance,  Cassio  has  already  a  regular  love-affair,  and, 
secondly,  lago  suspects  in  the  same  breath  that  he  loves 
Desdemona.  Such  a  suspicion  would  brand  Cassio  as 
a  thorough  Don  Juan,  while,  as  to  lago,  it  merely  serves 
to  emphasize  his  profoundly  mistrustful  nature.  Wolff, 
then,  is  right  in  the  view  he  takes  of  this  side  of  Iago*s 
nature  ;  it  is  that  **  vile  suspiciousness  "  in  him  which 
is  ready  to  credit  any  person  with  any  kind  of  baseness. 
It  is  not  the  case,  therefore,  as  the  old  expositors,  beginning 
with  Coleridge,  thought,  that  his  essential  depravity  madi^| 
him  hunt  for  reasons  in  order  to  palliate  his  actions  ^H 
himself.  Quite  the  contrary  !  Stirrings  of  conscience  in 
this  sense  are  unknown  to  lago,  and  palliations  he  does 
not  require.  (Only  in  one  later  passage  does  there  appear 
a  trait  which  is  out  of  harmony  with  lago's  nature  as  de- 
lineated here.     This  is  his  remark  about  his  rival, 

if  Cassio  do  remain 
He  has  a  daily  beauty  in  his  life. 
That  makes  me  ugly, 

V.i 


which  betrays  a  jealousy  of  the  other  man's  virtue  that  is 
undoubtedly  in  strong  contradiction  to  his  own  depravity.) 
Thus  we  have  come  back  to  that  more  literal  conception  of 
the  sense  on  which  we  have  always  made  it  our  principle 
to  insist. 

We  certainly  have  to  admit  that  this  method  may  create 
difficulties  in  the  interpretation  of  the  character.  Con- 
sidering the  nature  of  lago,  there  seems  to  be  neither 
a  sufficiently  grave  insult  nor  a  sufficient  check  to  his 
ambition  to  account  for  his  choosing  such  a  fiendish 
method  of  revenge,  and,  moreover,  the  gratification  of 
these  two  feelings  in  the  further  course  of  the  action  is 
quite  overshadowed  by  his  love  of  intrigue  and  his  delight 

2IO 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

in  his  own  malignity.  Bradley  therefore  is  right  when  he 
points  out  that  he  shows  no  such  great  satisfaction  as  we 
ought  to  expect  on  really  obtaining  Cassio's  post,  and 
that  his  pleasure  at  the  success  of  his  wiles  is  not  that  of  the 
wronged  husband  or  lover  who  experiences  the  triumph  of 
**  getting  even,  wife  for  wife.**  No  one,  indeed,  will  receive 
the  impression  that  lago  is  an  avenger  of  his  supposedly 
outraged  honour — himself  a  kind  of  Othello.  Rather  do 
we  see  him  acting  obviously  out  of  wickedness,  impelled  by 
an  evil  disposition  that  makes  him  envious,  malicious,  and 
distrustful.  When,  for  instance,  he  solicits  Desdemona*s 
kindness  in  favour  of  Cassio  because  he  knows  that  thereby 
she  is  rendering  herself  more  than  suspect  in  the  eyes  of 
her  husband,  and  then  with  triumphant  malignity  rejoices 
at  the  fact  that  he  "  out  of  her  own  goodness  makes  the 
net  that  shall  ensnare  them  all  *'  (II,  iii),  or  when  he  wants 
to  sully  the  angelic  woman  by  making  her  use  the  word 
*  whore,*  as  uttered  by  the  raging  Othello — 

Desdemona,  Am  I  that  name,  lago  ? 
lago.  What  name,  fair  lady  ? 

IV,  ii 

— his  behaviour  ceases  to  have  any  affinity  to  vindictiveness 
or  wounded  ambition,  and  we  see  him  actuated  merely  by 
hellish  malignity. 

Now  if  we  hold  that  the  reasons  alleged  by  lago  for 
his  actions  do  not  strike  us  as  the  real  impelling  forces,  we 
do  not  thereby  wish  to  represent  them  in  any  way  as  sub- 
jective imaginations  of  lago.  If  that  were  to  be  assumed 
full  scope  would  be  given  to  every  kind  of  arbitrary  pro- 
cedure in  Shakespearean  criticism.  In  that  case  it  might 
be  said,  for  example,  of  the  threefold  motives  of  Shylock*s 
hatred  against  Antonio  that  two  of  the  reasons  were  due 
to  subjective  imagination,  the  only  real  motive  being  his 
desire  to  vindicate  his  race.  But  this  would  be  to  ignore 
the  primitive  character  of  this  artistic  device.  It  is  cer- 
tainly not  to  be  assumed  {cf,  p.  19  seq.) — indeed,  it  is 
rendered  more   than    improbable  by  the  other   primitive 

Ses  of    his  art — that    the    author  would    have  placed 
211 
I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

such  great  obstacles  in  the  way  of  the  spectator's  under- 
standing as  would  be  represented  by  a  monologue  contain- 
ing   subjective   truths    but    substantial   falsehoods.     It   is 
just  the  careful  way  in  which,  as  we  have  shown  above, 
Shakespeare  prevents  his  villain  and  his  hero  from  appearing   ■ 
in  a  false  light  that  makes  it  impossible  to  assume  that  in 
this  case  no  such  care  has  been  taken.     The  monologue, 
in  this  and  other  instances  of  the  same  kind,  is  intended  [ 
to  give  aids  to  the  understanding  of  the  action,  not,  how- 
ever— a  view  which  would  fail  to  grasp  the  essence  of 
the  Shakespearean  drama — to  light  up  the  character  of 
the  hero  by  adding  new  and  interesting  touches  to  it.     //  j 
must  be  made  a  principle  to  deny  that  Shakespeare  makes 
any  character  in  a  monologue  state  reasons  for  his  actions  that  \ 
are  not  meant  to  he  substantially  correct  and  sufficient.     It  is  { 
true  that  thereby  the  expression  of  the  unconscious  work-  j 
ings  of  the  soul  is  more  or  less  prevented.    This  is  not  I 
done,  as  Stoll  thinks,  because  the  age  was  ignorant  of  all 
the  more  subtle  mental  processes.      There  is  no  author 
who   has   a   more   profound    knowledge   of  mental   pro- 
cesses   than    Shakespeare.       We    need    no   further   proof 
of  this  than  such  subtle  reflections  as  that  in  The  Tempest 
describing  one  who 

Having  unto  truth,  by  telling  of  it. 
Made  such  a  sinner  of  his  memory 
To  credit  his  own  lie. 

I,ii 

Here  it  is  clearly  pointed  out  how  a  substantial  falsehood 
can  become  a  subjective  truth.  This  recognition,  how- 
ever, is  of  no  practical  importance  for  the  drama.  Here 
such  subtlety  is  quite  clearly  avoided  in  order  that  the  action 
may  be  always  intelligible  and  clear  to  a  large  multitude.  ; 
In  cases,  however,  where  the  action  shows  the  reasons 
stated  to  be  incorrect  a  similar  state  of  affairs  prevails, 
as,  for  instance,  when  in  Hamlet  King  Claudius,  though 
imagined  and  depicted  as  a  wretched  creature,  does  not 
appear  as  such.  We  then  have  a  discrepancy  which  results 
from  the  poet*s  instinctive  processes  of  creation  conflicting 

212 


IN   SHAKESPEARE^S   PLAYS 

with  his  conscious  intention.  A  similar,  though  not  so 
extensive,  disagreement  must  probably  be  admitted  in  the 
case  of  lago.  His  actions  on  the  whole  are  provided  by 
Shakespeare  with  an  excess  of  motives.  This  is  a  thing  to 
which  we  are  accustomed  in  ordinary  life.  When  we 
state  too  many  reasons  for  our  acts  or  omissions  one 
counteracts  the  other,  and  in  the  end  none  of  them  appears 
quite  credible.  It  is  a  similar  mistake  which  Shakespeare 
commits  here. 

In  precisely  the  same  way  shall  we  have  to  regard  the 
monologue  in  which  the  action  in  Hamlet^  having  reached 
its  culminating  point,  suddenly  comes  to  a  standstill. 
The  ghost  of  his  father  has  revealed  to  Hamlet  the  crime 
of  the  usurping  brother  and  charged  him  to  take  revenge. 
Hamlet  has  so  far  hesitated  to  carry  out  this  purpose  ; 
he  wishes  to  have  the  proofs  of  his  uncle's  guilt  demon- 
strated before  his  eyes.  The  company  of  players  is  to 
help  him  to  accomplish  this.  The  behaviour  of  the  King 
during  the  play  which  reproduces  his  own  crime  will 
betray  him  if  he  is  guilty.  The  plot  succeeds,  for  the 
King's  remarkable  conduct  reveals  to  Hamlet,  without 
any  possibility  of  doubt,  a  mind  oppressed  by  the  con- 
sciousness of  guilt.  It  is  clear  that  the  ghost  has  told  the 
truth,  and  the  purpose  of  revenge  must  be  carried  out. 
The  avenger  is  assisted  by  chance  ;  on  the  way  to  his 
mother  he  meets  the  royal  criminal  alone  and  unarmed. 
But — he  is  at  prayer  !  Is  Hamlet  now  to  commit  the 
deed  } 

That  would  be  scann'd  : 
A  villain  kills  my  father,  and  for  that,  ^ 

I,  his  sole  son,  do  this  same  villain  send 
To  heaven. 

O,  this  is  hire  and  salary,  not  revenge. 
He  took  my  father  grossly,  full  of  bread, 
With  all  his  crimes  broad  blown,  as  flush  as  May, 
And  how  his  audit  stands  who  knows  save  Heaven  ? 
But  in  our  circumstance  and  course  of  thought, 
'Tis  heavy  with  him  :  and  am  I  then  revenged, 
To  take  him  in  the  purging  of  his  soul, 

213 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

When  he  is  fit  and  seasoned  for  his  passage  ? 

No  ! 

Up,  sword,  and  know  thou  a  more  horrid  hent  : 

When  he  is  drunk  asleep,  or  in  his  rage. 

Or  in  the  incestuous  pleasure  of  his  bed  ; 

At  game,  a-swearing,  or  about  some  act 

That  has  no  relish  of  salvation  in  't ; 

Then  trip  him,  that  his  heels  may  kick  at  heaven, 

And  that  his  soul  may  be  as  damn'd  and  black 

As  hell,  whereto  it  goes.     My  mother  stays  : 

This  physic  but  prolongs  thy  sickly  da)^. 

These  lines  give,  circumstantial  and  clear,  the  reasons 
for  his  inaction.  Almost  every  notable  critic,  however, 
declares  them  unworthy  of  serious  consideration,  and 
prefers  to  see  in  them  a  kind  of  self-deception.  Hamlet 
is  unwilling  to  act,  unable  to  act,  and,  as  Kreyssig  says, 
"  his  practised  ingenuity  comes  quickly  to  his  aid  and 
wraps  his  lack  of  energy  in  the  venerable  cloak  of  cautious 
deliberation.*'  Vischer  too  thinks  that  the  principal 
reason  must  lie  in  his  own  inner  nature,  and  similar  opinions 
are  expressed  by  Brandes.  The  question  has  been  examined 
most  exhaustively  by  Loning.  To  him  all  that  is  said 
by  Hamlet  in  this  speech  appears  as  mere  "  excogitated 
sophistries.'*  His  revenge,  he  holds,  is  concerned  only 
with  the  killing  of  the  King.  To  what  comes  afterward 
the  avenger  may  be  quite  indifferent.  Moreover,  Hamlet 
must  be  conscious  that  a  mere  act  of  praying  is  not  sufficient 
to  get  the  King  into  heaven. 

This  last  view  is  not  tenable,  however.  The  question 
is  what  the  Elizabethan  audience,  for  whom  these  lines 
were  written,  would  think  of  the  situation  presented  here. 
Now  there  is  a  passage  in  Nashe's  famous  novel  of  adventure, 
Jack  Wilton^  which  had  certainly  been  read  by  Shakespeare, 
where  we  see  the  great  importance  assigned  by  the  super- 
stition of  the  age  to  a  person's  behaviour  at  the  moment  ofj 
death.  We  are  told  how  a  man  is  seized  and  rendered: 
defenceless  by  his  mortal  enemy.  He  entreats  him  to 
spare  his  life,  and  declares  himself  ready  in  return  for 
this  favour  to  do  anything  that  may  be  desired  of  him 
214 


i 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

Then  his  malevolent  enemy  is  reminded  of  a  "  notable  new 
Italianism  "  by  means  of  which  one  may  kill  the  soul  as 
iwell  as  the  body.  He  orders  his  victim  to  sell  his  soul  to 
the  devil,  forces  him  to  utter  the  most  horrible  curses  on 
all  that  is  holy,  and  at  the  same  moment  suddenly  shoots 
him  through  the  neck,  so  that  he  sinks  down  without  being 
able  to  speak  or  make  a  sign  of  repentance.  From  this 
we  learn  how  seriously  the  circumstances  under  which 
la  person  dies  may  be  taken.  In  the  same  circle  of  ideas 
moves  Othello,  whom  the  furious  desire  to  make  an  end  of 
Desdemona  does  not  prevent  from  first  asking  her  whether 
ihe  has  "  pray'd  to-night,"  for,  says  he : 

I  would  not  kill  thy  unprepared  spirit. 

No  ;  heaven  forfend  !     I  would  not  kill  thy  soul. 

V,ii 

What  Hamlet  himself  regards  as  so  especially  terrible  in 

|his  father's  murder  is  the  fact  that  he  was  overtaken  by 

rit  with  no  time  for  repentance.     The  importance  of  this 

^circumstance,  therefore,  is  by  no  means  exaggerated  by 

'lim  in  order  to  deceive  himself.     It  is  true  that  thereby 

le  shows  himself  an  especially  severe,  even  cruel,  avenger. 

jBut  no  one  will  maintain  that  Hamlet  is  a  soft-hearted 

character.     This  opinion  would  be  untenable  if  only  in 

iew  of  his  treatment  of  Polonius*  body.     He  who  follows 

roethe  in  calling  Hamlet  without  reserve  "  a  fine,  pure, 

tnoble,  supremely  moral  being  *'  must  be  said  to  disregard 

khe  facts.     Equally  untenable  is  the  objection  that  Hamlet 

[is  too  great  a  sceptic  seriously  to  believe  in  such  a  possibility, 

[which  is   credible  only  to   people  living  in   the  darkest 

[superstition.     Is  it  conceivable  that  he  who  speaks  of  the 

life   beyond  as   "  the  undiscovered   country  from  whose 

)ourne  no  traveller  returns,"  who  ponders  on  the  possibility 

>f  dreams  occurring  in  the  sleep  of  death,  should  seriously 

'in  this  case  take  up  the  standpoint  of  the  firmest  belief? 

This    objection    also,    as    has    been    demonstrated    above 

{cf,  p.  117  seq.)y  is  without  the  sHghtest  weight. 

It  will  therefore  be  inadmissible  to  use  these  reasons 
for  proving  that   Hamlet  in  this   monologue  is  seeking 

215 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

pretexts  for  delaying  his  action  and  finding  them  in  things 
in  which  he  himself  does  not  seriously  believe.  We  must 
make  it  a  principle  to  exclude  any  possibility  of  such  an  idea. 
If  the  reasons  stated  by  Hamlet  had  been  intended  to  be 
merely  specious  ones  Shakespeare  would  at  least  have  made 
Hamlet  add,  with  that  knowledge  of  himself  which  else- 
where distinguishes  him,  **  But  I  am  only  deceiving  my- 
self ;  in  reality  I  cannot  force  myself  to  do  the  deed," 
though  this  would,  to  some  degree,  modify  the  sense. 
Nothing  of  the  kind  is  done,  however,  and  though  later 
(III,  iv,  107  seq^  he  reproaches  himself  in  a  general  way 
it  is  without  reference  to  the  scene  under  discussion. 

Now   an   upholder   of  the   hitherto   accepted   view   of 
Shakespeare's  art  might    perhaps  object  that   the  proofs 
we  have  given  do  not  bring  us  much  farther.     He  would 
say  that  it  may  be  that  the  reasons  adduced  by  Hamlet  are 
in  themselves  sufficient  ;    to  him,  however,  they  do  not 
seem  to  be  so.     This  is  to  say,  one  could  well  imagine 
that  an  especially  embittered  and  revengeful  enemy  would 
refrain  from  committing  the  deed  at  the  moment  when  he 
saw  the  possibility  of  carrying  it  out  in  a  still  more  cruel 
manner.      It   need   not   be   denied   either   that   Hamlet's 
character  might  be  credited  with  this  cruelty — though  with 
a  certain  amount  of  reluctance.     Yet,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  is  just  this  Hamlet  with  whom  we  are  here  dealing,  the 
man  who  is  always  hesitating  and  reluctant  to  act,  whcL 
gives  us  the  impression  that  reasons  which  to  another  would 
seem  thoroughly  good  and  sufficient  have  in  his  case  no 
decisive  influence  upon  the  will.     This  view  is  apparently 
confirmed  by  the  fact  that  on  other  occasions  also  he  is  seen 
to  shrink  from  the  deed,  though  no  reasons  can  be  dis- 
covered there  of  the  kind  we  are  concerned  with  here. 
Up  to  this  point  all  his  acting  has  been  a  continual  delay- 
ing;   therefore  it  is  a  quite  obvious  conclusion   that  we 
should  regard  his  failure  to  act  in  this  case  as  not  due  to  the 
reasons  he  adduces,  but  as  arising  from  a  peculiarity  of  his 
character.     This  objection,   however,  is  at  once   refuted 
by  the  inquiry  we  have  instituted  above  into  the  rela- 
tion of  character  and  action.     Shakespeare  elaborates  the 
216 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

character  and  refines  it,  but  retains  the  action.  Now  it  is 
remarkable  that  this  pivot  of  the  action  is  found  already 
in  the  Urhamlet  (cf.  p.  149  se^.),  a  fact  which  is  further 
proved  by  Marston's  play  Antonio's  Revenge^  which  presents 
so  many  analogies  to  Shakespeare's  drama  and  even 
utilizes  this  very  situation.  The  avenger  in  this  piece 
also  meets  the  criminal  under  circumstances  favourable 
to  the  deed,  but  does  not  carry  it  out  because  he  does 
not  think  a  speedy  death  terrible  enough  for  his  victim. 
Considering  the  limitations  of  Marston's  art,  no  one  will 
suppose  that  this  behaviour  is  the  effect  of  subtle  mental 
undercurrents.  The  same  circumstances,  however,  were 
drawn  by  Shakespeare  from  the  old  play. 

The  theory  formulated  here  must  not  be  reduced  ad 
ahsurdum  by  pointing  to  the  cases  where  Hamlet  in  his 
monologue  speaks  of  his  cowardice  (IV,  iv,  43  passim). 
This  fact  might  possibly  be  used  as  an  objection  to  what  has 
been  said,  and  the  conclusion  drawn.  If  the  statements 
made  in  the  monologue  for  the  purpose  of  self-explanation 
are  always  intended  to  be  substantially  correct,  Hamlet's 
failure  to  act  is  meant  to  be  due  to  cowardice.  This 
supposition,  however,  as  we  clearly  see  from  the  rest  of  the 
play,  is  not  correct.  Now  we  might  conclude  that,  after 
all,  reasons  for  acting  are  stated  in  the  monologue  which 
are  not  meant  to  correspond  to  reality.  This  conclusion, 
however,  would  be  entirely  fallacious.  The  explanation 
is  that  a  melancholy  character,  more  than  any  other,  is 
naturally  liable  to  give  vent  to  self-reproaches  and  doubts, 
by  means  of  which  he  spurs  himself  to  action.  Nothing 
else  is  intended  in  Hamlet's  case.  No  motive  for  the  action, 
in  the  proper  sense  of  the  word,  is  given  thereby  ;  so  the 
special  circumstances,  which  in  the  case  of  this  character 
are  naturally  somewhat  complicated,  must  not  blind  our 
eyes  to  the  much  more  simple  and  primitive  nature  of  the 
other  cases. 

An  especially  conspicuous  instance  of  this  primitiveness 
is  to  be  found  in  the  famous  first  monologue  of  Prince 
Hal,  and,  what  is  more,  we  are  here  presented  with  a 
counterpart  to  the  case  of  lago,  inasmuch  as  obviously  we 

217 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

have  to  do  here  with  a  fault  in  the  description.  It  is  the 
beginning  of  i  Henry  IF,  The  spectator  has  become 
acquainted,  in  the  first  scene,  with  the  King  himself,  has 
seen  him  in  council  with  his  peers,  and  heard  his  sorrowful 
complaints  of  his  undutiful  son,  upon  whose  forehead  **  riot 
and  dishonour  **  have  set  their  seal.  The  second  act  then 
shows  him,  the  prodigal  son,  in  an  excellent  humour  in  the 
society  of  his  witty  boon  companion,  the  fat  Sir  John  Fal- 
stafF.  (The  latter  is  introduced,  like  all  outstanding  figures 
of  Shakespeare,  with  some  opening  words  which  stamp 
his  character,  viz.,  the  question,  significant  of  his  habit  of 
loafing,  and  evidently  accompanied  with  a  yawn,  as  to  the 
time  of  day.)  The  conversation  between  the  two — their 
mild  reproaches  and  reflections  concerning  their  respective 
modes  of  life  and  their  rosy  prospects  of  continuing  this 
kind  of  existence  in  the  eventuality  of  the  Princess  accession 
to  the  throne — apparently  affords  a  complete  justification  of 
the  sorrow  expressed  by  the  royal  father.  It  is  clear  that 
Falstaff,  though  he  is  the  wittiest  of  scamps  and  highway- 
men, always  remains  a  robber,  and  what  is  hatched  and 
discussed  in  this  scene  is  nothing  less  than  a  robbery 
punishable  by  the  gallows,  even  though  the  Prince  in  the 
last  minute  cautiously  avoids  immediate  participation  in 
the  crime  and  prefers,  for  the  sake  of  a  joke,  to  rob  the 
robbers  themselves,  assisted  by  one  accomplice — that  is  to 
say,  in  his  turn  to  attack  Falstaff  and  his  companions  after 
they  have  done  their  work.  All  this  must  create  the 
impression  in  the  spectator  that  the  Prince  has  sold  himself- 
body  and  soul  to  this  dissolute  gang.  The  intention  of  the 
poet,  however,  is  otherwise,  so  he  makes  him  toward  the 
end  of  the  scene  speak  the  monologue  : 

I  know  you  all,  and  will  a  while  uphold 
The  unyok'd  humour  of  your  idleness  ; 
Yet  herein  will  I  imitate  the  sun  : 
Who  does  permit  the  base  contagious  clouds 
To  smother  up  his  beauty  from  the  world. 
That,  when  he  please  again  to  be  himself. 
Being  wanted,  he  may  be  more  wonder'd  at. 
By  breaking  through  the  foul  and  ugly  mists 
2l8 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

Of  vapours,  that  did  seem  to  strangle  him. 

If  all  the  year  were  playing  holidays, 

To  sport  would  be  as  tedious  as  to  work  ; 

But  when  they  seldom  come,  they  wishM-for  come. 

And  nothing  pleaseth  but  rare  accidents. 

So,  when  this  loose  behaviour  I  throw  off. 

And  pay  the  debt  I  never  promised. 

By  how  much  better  than  my  word  I  am. 

By  so  much  shall  I  falsify  men's  hopes  ; 

And  like  bright  metal  on  a  sullen  ground, 

My  reformation,  glittering  o'er  my  fault. 

Shall  show  more  goodly,  and  attract  more  eyes, 

Than  that  which  hath  no  foil  to  set  it  off. 

I'll  so  offend,  to  make  offence  a  skill  ; 

Redeeming  time,  when  men  think  least  I  will. 

This  monologue  is  very  remarkable.     If  we  were  to  take 
literally  it  would  stamp  the  Prince's  character  with  the 
lark  of  gross  hypocrisy,  which  was  certainly  not  intended, 
^e  are  astonished  to  find  Prince  Hal  maintaining  that  he 
lixes  in  the  company  of  the  rascals  merely  in  order  to 
lake  his  own  virtues  shine  all  the  more  splendidly  after- 
rard.     If  that  were  true  he  would  thereby  become,  as 
"reyssig  says,  "  a  theatrical  young  wastrel,  who  makes  a 
[reat  show  of  sowing  his  wild  oats  in  order  afterward  to 
create  a  sensation  by  his  conversion.'*     This,  however,  is 
most  probably  not  the  fundamental  structure  of  the  character. 
So  the  critics  continue  their  line  of  argument  by  asserting 
that  the  Prince  must  be  deceived  as  to  his  own  nature. 
Some  (Kreyssig)  find  in  his  words  a  certain  precociousness 
peculiar  to  young  people  who  persuade  themselves  that 
their  carousing  and   enjoyment  serve  a  most  important 
political  purpose  ;    and  this,  according  to  them,  points  to 
a  special  psychological  subtlety  in  the  monologue.     Others 
(Brandes)   think   that   this   self-palliating   and   sophistical 
speech  ought  to  be  recited  in  a  jesting  manner,  and  that  the 
speaker  himself  does  not  take  quite  seriously  all  the  reasons 
he  adduces  for  his  conduct.     Brandes  evidently  is  not  quite 
satisfied  by  this  explanation.     This  is  proved  by  the  many 
additional  reasons  he  brings  forward,  and  in  fact  there  is 
nothing  in  the  monologue  that  hints  at  a  jocular  intention. 

219 


I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

Kreyssig*s  explanation,  on  the  other  hand,  Is  altogether  out 
of  the  question,  because  the  Prince  shows  no  signs  of 
precocious  behaviour  anywhere  else,  and  therefore  cannot 
suddenly  speak  as  a  precocious  youth  in  this  one  passage. 

Other  critics  again  (Wolff)  courageously  take  the  view 
that  here  Shakespeare  has  made  a  psychological  blunder. 
But   wherein   lies   the   error  ?      What    is    the    subjective 
falsity  of  the  statement  ?     Not  that,  as  has  been  supposed, 
it   anticipates   a   development    of  the   action   which   the 
speaker  cannot  know  anything  of.     That  the  heir-apparent 
will  some  time  ascend  the  throne  Is  not  improbable  ;  that 
even  in  the  midst  of  his  more  than  merry  life  he  does 
not  abandon  the  good  intention  of  proving  himself  worthy 
of  his  station  Is  not  an  Idea  that  could  surprise  us  ;  nor 
should  we  have  any  objection  if  In  his  monologue  he  were 
merely  referring,  by  means  of  an  *  aside,*  to  these  things. 
What  does  make  us  begin  to  feel  critical,  however.  Is  the 
fact  that  here  he  so  completely  denies  any  community  of 
thought  or  feeling  with  his  accomplices,  whereas  we  have 
just  witnessed  with  what  genuine  pleasure  he  has  plunged 
into  this  life.     Yet  even  this  is  not  the  ultimate  Incongruity, 
for  If  he  does  not  feel  at  one  with  them  In  his  soul,  he  has 
a  right  to  express  this  feeling.     The  mistake,   however, 
consists  in  the  fact  that  he  attributes  his  behaviour  to  an 
obviously  false  motive,  and  consequently  does  not  excuse 
himself,  but  goes  so  far  as  to  consider  himself  entitled  to 
praise  and  glory  by  his  behaviour,  compares  himself  with 
great  self-complacency  to  the  sun,  and  lays  stress  on  the 
profound  wisdom  of  his  conduct.    By  this  means  he  comes 
to  see  things   in  a  false  moral   light,  and  Interprets  his 
loafing  about  with  highwaymen,  committing  adultery  with, 
the  hostess,  etc.,  as  meritorious  acts.     Another,  wishing  to 
judge  him  leniently  and  extenuatingly,  might  say  such  things 
of  him,  but  not  he  himself.     And,  indeed,  one  of  the  vassals 
actually  tries  to  comfort  his  father,  Henry  IV,  by  using  the 
curious  simile  that  his  son  is  acting  only  like  one  who  tries 
to  become  acquainted  with  the  Indecent  words  of  a  foreign 
language  in  order  not  to  use  them ;  but  this  too  Is  a  mistake, 
for  the  Prince  obviously  uses  the  Indecent  words  with  great 
220 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

enjoyment ;  still,  in  the  mouth  of  an  indulgent  observer 
this  conception  appears  quite  comprehensible. 

The  fact  is,  this  monologue  has  to  be  regarded  not  as 
an  individual  expression,  imagined  as  being  psychologically 
consistent  with  the  character  of  the  speaker,  and  perhaps 
even  as  intended  to  show  him  as  deceiving  himself,  but  as 
an  explanatory  remark,  meant  to  be  true  to  fact  and  belong- 
ing to  the  exposition,  a  statement  which  might  have  been 
put  into  the  mouth  of  some  one  speaking  as  Chorus.  That 
this  interpretation  of  the  action  by  the  author  does  not 
appear  quite  unexceptionable  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
real  facts  is  due  to  his  partiality  to  the  Prince,  or  rather  to  his 
loyalty^  his  respect  for  the  idea  of  kingships  which  makes  him 
consider  it  desirable  to  add  some  embellishing  touches  to  the 
conception  of  the  action. 

This  procedure  cannot  surprise  us  when  we  see  that  in 
other  passages  also  he  appears  somewhat  biased  in  his  moral 
views  in  regard  to  this  royal  figure.  The  scene  in  question 
is  at  the  end  of  the  play,  the  second  part  of  Henry  IV  (V,  v). 
Prince  Hal  has  ascended  the  throne  as  king  and  has  been 
crowned  in  Westminster  Abbey.  Falstaff,.  with  his  band 
of  shady  and  disreputable  characters,  who  have  been  joined 
by  the  wholly  besotted  Justice  Shallow,  is  standing  in  the 
street  and  waiting  in  feverish  impatience  for  the  coronation 
procession,  which  approaches  to  the  sound  of  trumpets. 
When  the  King  comes  in  sight  the  group  of  his  old  accom- 
plices cheer  him  with  shouts  of  joy.  Falstaff  cries  out  in 
the  greatest  excitement :  "  God  save  thy  grace,  King  Hal  ! 
my  royal  Hal  1  '*  And  again  :  **  God  save  thee,  my  sweet 
boy  !  **     But  the  King,  cold  as  ice,  turns  away  : 

My  lord  chief  justice,  speak  to  that  vain  man. 

Ch.  Just.     Have  you  your  wits  ?  know  you  what  'tis 
you  speak  ? 

Fal,     My  king  !  my  Jove  !    I  speak  to  thee,  my  heart  ! 

King.     I  know  thee  not,  old  man  :  fall  to  thy  prayers  ; 
How  ill  white  hairs  become  a  fool  and  jester  ! 
I  have  long  dream'd  of  such  a  kind  of  man. 
So  surfeit-swell'd,  so  old,  and  so  profane  ; 
But,  being  awake,  I  do  despise  my  dream. 

221 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

Make  less  thy  body,  hence,  and  more  thy  grace  ; 

Leave  gormandising  ;  know,  the  grave  doth  gape 

For  thee  thrice  wider  than  for  other  men  : — 

Reply  not  to  me  with  a  fool-born  jest  ; 

Presume  not,  that  I  am  the  thing  I  was  ; 

For  heaven  doth  know,  so  shall  the  world  perceive, 

That  I  have  turn'd  away  my  former  self  ; 

So  will  I  those  that  kept  me  company. 

When  thou  dost  hear  I  am  as  I  have  been. 

Approach  me  ;  and  thou  shalt  be  as  thou  wast. 

The  tutor  and  the  feeder  of  my  riots  : 

Till  then,  I  banish  thee,  on  pain  of  death, — 

As  I  have  done  the  rest  of  my  misleaders, — 

Not  to  come  near  our  person  by  ten  mile. 

For  competence  of  life,  I  will  allow  you. 

That  lack  of  means  enforce  you  not  to  evil  : 

And,  as  we  hear  you  do  reform  yourselves. 

We  will — according  to  your  strength,  and  qualities — 

Give  you  advancement.     Be  it  your  charge,  my  lord, 

To  see  perform'd  the  tenor  of  our  word. 

2  Henr'j  IF,  V,  v 

A  great  number  of  Shakespearean  critics  find  here  a 
truly  dignified  regal  behaviour.  From  a  human  point  of 
view,  however,  this  conduct  of  the  King  is  open  to  very 
grave  objections.  In  our  opinion  it  introduces  a  positively 
wicked  trait  of  hypocrisy  into  his  portrait.  We  know  the 
self-assured,  clear-sighted  Henry  too  well  not  to  smile  when 
he  represents  himself  as  the  poor  victim  of  seduction  and 
FalstafF  as  the  cunning  "  tutor  and  the  feeder  of  my  riots" ; 
moreover,  he  must  have  known  better  than  to  promise 
Falstaff  advancement,  according  to  his  strength  and 
qualities,  if  he  reforms  himself.  Wherein  else  lie  the 
"  strength  and  qualities  "  of  good  old  Sir  John  but  in  the 
gambols  of  his  wit,  in  the  merry  mood  produced  by  copious 
draughts  of  sack  }  Above  all  we  must  ask.  How  can  Henry 
address  a  philippic  of  this  kind  to  Falstaff  without  per- 
ceiving that  thereby  he  also  condemns  himself  }  "  How  ill 
white  hairs  become  a  fool  and  jester  I "  Had  Falstaff  no 
white  hairs  before  ?  Well,  then.  Prince  Hal  ought  either 
to  have  made  this  discovery  earlier  and  been  induced  by  it 

222 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

to  prefer  honest  men  for  his  associates,  or,  as  he  was  so 
late  in  recognizing  the  ugliness  of  vice,  to  have  been  a 
little  ashamed  of  his  late  recognition.  That  he  should 
separate  himself  from  his  old  accomplices  is  necessary  ; 
that  he  leaves  them  no  hope  is  unavoidable.  But  there 
is  no  occasion  for  preaching  morality  to  them,  even  if  we 
consider  that  the  events  of  the  time  immediately  preceding 
had  been  leading  the  Prince  farther  and  farther  away  from 
his  old  friends. 

But  what  can  have  induced  Shakespeare  to  show  the 
King  in  this  light  ?  The  attem^pt  has  been  made,  among 
others,  to  explain  it  (Bradley)  by  stating  that  he  is  moved 
by  a  sudden  outburst  of  anger  to  cast  aside  other  considera- 
tions. But  if  Shakespeare  had  wanted  to  represent  an 
outburst  of  anger,  he  would  certainly  not  have  done  it  in 
the  quiet  flow  of  ideas  contained  in  these  twenty-five  lines 
of  reflection.  To  make  momentary  moods  responsible  for 
an  action  instead  of  the  character  itself  is  seldom  pro- 
ductive of  good  critical  results  ;  in  the  case  of  a  character 
like  Henry  V,  who  is  anything  but  a  man  of  moods,  it  is 
quite  out  of  the  question.  Or  was  it  Shakespeare's  inten- 
tion to  give  a  touch  of  hardness  to  this  character  ?  Henry's 
conduct  elsewhere  does  not  warrant  such  an  assumption. 
The  King  is  certainly  not  meant  to  do  anything  reprehen- 
sible. The  real  reason  we  shall  find  to  be  the  same  here 
as  that  which  led  to  the  indulgent  representation  of  his 
tavern  life  given  in  the  monologue.  It  is  the  poet's  loyalty 
and  respect  for  the  idea  of  kingship.  The  King's  anointed 
person  towers  so  high  above  people  like  FalstafF  that,  in 
spite  of  all  that  has  happened,  his  soul  has  nothing  in 
common  with  them.  Therefore  his  behaviour  may  not 
be  judged  by  the  same  standards  as  theirs. 

We  see  a  touch  of  partiality,  of  a  deliberate  desire  to 
overlook  the  King's  faults,  in  the  fact  that  the  poet  allows 
him  the  right  of  speaking  thus  severely.  He  who  refers, 
for  the  sake  of  comparison,  to  the  discussion  of  the  moral 
position  of  the  King  given  in  Henry  V  (IV,  i)  will  no  longer 
be  astonished  at  this  peculiarity  of  the  poet. 

In  all  these  instances  we  see  how  the  dramatist,  by  giving 

223 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

the  fullest,  if  not  always  the  correct,  reasons  for  the  action, 
aims  at  leaving  the  audience  in  no  uncertainty  as  to  the 
inner  nature  of  the  chief  characters.  Where  there  is  a 
possibility  of  doubt  arising  he  likes  to  remove  it.  It  is 
very  characteristic  that  he  does  this  not  merely  in  mono- 
logues, but  also  by  means  of  '  asides  *  and  communications 
made  directly  for  the  spectator's  sake,  e,g.^  in  Othello^  in  the 
scene  (II,  i)  where  Desdemona  with  her  attendants  has 
reached  Cyprus  before  her  husband  and  is  anxiously  waiting 
on  the  beach  for  his  ship,  which  has  been  delayed  by  the 
storm.  She  tries  to  while  away  the  time  by  getting  lago 
to  make  smart  and  witty  conversation.  In  order,  however, 
that  the  audience  may  not  misunderstand  this  and  take  her 
for  a  superficial  or  frivolous  woman  she  allows  them  to  look 
behind  her  mask,  saying  : 

I  am  not  merry  ;  but  I  do  beguile 
The  thing  I  am  by  seeming  otherwise. 

Here  notice  once  more  how  consistently  primitive  was 
Shakespeare's  art-form.  A  modern  dramatist,  instead 
of  giving  this  *  aside,'  would  represent  Desdemona  as 
absent-minded  and  inattentive.  The  Elizabethan  playgoer, 
however,  is  accustomed  to  this  method.  We  may  mention 
the  passage  in  Marlowe's  Jew  of  Malta  where  Abigail, 
forced  by  her  father  to  dissimulate,  turns  to  the  audience 
with  the  naive  aside  :  **  I  smile  against  my  will." 

We  should  also  observe  how  carefully  in  King  Lear 
Shakespeare  has,  so  to  speak,  erected  danger  signals  in 
order  to  prevent  people  from  straying  into  *  blind  paths.' 
According  to  his  habit  of  throwing  light  on  his  most 
important  figures,  if  possible,  by  the  very  first  words  they 
speak  in  the  exposition,  he  introduces,  for  example,  Cor- 
delia with  the  aside  ;  **  What  shall  Cordelia  do  ?  Love, 
and  be  silent "  (I,  i).  When  the  blind  Gloster  imagines 
himself  to  be  standing  on  the  top  of  Dover  Cliff  and  is 
preparing  for  the  leap  which,  as  he  hopes,  will  put  an  end 
to  all  his  sufferings,  his  son,  who  has  contrived  the  pious 
deception,  turns  to  the  audience  with  the  explanation  : 

Why  I  do  trifle  thus  with  his  despair 
Is  done  to  cure  it. 
224 


f  IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

And  when  the  night  of  madness  falls  on  Lear*s  mind  the 
spectator  is  informed  in  good  time  of  the  view  he  has  to 
take  of  the  subsequent  speeches  by  the  statement  :  "  My 
wits  begin  to  turn  "  (III,  ii). 

One  must  keep  in  view  the  simplicity  of  these  means  and  the 
circumstances  which  called  for  them  in  order  to  see  in  a  proper 
light  the  exegetical  art  of  those  critics  who  credit  the  poet  with 
being  capable  of  giving  motives  for  actions  which  he  does  not 
mean  to  be  true  to  the  facts.  But  we  shall  not  be  justified  either 
in  regarding  expressly  stated  reasons  as  requiring  to  be  supple^ 
mented  except  in  cases  of  urgent  need^  /.^.,  unless  it  is  imperatively 
demanded  by  the  facts.  An  instance  proving  this  thesis  is 
Ophelia'^madness,  which  numerous  critics  trace  back  to 
the  double  blow..-DiLHamlet^_desertion  and  her  father*s 
death.  Shakespeare,  however,  makes  the  King  state  ex- 
pressly (IV,  V,  76)  that  ..this  clouding  of  her  mind  is  due  to 
her  sorrow  for  her  father's  death.  None  of  the  bystanders 
says  a  word  about  the  relations  which  Hamlet  has  broken 
off  being  the  cause.  This  allows  us  to  conclude  with 
certainty  how  the  dramatist  wished  the  occurrence  to  be 
explained. 

Occasionally  this  excessive  ingenuity  of  the  critics  leads 
to  a  really  amusing  confusion  of  art  and  reality.  In  Hamlet 
the  Queen,  after  the  exciting  scene  in  which  Polonius  has 
been  murdered  in  her  chamber,  informs  her  husband  how 
the  affair  has  taken  place,  and  ends  her  report  by  saying 
that  Hamlet  now  "  weeps  for  what  is  done  "  (IV,  i,  27). 
This  line  has  seemed  to  many,  not  without  reason,  to  be 
questionable  from  a  psychological  point  of  view.  With 
Hamlet's  acerbity  of  character  and  his  own  statements 
regarding  the  deed,  his  weeping  on  this  occasion  does  not 
seem  to  be  very  compatible.  Since^  however^  statements  as  to 
events  which  are  brought  to  the  spectator's  ears^  and  which  he 
is  incapable  of  verifying  from  what  he  himself  has  witnessed  or 
from  the  words  of  trustworthy  persons^  are  generally  to  be  taken 
at  their  face  value  {cf,  above,  p.  66  seq.^  on  the  principle  of 
the  objective  appropriateness  of  dramatic  testimony),  the  only 
question  we  shall  be  able  to  raise  here  will  be  whether  this 
ssage  contains  a  psychological  error  or  not.    But  what  are 

P  225 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

we  to  think  of  a  conception  like  that  of  Bradley  (p.  i68) 
and  others  who  are  of  opinion  that  the  Queen  may  have 
seen  Hamlet  weep,  but  misinterprets  the  reason  of  his  tears  ? 
This  again  is  to  confuse  art  with  reality.  In  art,  as 
opposed  to  reality,  all  things  have  their  purpose  ;  but  what 
purpose  is  served  by  the  mention  of  Hamlet^s  tears  if, 
in  the  mentioning,  the  reason  given  for  them  is  a  false  one  ? 
Are  the  audience  to  puzzle  their  heads  about  nothing  ? 
In  this  and  similar  cases  the  simplicity  of  Shakespeare's 
art  has  been  grossly  misunderstood. 

2.  Imputed  Motives. — Though  the  reader  may  be 
inclined,  in  view  of  the  many  primitive  traits  that  have  been 
pointed  out,  to  agree  that  when  reasons  are  given  for  actions 
they  are  generally  meant  to  be  true  to  fact  and  sufficient, 
yet  he  will  not  be  able  to  suppress  one  great  objection. 
Ulrici  was  the  first  to  voice  it,  when  he  said  {Shakespeare 
Jahrhuch^  1868,  iii,  p.  7)  :  "Shakespeare  in  many  cases 
leaves  it  to  the  spectator  to  find  out  for  himself  the  motives 
of  the  decisions,  the  behaviour,  the  actions,  and  omissions 
of  his  characters ;  for  his  own  part  he  only  hints  at  them, 
or  occasionally  compels  us  to  guess  them  from  the  context.  He 
knows  quite  well  that  in  the  last  resort  the  impulses  of  our 
willing  and  doing  spring  from  the  innermost  core  and 
foundation  of  our  being,  so  that  their  true  meaning  and 
worth  often  remains  hidden  even  from  ourselves."  This 
last  argument,  we  may  say  at  once,  is  quite  erroneous, 
for  we  have  seen  that  Shakespeare  in  this  respect,  more 
than  in  any  other,  frequently  oversteps  the  limits  of 
realism  and  stands  in  strict  contradiction  to  reality 
{cf,  p.  59  seq^.  The  observation  in  itself,  however, 
is  quite  correct  :  Shakespeare  in  innumerable  instances 
supplies  no  motive  for  the  behaviour  of  his  characters, 
in  contrast  to  the  *  asides  '  already  mentioned,  e.g,^  the 
explanation  given  by  Desdemona  of  her  real  state  of  mind 
or  the  passages  quoted  from  King  Lear,  He  has  no 
*  aside  * — to  take  only  a  few  important  examples — explain- 
ing why  Hamlet  assumes  the  mask  of  madness  ;  by  nc 
syllable  are  we  informed  how  the  strange  attitude  he  adopts  1 
toward  Ophelia  is  to  be  understood.  We  seek  in  vain  an 
226 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

analysis  of  Cleopatra's  real  reasons  for  fleeing  from  the 
battle  of  Actium  and  thereby  bringing  the  catastrophe  upon 
her  lover.  Her  behaviour  toward  him  afterward,  when 
she  grows  taciturn  and  reserved,  is  entirely  enigmatic  for 
a  while  ;  and  similarly  in  many  parts  of  his  dramas  we  must 
have  recourse  to  that  groping  and  guessing  which  gives 
rise  to  the  numerous  differences  of  opinion  which  have 
exercised  the  sagacity  of  the  critics  and  made  them  have 
recourse  to  hair-splitting  subtleties. 

The  question  now  arises,  What  attitude,  speaking  quite 
generally,  are  we  to  adopt  in  the  face  of  this  difficulty  ? 

An  extraordinary  number  of  cases  may  be  disregarded 
from  the  very  beginning  by  a  sane  and  sober  method  of 
interpretation  because  the  difficulties  are  purely  fictitious 
and  the  absence  of  the  explanation  or  the  *  aside  *  is  due  only 
to  the  excessive  ingenuity  of  the  critics  or  to  the  author's 
inability  to  imagine  that  the  events  depicted  could  be  under- 
stood otherwise  than  literally.  A  good  example  of  this, 
and  one  which  has  often  been  discussed,  is  Lady  Macbeth's 
fainting  fit.  It  is  in  the  scene  (II,  ii)  in  which  the  terrible 
secret  of  the  murder  of  the  old  King  Duncan  is  brought  to 
light.  A  mad  excitement  has  seized  the  discoverers  of  the 
deed.  A  cry  of  horror  reverberates  through  the  house. 
The  faithful  Macduff  is  shaken  by  a  kind  of  fever ;  he  has 
the  bells  rung,  and  all  hurry  to  the  spot,  full  of  forebodings 
that  something  terrible  has  happened.  Macbeth  himself 
seeks  to  keep  pace  with  the  general  indignation,  and,  profiting 
by  the  disorder  that  has  ensued,  averts  the  danger  to  himself 
by  stabbing  the  chamberlains,  upon  whom  the  first  sus- 
picion falls.  Cunning  as  he  is,  he  forestalls  a  reproach  for 
his  strange  hurry  to  inflict  punishment  by  immediately 
afterward  condemning  the  deed  as  rash  and  thoughtless. 
Macduff  indeed  is  puzzled  for  a  moment.  "  Wherefore 
did  you  so  .'^ "  Macbeth  starts  upon  a  wordy  explanation 
of  how  he  has  allowed  himself  to  be  carried  away  by  his 
indignation  at  the  horrible  crime.  All  are  standing  around 
and  looking  at  him.  It  is  the  first  great  test  whether  the 
I  hideous  plan  has  succeeded.  A  silence  most  uncomfortable 
1  for  the  guilty  persons  falls  upon  the  gathering.     At  this 

227 
I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

moment  Lady  Macbeth  groans  :  "  Help  me  hence." 
MacdufF  is  the  first  to  see  that  she  is  about  to  faint  and 
cries  out  :  **  Look  to  the  lady  !  " 

The  King's  sons  are  too  much  shaken  and  excited  to  pay 
attention  to  this  incident ;  they  are  exchanging  a  few  words 
as  to  the  next  steps  they  will  have  to  take.  Nor  does 
Macbeth  himself  take  any  notice  of  his  wife.  Banquo 
alone  sees  her  swooning  and  takes  up  Macduff's  warning 
cry :  "  Look  to  the  lady  !  "  (Evidently  the  stage  direction 
to  take  the  unconscious  woman  out  which  was  added  later 
on  was  accidentally  omitted  in  the  original  text.) 

Now  what  is  there  that  is  liable  to  be  misunderstood  in 
the  whole  incident  ?  It  is  true  that  the  development  of 
Lady  Macbeth's  character  as  a  whole  presents  certain 
difficulties.  Whether  the  unique  strength  of  will  which 
shows  her  at  the  very  outset  as  a  "  virtuoso  of  crime  " 
without  a  trace  of  scruples  or  mental  struggle,  whether  the 
fearful  brutality  and  depravity  which  in  the  first  scenes 
make  her  think  lightly  of  the  crime,  are  altogether  com- 
patible with  the  later  disintegration  of  her  inner  nature  by 
the  overwhelming  strain  of  forcibly  suppressed  stirrings  of 
conscience  has  occasionally  been  disputed  with  arguments 
well  worthy  of  consideration  (cf.  Riimelin,  p.  72;  Kreyssig, 
p.  1 55).  To  these  the  sceptic  might  perhaps  add  the  observa- 
tion that  in  various  cases  Shakespeare  appears  especially  naive 
when  he  tries  to  depict  the  way  in  which  evildoers  invariably 
compass  their  own  destruction,  as  in  the  prickings  of  con- 
science in  King  Richard  III,  Claudius,  and  Enobarbus. 
Still,  no  matter  whether  we  regard  her  personality  as  credible 
or  not,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  Shakespeare  has  attempted 
to  endow  it  from  the  very  outset  with  traits  that  more  or-, 
less  visibly  betray  the  underlying  and  suppressed  nature 
and  to  show  an  inner  resistance  against  which  she  has  to 
struggle  in  a  manner  quite  different,  for  example,  from  his 
treatment  of  Richard  III  or  lago.  She  would  herself,  she 
says,  have  undertaken  the  murder  of  King  Duncan 

had  he  not  resembled 
My  father  as  he  slept, 

II,  ii,  12 

228 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

thereby  showing  that  she  is  more  hardened  in  her  own 
imagination  than  in  reality.  That  she  must  really,  in  spite 
of  her  devilish  words,  put  a  strong  pressure  upon  herself 
in  order  to  be  capable  of  the  inhuman  deed  is  further  shown 
by  the  fact  that  she  nerves  herself  before  the  deed  by  an 
unusually  deep  draught — that  is,  she  has  to  get  up  Dutch 
courage.  Yet  she  has  her  nerves  far  more  under  control 
than  Macbeth  himself.  The  progress  of  the  action,  how- 
ever, shows  that  she  has  overtaxed  them.  Now,  with  this 
fainting  fit,  her  nerves  fail  her  for  the  first  time.  She  has 
driven  Macbeth,  as  his  evil  genius,  farther  on  the  way  he 
had  taken,  has  prevented  him  by  means  of  scorn  and 
derision  from  turning  back,  and  tried  to  infuse  her  strength 
of  will  into  him.  Now  the  deed  has  been  done.  Now  that 
she  must  leave  Macbeth  to  himself  before  strangers  how 
will  he  manage  to  carry  through  his  part  ?  Will  he  not, 
who  finds  it  so  difficult  to  retain  the  proper  mask  in  his 
excitement,  break  down  and  thereby  prematurely  throw  up 
the  game  ?  The  tremendous  agitation  of  the  sleepless 
night  of  the  murder,  in  conjunction  with  this  oppressive 
tension,  proves  too  much  for  her.  She  goes  through  the 
same  kind  of  experience  as  Portia,  the  wife  of  Brutus,  who 
also  at  the  beginning  of  her  enterprise  was  energy  itself 
("  Stronger  than  her  sex  "),  but  afterward  in  the  crisis  has  to 
struggle  hard  in  order  not  to  faint  {Julius  Casar^  II,  iv). 
She  breaks  down.  It  is  clear  that  this  is  quite  a  natural 
thing  for  a  woman  to  do. 

The  expositors,  however,  have  from  the  very  beginning 
regarded  this  explanation  as  far  too  simple.  They  found 
that  the  swooning  of  this  fiendish  woman  was  merely  a 
clever  trick  for  diverting  attention  from  her  husband  in  his 
difficult  position,  especially  as  she  feared  that  he,  with  his  un- 
happy awkwardness  of  speech,  would  not  be  able  to  master 
the  situation.  This  opinion  is  still  widely  held  {cf,  WolfF, 
ii,  p.  229).  The  supreme  achievement  in  Shakespearean 
exegesis  is  the  view  of  Vischer,  who  (ii,  p.  2)  declares  both 
sides  to  be  in  the  right — an  inherent  impossibility.  Accord- 
ing to  him,  "  Lady  Macbeth's  intention  is  merely  to  pretend 
Hjihat  she  is  fainting,  but  she  really  does  faint,  because  after 

I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

all  she  cannot  bear  as  much  as  she  thought  she  could. 
Most  interpreters  here  simply  assume  deception.  I  am 
convinced,  however,  that  Shakespeare  intends  us  to  under- 
stand it  in  both  ways.  She  simulates  a  fainting  fit  and  finds 
it  easy  to  simulate,  because  she  actually  is  near  fainting.*' 
But  "  ay  and  no  too  is  no  good  divinity,"  as  we  are  told 
in  King  Lear\  such  a  power  of  reconciling  the  two  things 
requires  supernatural  gifts.  The  ordinary  mortal  is  puzzled 
to  understand  how  Vischer  can  infer  such  a  complicated 
mental  process  from  the  four  words  of  Lady  Macbeth : 
"  Help  me  hence,  ho  !  "  This  criticism  applies  to  the  very 
kind  of  theory  that  regards  this  swoon  as  a  piece  of  simula- 
tion :  who  among  the  audience  is  in  a  position  to  ascertain  that 
this  fainting  jit  is  not  genuine  P  Bradley  (p.  486),  although 
on  the  whole  rather  sceptical,  quite  seriously  deliberates 
the  possibility  of  the  actors  getting  directions  from  the 
author  as  to  how  to  make  the  audience  understand  that 
the  fainting  fit  is  only  simulated.  But  even  if  one  never 
loses  sight  of  the  extremely  primitive  traits  the  Elizabethan 
drama  was  capable  of  showing,  still,  the  idea  of  a  Lady 
Macbeth  who,  in  the  very  act  of  fainting,  by  means  of  a 
wink  to  the  pit  gives  the  audience  a  clue  to  the  proper 
understanding  of  the  incident  strikes  us  as  somewhat 
ludicrous. 

The  case  is  typical  of  the  failure  of  the  critics  to  under- 
stand Shakespeare's  art-form.  If  he  had  intended  Lady 
Macbeth  to  simulate  unconsciousness,  a  possibility  which 
is,  of  course,  quite  conceivable  considering  her  character, 
we  should  have  had  some  remark,  before  or  after,  to  inform 
the  audience.  As  there  is  no  such  information  there  is 
no  longer  any  doubt  that  the  audience  took  the  incident 
for  a  mere  representation  of  fact,  in  accordance  with  the 
poet's  intention.  The  contrary  conclusion  is  practical]] 
impossible. 

The  passages,  however,  where  subtle  meanings  are  thi 
read  into  Shakespeare  so  as  to  distort  the  character  of  hi! 
art  are  innumerable.  The  occurrence  side  by  side 
primitive  and  advanced  elements  in  his  works  proves  ai 
irresistible  temptation  to  his  interpreters  to  look  for  hiddei 
230 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

meanings  and  connexions.  This  can  be  well  illustrated  by 
means  of  a  comparison  which  has  already  been  used  on  a 
previous  occasion.  Shakespeare^s  work  in  many  respects 
creates  the  impression  of  a  modern  castle,  in  the  construction 
of  which  the  foundations  and  walls  of  an  ancient  fortress 
have  been  used.  Whoever  enters  this  castle  without  the 
necessary  knowledge  of  its  history  cannot  be  convinced 
that  this  or  that  piece  of  the  old  masonry  has  not  z  hidden 
meaning  ;  he  is  continually  suspecting  secret  passages  and 
unforeseen  connexions  in  it.  So  we  find  the  most  primitive 
elements  of  Shakespeare^s  art  again  and  again  interpreted 
from  the  standpoint  of  modern  thought,  a  procedure  appar- 
ently justified  by  the  more  developed  form  of  other  parts 
of  his  work.  Wherever,  as  a  result  of  such  causes,  the 
logical  continuity  of  the  action  has  been  interrupted  an 
interpreter  fixes  upon  the  weak  spot  and  weaves  around  it 
a  network  of  over-subtle  psychological  speculations  without 
paying  heed  to  the  fact  that  in  such  cases  dramatic  elements 
frequently  appear  which  belong  to  an  older  and  more 
primitive  time  than  that  of  Shakespeare,  and  which  need 
not  necessarily  have  been  endowed  by  him  with  a  new 
meaning. 

It  is  clear,  however,  that  not  all  the  difficulties  in  this 
department  are  imaginary.  What  really  makes  the  sub- 
jective method  of  explanation  so  easy  is  the  fact,  mentioned 
at  the  beginning  of  this  section,  that  Shakespeare  assigns 
no  motive  for  action  in  many  instances  where  an  explana- 
tion is  at  least  as  desirable  as,  for  instance,  in  the  case 
mentioned  above,  where  Cordelia  allows  us  to  look  into 
her  heart  by  means  of  an  '  aside.'  Why  does  he  vary  so 
much  in  his  methods,  in  the  one  case  carefully  enlightening 
the  audience,  in  the  other  leaving  them  in  the  dark  ?  We 
shall  have  to  explain  this  contradiction  chiefly  by  assuming 
that  Shakespeare  is  so  completely  wrapped  up  in  his  sub- 
ject that  he  never  becomes  conscious  of  the  possibility  of 
ty  there  being  any  difficulties  for  his  audience.  In  order  to 
■understand  this  state  of  mind  we  must  try  to  realize  his 
Knethod  of  working.  We  then  realize  that  he  works  so 
Imuch  by  instinct  that  he  is,  so  to  speak,  no  longer  able 

I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

to  see  the  action  from  the  outside  and  is  by  no  means  the 
best  interpreter  of  his  own  creations.  He  has  ceased  to 
exist  outside  of  them.  It  is  this  quality,  as  we  all  know, 
which  makes  him  capable  of  his  unique  achievement. 
So  fully  and  intensely  does  he  embody  the  individual  per- 
sonalities that  the  expression  of  every  mental  activity 
corresponds  in  the  minutest  details  to  the  specific  com- 
bination of  qualities  in  the  stage  character  and  the  whole 
personality  is  recognizable  in  the  expression,  just  as  the 
various  strings  of  a  musical  instrument  are  present  in  the 
sound  it  emits  and  as  all  the  constituent  elements  of  the 
incandescent  body  are  contained  in  the  rays  of  light  sent 
out  by  it.  In  this  manner  arise  the  inimitably  delicate 
individual  shades  of  difference. 

Moreover,   his  thought,   soaring  on  the  wings  of  the 
romantic  temperament,  finds  no  difficulty  in  appropriating 
the  most  curious  and  fantastic  ideas,  the  most  exceptional- 
mental  phenomena,  and  assimilating  them  to  a  degree  which; 
is  unattainable  by  one  gifted  with  a  less  powerful  imagina-: 
tion.     He  is  not  only  endowed  with  the  faculty  of  a  man: 
like  Thackeray,  who  is  able  to  live  equally  well  in  the  most] 
diverse  souls  of  men  and  women,  but  has  the  sense  of  thei 
extraordinary   which   accounts  for   his  success  in  makingj 
his  characters  what  they  are.     Lastly,  the  various  direc-j 
tions  of  his  dramatic  activity  are  determined  as  much  b] 
the  unique  rapidity  of   his  thought  processes  as  by  the 
intensity  and  many-sidedness  of  his  creative  power.     A 
convincing   proof  of  his   habit   of  grasping   things   with 
lightning-like    rapidity    is     the    unparalleled    wealth    of 
imagery  which  distinguishes  his  style.     His  mind  is  an 
inexhaustible  source  of  metaphors.     His  thought,  working 
swiftly  as    a   weaver's    shuttle,   is    constantly  establishing 
associations  between  the  most  diverse  ideas,  so  that  our 
slower  minds    frequently   find  it    difficult  to    follow  his. 
This  astonishing  rapidity  of  his  thought  taxes  our  power 
of  attention  to  the  utmost  degree,  and  sometimes  obscures 
his  style  by  what  we  might  call  a  certain  mental  shorthand, 
contrasting    strongly  with  those  long  passages    where  he 
is  clearness  itself.     We  can    therefore  easily  understand 
232 


I 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

that  the  peculiarities  just  described  occasionally  prevent 
him  from  perceiving  that  the  motives  are  not  so  readily 
intelligible  that  we  can  at  once  find  our  way  through 
them.  And  as  his  style  now  and  then  undeniably  skips 
and  omits  a  link  in  the  chain  of  reasoning,  so  his  mind 
occasionally  rushes  on  in  its  flight,  especially  where  it  is 
following  an  action  taken  over  ready-made  from  the 
original  source  without  itself  becoming  conscious  of,  or 
rendering  intelligible  to  us,  the  psychological  foundations 
of  the  action  which  it  has  unconsciously  assimilated  and 
which  it  presupposes  as  given.  An  'aside*  would  in  many 
cases  of  this  kind  be  very  serviceable. 

There  are  cases,  however,  in  which  we  may  be  inclined 
to  think  that  Shakespeare's  method  of  work  has  been  less 
inspired  and  intensive  than  that  just  described;  for  example, 
in  the  dramatization  of  certain  incidents  of  the  Antony 
and  Cleopatra  story.  There  the  downfall  of  the  hero  is 
brought  about  by  Cleopatra's  flight  from  the  naval  battle 
of  Actium  ;  this  scene  is  therefore  in  a  certain  sense  the 
culminating  point  of  the  drama.  At  all  events  it  is  the 
turning-point  of  the  destinies  of  all  the  persons  concerned 
in  the  action.  For  this  very  reason  a  modern  poet  would 
have  devoted  all  his  eflbrts  to  the  elucidation  of  this  event. 
Shakespeare  himself  in  other  historical  pieces,  as,  for 
instance,  in  Julius  C^sar^  is  careful  to  assign  motives  to 
actions  attended  by  such  important  consequences.  Here, 
however,  we  look  in  vain  for  a  word  of  explanation.  Shake- 
speare follows  Plutarch  in  his  description,  and  Plutarch  is 
as  good  as  silent  on  this  point.  He  says  scarcely  a  word 
about  the  causes  of  Cleopatra's  treacherous  behaviour, 
and  the  only  noteworthy  attempt  at  giving  something  like 
a  reason  for  her  action  is  found  in  the  fragment  of  a 
sentence,  occurring  in  the  account  of  Antony's  following 
Cleopatra,  which  says  that  she  "  had  already  begun  to 
overthrow  him."  In  Shakespeare's  play  we  are  sur- 
prised to  see  no  signs  of  the  dramatist's  having  exerted 
his  mental  powers  in  any  way  in  order  to  find  out  a 
deeper  reason    for   the  incident.     It  is   simply  accepted 

ra  fact.     Afterward,   when   Cleopatra  is  reconciled  to 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

Antony,  the  deed  itself  is  passed  over  with  a  single  short 

reference  : 

Forgive  my  fearful  sails  !     I  little  thought 
You  would  have  follow'd.  .^ . 

Ill,  la,  54 

Many  critics  have  given  a  more  or  less  carefully  reasoned 
explanation  of  Cleopatra*s  behaviour.  Wetz,  for  example 
(p.  470  seq.)^  elaborately  discusses  the  impelling  forces 
in  her  mind  during  this  flight.  He  finds  them  in  a  not 
very  plausible  mixture  of  caprice,  frivolous n ess,  calculation, 
sudden  loss  of  courage  in  consequence  of  feminine  weak- 
ness, and  inborn  cowardice.  But  one  is  quite  justified  in 
doubting  whether  Shakespeare  ever  really  thought  of  these 
motives,  which  may  or  may  not  have  been  correctly  deduced 
from  the  complex  whole  of  the  character.  It  is  much  more 
probable  that  we  shall  have  to  take  a  far  simpler  view  of  the 
facts  and  attribute  them  to  his  infinitely  varied  manner 
of  working,  which  makes  him  in  one  case  identify  him- 
self most  vividly  with  his  characters  in  the  way  described 
above,  so  that  he  may  be  said  to  participate  in  the  faintest 
vibrations  of  their  souls,  and  in  another  impels  him  to 
dramatize  their  actions  almost  like  a  composer  who 
occasionally  passes  negligently  over  a  passage  of  the  text 
that  he  is  setting,  content  with  only  half  understanding  it. 
Certain  very  noticeable  weaknesses  of  a  number  of  passages 
even  in  his  greatest  works  can  hardly  be  explained  in  any 
other  way.  Whoever  wishes  to  see  what  a  mass  of  un- 
critical and  undigested  stuff,  what  internal  contradictions 
and  conflicts,  may  be  found  in  a  dramatization  by  Shake- 
speare of  an  historical  theme  should  take  up  Henry  VIII^ 
with  all  its  hopeless  and  irreconcilable  discrepancies.  In 
this  play  the  trait  we  are  speaking  of  undeniably  appears 
in  its  crudest  form.  The  want  of  clearness  in  such  cases 
as  these  is  not  due  to  the  poet's  living  too  intensely  in  his 
subject  and  his  figures,  but  rather  to  the  contrary  reason. 
Yet,  in  spite  of  such  discrepancies,  so  much  has  been  made 
clear :  the  poet  never  has  the  consciousness  or  the  intention  of 
leaving  anything  obscure.  The  mistake  is  committed  by 
many  even  of  the  latest  English  editors  (of  the  *'  Arden  '* 
234 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

lition,  etc.)  of  assuming  that  he  purposely  leaves  many 
things  unexplained.  In  spite  of  all  appearances  to  the  contrary^ 
his  art  remains  the  art  of  clear  and  precise  statements.  The 
more  important  currents  of  thought  as  a  rule  are  not  intentionally 
suppressed^  and  should  therefore  not  he  supplied  by  the  inter- 
preter;  the  necessary  additions  must  he  left  to  the  audience. 
As  regards  this  last  point,  he  shows  clearly  enough  in  the 
numerous  primitive  traits  of  his  art  with  which  we  have 
become  acquainted  how  consistently  he  tries  to  adapt 
his  drama  to  the  understanding  of  his  audience.  The  less 
complicated  and  the  more  natural^  therefore^  the  solution  of  the 
difficulties  we  attempt^  the  more  we  endeavour  to  make  the 
given  ideas  suffice  for  the  explanation^  the  fewer  the  unex- 
pressed ideas  we  introduce^  the  greater  is  the  prohahility  that 
we  shall  hit  upon  the  correct  meaning — that  is  to  say^  the  mean- 
ing intended  by  Shakespeare  himself.  We  are  justified^  as  a 
ruky  in  adding  a  motive  only  when  no  sense  results  without  it. 
And  whether  a  sense  results  must  he  ascertained  from  the  point 
of  view  not  of  our  time^  hut  of  the  Elizabethan  age  and  in 
connexion  with  the  whole  of  Shakespeare^ s  dramatic  activity. 
Here  the  necessity  of  literary  research  comes  in.  Little  good 
can  result  from  even  the  most  sagacious  verdict  of  the  mere 
amateur.  In  many  cases  the  solution  is  most  easily  found 
in  the  materials  which  he  used,  and  consequently  a  good 
knowledge  of  his  original  sources  is  quite  indispensable 
for  the  correct  understanding  of  his  train  of  thought. 
There  are  several  passages  in  Hamlet  which  are  good 
examples  of  what  we  have  just  said ;  e,g,^  the  best  explana- 
tion of  Hamlet's  strange  resolve  to  assume  the  mask  of 
madness  is  to  be  found  in  the  account  given  in  Fratricide 
Punished  {cf,  p.  148,  p.  169  seq,\  and  his  curious  behaviour 
in  Ophelia's  room,  where  he  appears 

with  his  doublet  all  unbraced. 
No  hat  upon  his  head  :  his  stockings  fouPd, 
Ungarter'd,  and  down-gyved  to  his  ankle 
Pale  as  his  shirt, 

and  tests  Ophelia  by  means  of  pantomime,  will  be  most 
appropriately    interpreted    by    those    critics    who    simply 

235 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

hold  the  view  that  it  serves  to  give  the  audience  the  first 
intimation  of  Hamlet*s  simulated  madness,  of  which  he  has 
spoken  just  after  the  appearance  of  the  ghost.  Hamlet 
has  left  us  in  the  preceding  scene  after  stating  his  firm 
resolution  to  put  on  "  an  antic  disposition.*'  When  we 
now  learn  of  such  behaviour  on  his  part  our  first  and  most 
natural  idea  is  to  explain  it  by  what  Hamlet  has  already 
told  us,  and  a  spectator  of  Shakespeare's  time  would  hardly 
have  taken  any  other  view. 


236 


VI 

THE  QUESTION  OF  SYMBOLICAL 
CHARACTERS 

THE    Characters    in   ^*  The    Tempest.'* — Shake- 
speare's characters,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end 
of  his  creative  activity,  are  so  manifestly  realistic  that 
no  one  has  seriously  attempted  to  look  behind  them  for 
a  hidden  and  more  general  meaning,  though  a  tendency 
in  this  direction  is  discernible  in  some  critics.     WolfF,  for 
instance  (ii,  p.  231  seq.\  believes  that  all  sorts  of  mysterious 
allegories  are  to  be  detected  in  King  Lear,     The  scene 
where  the  blind  Gloster  wanders  about  guided  by  his  son 
Edgar,  who  has  escaped  his  pursuers  by  pretending  to  be 
mad,  represents,  according  to  WolfF,  a  piece  of  profound 
parabolic  wisdom  which  could  not  have  been  embodied 
in  a  better  form  by  any  Indian  thinker.     Unfortunately, 
however,  he  withholds  from  us  what  truth,  in  his  opinion, 
is  to  be  expressed  by  the  image  of  the  "  blind  man  being  led 
on  by  the  madman,"  which  image,  moreover,  rests  on  a 
totally  false  assumption,  because  Edgar  is  not  mad  at  all 
and  does  not  even  pretend  to  be  so  while  guiding  his  father. 
The  violent  distortion  of  the  facts  in  order  to  fit  the  theory 
which  is  required  in  this  case  seems  to  be  unnecessary  in 
T/ie  Tempesty  where  apparently  a  symbolical  interpretation 
is  possible. 

Shakespeare's  Tempest  in  many  respects  holds  a  dis- 
tinctive place  among  hi^  works.  This  importance  is  not 
diminished  by  the  fact  that  the  drama  must  be  placed  by 
the  side  of  the  Midsummer  Night's  Bream  as  what  we  may 
call  a  wedding  play,  owing  its  origin  to  a  celebration  of 
nuptials  or  a  betrothal  at  the  house  of  some  great  magnate. 

237 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

This  purpose  is  clearly  indicated  by  the  hymeneal  masque 
of  the  fourth  act. 

For  a  play  of  this  sort  a  love  affair  which  finds  its  crown- 
ing point  in  a  wedding  is  indispensable.  But  something 
else  has  to  be  added.  Already  in  the  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream  he  had  accentuated  the  especially  festive  chf.racier 
of  the  play  by  introducing  the  supernatural  in  its  most 
attractive  form.  The  occasion  which  by  its  very  nature 
banishes  all  tragic  thoughts  and  suggests  the  idea  that 
friendly  spirits  might  attend  to  fulfil  all  good  wishes  had 
induced  him  to  tie  the  knot  of  his  intrigue  but  lightly,  and 
involved  the  assistance  of  the  fairies  for  its  disentangling. 
Something  of  the  same  kind,  he  thought,  would  be  the 
fittest  subject  for  this  occasion  also  :  love  in  distress, 
trials  of  faith,  and  apparitions.  The  action,  however,  as 
in  nearly  all  other  cases,  he  did  not  invent  himself.  It  is 
difficult  to  decide  whether  he  used  a  tale  or  an  old  play  as 
his  material.  The  shortness  of  the  action  might  be  adduced 
as  an  argument  in  favour  of  the  tale  ;  yet  his  preference 
for  the  ready-made  dramatic  form  renders  it  more  probable 
that  he  utilized  an  older  dramatic  work. 

The  nucleus  of  the  action  is  as  follows  :  A  prince  who 
is  an  adept  in  magic  is  expelled  from  his  possessions,  and 
com.es  to  an  island  where  he  is  enabled  through  the  assist- 
ance of  a  kindly  spirit,  made  subject  to  him  by  his  magic 
art,  to  continue  his  life-work  of  educating  his  daughter. 
One  day  he  forces  his  enemies,  who  are  by  chance  brought 
near  his  island,  to  land  on  its  shore,  causinpr  their  ship  to 
be  wrecked  by  a  tempest.  He  contrives  ihe  meeting  of 
his  daughter  and  the  King's  son,  kindles  mutual  love  in ' 
their  hearts,  and  after  a  short  trial  of  the  suitor  joins  their 
hands.  The  others  for  a  while  wander  aimlessly  about 
the  island,  plagued  and  vexed  by  all  kinds  of  apparitions 
and  exhausted  by  want  ;  in  the  end,  ^lovv'ever,  they  learn 
in  whose  kingdom  they  are,  receive  the  injured  p-irxe's 
pardon,  and  return  to  their  home  with  him  v/lio  has  given 
up  his  magic  power. 

This  fable  is  b^sed  on  a  novel  which  is  found  again  in 
a  different  form  in  the  contemporary  Spanish  literature, 
238 


i 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

and  of  which  a  dramatic  version,  greatly  modified,  was  made 
by  Ayrer,  the  Nuremberg  poet.  The  constituent  elements 
of  this  play  are  frequently  met  with,  and  occupy  a  con- 
siderable space  in  the  older  romantic  drama,  especially 
the  plays  of  chivalry,  of  which  unfortunately  we  possess 
but  scanty  remains  {cf,  p.  20),  and  which  probably  in  all 
cases  relied  strongly  on  magic.  A  royal  magician,  his 
beautiful  daughter,  a  prince  who  woos  her  and  must 
undergo  every  conceivable  kind  of  trial  in  order  to  attain 
his  end,  a  familiar  spirit,  people  who  by  magic  are  bereft 
of  their  senses,  enchanted  valleys  and  forests,  songs  that 
induce  sleep,  food  that  is  suddenly  spirited  away — all  this 
was  found  by  Shakespeare  already  on  the  stage,  perhaps 
even  in  the  play  he  used,  as  it  had  long  ago  been  transferred 
from  the  romance  of  chivalry  to  the  theatre.  And  as 
we  also  find  discovered  in  the  romance  ^  a  deviPs  island, 
a  wicked  woman  who  has  given  birth  to  a  monster  who 
reigns  over  it,  to  say  nothing  of  ships  moved  and  tempests 
called  up  by  magic  force,  it  is  not  impossible  that  a  very 
slight  foreshadowing  of  the  figure  of  Caliban  too  existed 
in  the  poet's  model. 

Shakespeare  worked  up  the  whole  in  his'  usual  manner. 
Though  he  interwove  it  closely  with  the  recent  fabulous 
happenings  in  the  Sea  Venture^  yet  he  did  it  in  such  a  way 
that  the  diversity  of  origin  of  the  material  can  easily  be 
ascertained.  The  differences  are  most  clearly  discernible 
in  the  geographical  situation  of  the  play.  The  events  of 
the  main  action  are  obviously  located  in  the  Mediter- 
ranean. The  Spanish  novel  also  expressly  mentions  the 
Adriatic  as  the  scene.  Prospero,  the  exiled  duke,  who  in 
a  leaking  boat  reaches  the  lonely  island,  comes  from  Milan; 
Sycorax,  the  witch,  Caliban's  mother,  is  brought  over  from 
Algiers,  and  the  magician's  enemies  pass  his  island  on  their 
way  from  Tunis  to  Naples.  This  situation  is  hinted  at  in 
the  play  by  the  reference  to  its  being  the  ancient  Carthage. 
In  spite  of  all  this,  the  spectator  is  led  to  imagine  that  he 
finds  himself  on  an  island  of  the  New  World,  and  when  Ariel 

1  Cf.  de  Perott,  Romanic  Rev.,  V|   Shakespeare  Jahrbuch,  xlii,  p.  308,  and 
xlviii,  p.  231, 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

is  sent  out  to  fetch  dew  from  '*  the  still  vex'd  Bermoothes  " 
these  must  be  supposed  to  be  somewhere  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. Other  things  beside  these  point  to  a  fusion 
of  different  materials.  Ariel,  for  instance,  was  obviously 
conceived  in  the  first  place  as  merely  a  spirit  who  reluctantly 
renders  all  kinds  of  services,  who  has  the  power  of  appear- 
ing as  a  beautiful  woman,  and  so  on,  but  must  be  held 
well  in  check  and  treated  with  severity.  In  Shakespeare's 
hands,  however,  he  is  gradually  transformed  into  a  roguish 
fairy  {cf,  p.  134).  As  contrasted  with  him  the  figure  of 
Caliban,  though  not  entirely  free  from  contradictions,  is 
more  of  a  piece.  That  he  was  a  later  conception  is  also 
shown  by  the  fact  that  there  is  hardly  a  trace  of  any  close 
personal  relation  between  him  and  Ariel. 

Caliban  evidently  belongs  to  the  part  of  the  action  for 
which  Shakespeare  is  more  personally  responsible.  In  it 
we  may  also  include  the  subsidiary  action  in  the  group  of 
the  shipwrecked  persons.  These  are  the  King  of  Naples, 
Sebastian,  his  brother,  Gonzalo,  his  councillor,  the  usurper 
of  Milan,  and  two  courtiers.  While  wandering  about 
the  island  they  are  sent  to  sleep  by  Ariel.  Only  the 
usurper  and  the  King's  brother  remain  awake  ;  the  former 
tempts  Sebastian  to  murder  the  King  and  Gonzalo  with 
his  assistance,  and  only  the  timely  awakening  of  the 
threatened  people  by  Ariel  frustrates  the  perfidious  design. 

One  cannot  say  that  the  introduction  of  this  subsidiary 
action  is  a  happy  one  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  whole 
dramatic  development.  Though  the  story  has  been 
praised  as  particularly  "  transparent  and  well-arranged  " 
(Kreyssig,  in  accordance  with  Drake),  we  are  unable  to 
see  what  plan  is  followed  by  the  subsidiary  action  which 
Ariel  introduces,  as  it  afterward  stops  dead  and  has  no 
influence  on  the  final  issue  of  the  main  action.  Moreover, 
it  is  carelessly  treated  in  itself,  inasmuch  as  the  expiation 
and  repentance  of  the  sinners  in  the  end  is  dealt  with  in 
the  usual  light  manner  of  the  flimsily  constructed  comedy- 
endings  (see  p.  199).  We  have  only  the  testimony  of  the 
generous  Prospero  (and  maybe  of  their  own  gestures)  to 
show  that  they  are  actuated  by  inward  contrition,  for  from 
240 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

their  own  lips  we  have  no  word  indicative  of  such  a  feeling. 
On  the  contrary,  the  moment  they  have  recovered  their 
power  of  speech  they  begin  again  their  old  jibes  and 
witticisms. 

We  see  therefore  that  in  this  subsidiary  action  Shake- 
speare's genius  does  not  appear  at  a  very  high  level,  all  the 
less  because  the  motive  here  is  essentially  the  same  as  that 
of  the  wonderful  low-comedy  action  of  Trinculo,  Stephano, 
and  Caliban,  who  also  want  to  assassinate  a  sleeping  person. 
This  doubling  of  motives  is  generally  regarded  by  critics 
as  due  to  a  significant  intention,  and  none  of  them  dares 
to  find,  e.g,^  in  the  family  conflict  in  the  house  of  Gloster, 
by  which  Shakespeare  has  supplemented  the  story  of  Lear, 
anything  but  a  parallel  to  the  main  action,  chosen  with 
a  deep  and  subtle  artistic  purpose.  This  critical  pro- 
cedure, however,  is  open  to  the  objection  that  it  fails  to 
understand  correctly  the  peculiar  character  of  Shakespeare's 
creative  activity.  It  is  certainly  no  mere  accident  that 
Shakespeare  hardly  ever  freely  invents  an  action,  but  with 
very  few  exceptions — as,  for  instance,  in  Love*s  Labour^ s 
Lost — constructs  his  edifice  in  accordance  with  some 
already  existing  ground-plan.  It  is  obvious  that  his 
imagination  is  not  of  the  kind  that  delights  in  the  de- 
velopment and  complication  of  connected  motives.  This 
deficiency  is  part  of  his  artistic  individuality,  as  we  have 
already  seen  elsewhere  {cf,  p.  231  seq^^  and  it  is  a 
necessary  aspect  of  the  emotional  trend  of  his  creative 
activity  which  makes  him  inclined  at  all  times  impulsively 
to  do  his  best  and  to  begin  building  at  once  in  marble 
and  placing  one  stone  upon  the  other  rather  than  spend  a 
lot  of  time  over  the  dry  calculations  of  a  ground-plan  and 
the  erection  of  a  scaffolding.  Therefore  he  is  apt  to  hold 
dn  to  a  motive  which  he  has  once  found,  and  generally 
manages — at  least  in  King  Lear^  though  hardly  in  the  very 
monotonous  Loves  Labour's  Lost — to  make  a  virtue  of 
necessity. 

A  similar  relaxing  of  the  inventive  power,  as  shown  by 
the  scarcity  of  the  motives  and  the  occasional  slowing 
lown  of  the  action  to  a  dead  stop  (II,  i),  is  perceptible  in 

Q  241 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

the  unequal  contributions  made  by  the  various  persons 
to  the  action.  This  is  the  direct  contrary  of  what  we 
admire,  for  example,  in  Othello^  where  every  character  is 
placed  at  the  point  where  it  becomes  necessary  for  the 
continued  flow  of  events.  Take,  for  instance,  the  courtiers 
Adrian  and  Francisco  ;  they  speak  only  just  enough  to 
prevent  a  clever  expositor  from  supposing  that  they  have 
lost  their  speech  in  consequence  of  the  excitements  of 
the  shipwreck  ;  for  the  rest,  they  are  nothing  more  than 
'supers.' 

But  though  in  these  points  Shakespeare's  dramatic  art, 
in  the  proper  sense  of  the  word,  is  not  conspicuously 
exhibited  in  this  play,  and  though  the  same  may  be  said 
of  the  exposition,  which  here  is  quite  uncommonly  awkward 
for  Shakespeare,  yet  in  other  more  important  features  of 
the  piece  we  find  some  of  the  most  brilliant  achievements 
of  his  art.  Some  of  them  do  not  concern  us  here — for 
example,  the  magic  atmosphere  of  the  play,  or  things  like 
the  unique  songs  of  Ariel,  with  their  mixture  of  roguish 
grace  and  deep,  tender  feeling  for  nature.  It  is  otherwise 
with  the  characters  themselves  and  their  relations  to  one 
another. 

Duke  Prospero  we  get  to  know  from  his  own  account 
of  his  previous  history  and  from  his  intercourse  princi- 
pally with  his  daughter  and  Ariel.  Only  slight  evidence 
is  yielded  by  self-characterizationyand  reflection  of  the 
character  in  the  minds  of  others,  i^  Shakespeare  evidently 
found  in  his  original  source  a  wise,  serene  old  man — this 
is  also  the  way  m  which  the  Spanish  tale  delineates  its 
hero.  Hence  Shakespeare  makes  a  figure  of  him  which 
we  can  hardly  describe,  with  Max  Koch,  as  his  "  ideal 
of  ripe  manhood,"  because  it  obviously  stands  already  on 
the  threshold  of  old  age.  ("  My  old  brain  is  troubled,'* 
IV,  i,  159.  "  My  Milan,  where  every  third  thought 
shall  be  my  grave,"  V,  i,  3 1 1 .)  A  truly  royal  and  dignified 
personage  is  presented  to  us,  whose  previous  experiences, 
as  related  by  him,  in  conjuncrion  with  the  impression^ 
which  we  now  receive  of  himj,iiave  caused  the  interpreters 
to  assume  some  strong  inner  development,  which,  however, 
242 


1  IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

lis  not  hinted  at  by  a  single  word.^  The  Prospero  of  the 

I  previous  history  had  buried  himself  in  his  magic  books, 

I  and  thereby  failed  to  observe  how  his  brother  was  under- 

I  mining  his  throne.  i^Me  had  been  driven  from  his  home 

'  and  had  allowed  himself  to  be  thrown  into  a  small  boat, 

abandoned   to  the  sea,  weeping,  and  kept  alive  only  by 

j  the  thought  of  his  little  child,  ^-^he  Prospero  whom  we 

■  meet   now  makes   the   most  practical  use  imaginable  of 

I  his  magic  art,  exacts  prompt  service  from  his  attendants, 

does  not  hesitate  to  punish  them,  is  resolved  and  firm^.and 

knows  how  to  seize  the  proper  moment  for  action.  -  'He  is 

a  most  careful  father  to  his  daughter,  a  considerate  master 

to  Ariel,  severe  against  the  brutal  Caliban,  humane  toward 

the  repentant  enemies,  full  of  experience  and  wisdom.. 

Yet  in  spite  of  all  these  fine  qualities  there  is  a  lack 
in  this  figure  of  something  which  distinguishes  all  other 
Shakespearean  heroes.  i-He  is  destitute  of  the  infinite 
wealth  of  human  traits,  the  interplay  of  qualities  which 
gives  such  a  magic  life  to  the  poet's  other  great  figures, 
which  makes  every  statement  of  theirs  glitter  in  a  thousand 
different  colours.  Prospero,  on  the  other .  hand,  has  a 
certain  dryness  ;  he  does  not  impress  the  critical  oFsefvef 
with  quite  th"e"greathesTjGe^i^Lhe_5u 
VHis  mysterious  art  is  not  allied  .with  corresponding 
mysterious  depths  of  his  nature.  VOn  the  contrary,  he 
unintentionally  appears  in  the  light  of  a  schoolmaster^ 
constantly  giving  Ariel  *good  marks,'  and,  with  an  under- 
tone of  self-satisfaction,  speaking  perpetually  in  a  most 
consequential  manner  of  his, own  capabilities  and  his  own 
knowledge  (IV,  i,  123).  T^he  same  trait  is  shown  when 
his  judicial  severity  against  Trinculo,  Stephano,  and 
Caliban  betrays  a  considerable  admixture  of  personal 
spite,  and  when  in  his  admonitions  addressed  to  his  daughter 
he  lets  himself  be  induced  by  pedagogic  reasons  to  be 
somewhat  unscrupulous  in  regard  to  truth,  telling  her  that 
Ferdinand  is  only  a  Caliban  compared  with  other  men. 
TKe  schoolmaster  also  appears  when  he  addresses  warn- 
ings to  Ferdinand  concerning  Miranda's  chastity  which 
are  obviously  quite  unnecessary,  and  above  all  when  his 
"  243 


I 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

treatment  of  Caliban,  owing  to  the  forced  solemnity  of  his 
behaviour,  manifests  a  curiously  un-Shakespearean  lack  of 
humour  which,  in  view  of  the  superior  power  at  his  dis- 
posal, reminds  us  of  a  teacher  who  is  put  in  a  temper  by 
the  recalcitrance  of  a  degraded  and  disrespectful  schoolboy. 
For  this  reason  we  may  consider  the  attempts  he  makes 
to  educate  Caliban — which,  of  course,  end  in  failure — 
and  the  instructions  he  gives  to  his  daughter  Miranda  as 
harmonizing  perfectly  with  his  real  nature.  It  is  signifi- 
cant that  no  doubt  can  be  entertained  as  to  the  more  or 
less  unintentional  introduction  of  these  traits  into  his 
character.  Still,  the  fact  that  they  were  introduced  makes 
us  disinclined  to  believe  that  Shakespeare  was  in  full 
command  of  his  artistic  powers  when  he  created  the  work. 
In  our  days  the  skill  of  the  actor  frequently  helps  us  to 
get  over  these  difficulties.  When,  for  example,  Wullner's 
Prospero  is  praised  {Berliner  Tagehlatt^  191 8,  No.  469) 
for  revealing  "  mental  superiority,  faint  humour,  and 
demoniac  tem-perament^^  we  must  indeed  admit  that  these 
traits  have  been  evolved  from  the  general  conception  of 
the  character,  but  that  they  have  not  found  their  proper 
expression  in  the  poet's  presentment  of  it. 

Miranda  too  holds  a  distinctive  place  among  Shake- 
speare's female  characters.  Though  she  is  made  to  occupy 
the  central  position  of  the  action,  and  attracts  a  great 
part  of  the  interest  to  herself,  her  portrait  shows  fewer 
characteristic  traits  than  that  of  any  other  Shakespearean 
heroine.  Stress  is  laid  principally  upon  her  compassionate 
and  gentle  feeling,  which  goes  out  at  the  very  beginning 
^  to  the  victims  of  the  shipwreck,  and  which  again  appears 
when  her  father  tells  her  of  his  banishment  from  Milan. 
A  warm  feeling  of  gratitude  for  Gonzalo's  goodness 
which  impulsively  arises  in  her  upon  her  father's  mentioning 
his  generous  assistance  reveals  the  nobility  of  her  instincts. 
For  the  rest,  however,  she  is  all  naivety  and,  according  to 
the  poet's  intention,  a  complete  child  of  nature.  The  first 
man  whom  she  meets  she  takes  for  a  spirit ;  she  immediately 
loses  her  heart  to  him,  and  feels  more  than  pity  for  him, 
and  for  this  reason  she  does  not  hesitate  even  to  be  disloyal 
244 


^ 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

for  a  moment  to  her  father  in  order  to  help  him.  She 
weeps  with  joy  at  finding  her  affection  reciprocated  in 
equal  strength,  proffers  herself  in  perfect  innocence  as  his 
wife,  and  is  henceforth  filled  with  loving  devotion  to  him 
to  the  exclusion  of  every  other  feeling.  If  the  poet  had 
wished  to  paint  a  Yarico,  an  indigenous  child  of  nature  of 
the  New  World,  he  could  not  have  chosen  any  other  traits, 
nor  could  he  have  managed  with  fewer.  It  is  easy  to  see 
that  the  poet's  endeavour  is  to  avoid  disturbing  in  any 
way  the  impression  that  her  heart  is  an  absolutely  clean 
sheet.  In  the  primitive  manner  of  Shakespeare's  technique 
{cf,  p.  38  seq,)  his  heroine  again  and  again,  in  referring 
to  her  own  nature,  reveals  a  consciousness  of  the  idea  of 
innocence  which,  if  taken  strictly,  would  belie  her  assumed 
ignorance  of  evil.  She  speaks,  for  instance,  of  her  modesty 
as  "  the  jewel  in  my  dower  "  (III,  i,  ^2\  ^^^  prefaces  her 
wooing  by  a  personal  touch  which  in  reality  would  be 
possible  only  in  the  mouth  of  another  person :  **  Prompt 
me,  plain  and  holy  innocence." 

So  the  modern  reader,  at  any  rate,  is  inclined  to  dis- 
cover something  false  in  the  picture,  since  naivety  which 
recognizes  itself  for  what  it  is  appears  to  us  artificial  and 
simulated.  But  what  we  find  here  is  merely  that  over- 
stepping of  the  limits  of  realism  in  self-characterization 
with  which  we  have  become  familiar  in  other  passages. 
It  is  true  we  have  also  to  inquire  how  far  Miranda's  state- 
ments concerning  other  things  than  herself  agree  with 
each  other.  Here  too  there  is  much  that  does  not  quite 
coincide  with  the  idea  of  a  child  of  nature  who  has  grown 
up  like  a  lily  in  the  field.  If  we  did  not  know  that 
not  every  statement  in  Shakespeare  need  agree  with  the 
character  of  the  speaker  {cf,  p.  96  seq,)  we  should  be 
Isomewhat  astonished  to  find  Miranda,  after  hearing  her 
jfather  relate  the  villainies  of  his  brother,  giving  him  the 
\  comforting  assurance: 

I  should  sin 
To  think  but  nobly  of  my  grandmother : 
Good  wombs  have  borne  bad  sons. 

I,  ii,  117 

245 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

Nor  does  a  statement  like 

This 
Is  the  third  man  that  e'er  I  saw  ;  the  first 
That  e'er  I  sigh'd  for,  I,  ii,  445 

really  correspond  to  the  lack  of  experience  which  it  is 
meant  to  reveal.  Still,  her  picture  would  appear  in  a 
false  light  if  these  traits  were  given  too  much  prominence, 
and  all  the  expositors  have  willingly  included  in  their 
verdict  Prosperous  judgment  of  her  expressed  in  the  words : 

Thou  shalt  find  she  will  outstrip  all  praise 
And  make  it  halt  behind  her.  IV,  i,  1 1 

The  only  fault  they  have  committed  is  that  they  have 
laid  too  little  stress  on  the  remarkably  sketchy  character 
of  the  drawing.  So  Miranda  has  been  grouped  with  the 
other  women  of  the  *  romances,*  especially  with  Perdita 
of  The  Winter's  Tale.  But  it  is  precisely  this  comparison 
which  shows  the  completely  isolated  position  of  Miranda. 
Perdita  also  is  a  child  of  nature,  a  king's  daughter  who 
has  grown  up  among  simple  shepherd  folk.  But  she  keeps 
within  the  limits  of  realism,  and  is,  moreover,  endowed 
with  the  whole  wealth  of  personal  touches  which  go  to 
make  up  a  Shakespearean  character.  She  is  modest, 
unassuming,  not  submissive,  however,  but  independent, 
full  of  natural  dignity,  frank,  gay,  adroit,  sparkling  with 
youthful  vivacity,  intelligent,  with  all  sorts  of  carefully 
cultivated  little  interests,  possessed  of  that  instinctive  know- 
ledge of  the  world  which  is  so  truly  feminine,  profoundly 
sincere,  full  of  genuine  feeling  and  tender  reverence, 
confident  and  brave.  What  an  intense  and  exuberant 
vitality  !  Compared  with  her,  Miranda  appears  like  a 
silhouette  held  beside  a  fully  coloured  oil-painting.  How 
very  few  qualities  can  be  predicated  of  her  ! 

Still  less  of  colour  and  life  is  there  in  Ferdinand's  portrait. 
He  may  be  said  to  be  almost  entirely  lacking  in  personal 
traits.  He  is  the  model  of  the  noble  cavalier.  It  is 
characteristic  of  him  that  the  first  expression  that  crosses 
his  lips  upon  espying  the  mistress  of  the  island  is  a  request 
246 


I 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 


to  be  told  how  he  has  to  behave  in  this  place.  His  mind 
is  bent  upon  proper  behaviour.  Honour,  piety,  and  the 
service  of  his  mistress  fill  his  chivalrous  heart.  For  the 
first  of  these  objects,  if  necessity  requires,  he  is  prepared 
to  draw  his  sword,  the  second  makes  him  engage  in  frequent 
and  devout  prayers,  but  it  is  the  third  which  wholly  occupies 
him.  Love  to  him  is  a  heavenly  dream,  sublime  ecstasy. 
He  would  willingly  suffer  himself  to  be  imprisoned  if  he 
were  allowed  from  his  dungeon  to  see  the  beloved  maiden 
only  once  every  day.  His  mistress  herself  he  worships 
like  a  goddess.  For  her  sake  he  submits  to  what  is  calcu- 
lated to  lower  his  dignity  most  :  manual  labour.  It 
would  appear  to  him  as  a  disgrace,  to  which  he  would 
prefer  death,  to  allow  her  to  share  in  his  work.  She 
is   his  mistress  to   whom   he  bends  his  knee  as  her  vassal 

(III,  ii,  87). 

No  passage  of  the  play  shows  as  clearly  as  this  how  far 
in  The  Tempest  Shakespeare  is  removed  from  his  usual 
manner.  Though  his  idea  of  the  relation  of  the  sexes 
may  not  always  find  expression  in  the  same  way,  owing  to 
the  great  variety  of  the  dramatic  situations,  yet  this  abso- 
lute reversal  of  the  representation  given  at  the  end  of 
The  Taming  of  the  Shrew^ 

Place  your  hands  below  your  husband's  foot, 

bears  an  entirely  different  stamp  from  the  rest  of  his  work. 
Here,  indeed,  we  are  transported  into  a  truly  '  romantic ' 
world,  into  the  atmosphere  of  the  romance  of  chivalry,  in 
which  the  lovers  at  first  sight  invariably  appear  to  each 
other  as  gods.     So  Miranda  says; 

I  might  call  him 
A  thing  divine  ;  for  nothing  natural 
I  ever  saw  so  noble. 

And  Ferdinand  replies  : 

Most  sure,  the  goddess 
On  whom  these  airs  attend  ! 

And,  quite  after  the  pattern  of  the  romance  of  chivalry, 

247 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

this  love  is  continued  as  a  sublime  ecstasy  which  urges 
both  of  them  to  do  great  deeds  each  for  the  other's  sake, 
and  by  undergoing  trials  to  give  proof  of  their  being 
worthy  of  each  other.  It  is  not  thus  that  the  mutual  affec- 
tion in  the  hearts  of  Desdemona  and  the  noble  Moor  grows 
up.  For  this  kind  of  love  romance  they  are  too  realistic 
and  close  to  the  actual  affairs  of  life.  Not  even  Romeo 
speaks  thus  to  Juliet. 

It  is  possible  that  Shakespeare,  true  to  his  peculiar 
manner,  has  here  only  elaborated  what  he  had  found  in 
his  original  source,  a  play  deriving  immediately  from  a 
romance  of  chivalry.  But  this  would  hardly  explain,  any 
better  than  the  assumption  that  he  worked  upon  a  novel, 
the  fact  that  his  characterization  here  falls  so  visibly  short 
of  his  usual  skill.  In  so  far  the  allegorical  interpreters 
are  justified  in  seeking  a  special  reason.  Thorndike,  in 
his  excellent  monograph  on  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's 
influence  upon  Shakespeare,^  thinks  he  can  find  such  a 
reason  in  the  effect  these  two  dramatists  have  had  on  his 
work  in  the  last  period  of  the  *  romances,'  and  he  has 
certainly  succeeded  in  proving  that  Shakespeare  here  shows, 
in  common  with  his  two  rivals,  many  features  which  are 
not  found  in  any  earlier  play.  The  masque-like  elements 
of  The  Tempest  especially,  the  introduction  of  which  is 
quite  naturally  and  unconstrainedly  effected  by  Prosperous 
art,  the  dance  round  the  ghostly  banquet  and  its  dis- 
appearance, the  dances  of  reapers  and  nymphs,  the  spirits 
appearing  as  hounds  and  other  things,  are  items  of  stage 
property  and  scenery  which  were  in  great  favour  with  the 
theatrical  management  of  the  time,  the  skilful  employ- 
ment of  which  contributed  largely  to  scenic  success. 
Thorndike's  statements,  however,  about  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher  purposely  neglecting  their  character-drawing  and 
allowing  their  figures  to  degenerate  into  types  and  Shake- 
speare's repetition  of  this  fault  cannot  be  regarded  as  fully 
convincing  and  applicable.  That  the  figures  in  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher's  books  are  not  so  well  executed  as  in 
Shakespeare's  is  due  to  their  inferior  skill.     On  the  other 

1  Worcester,  Massachusetts,  1901,  pp.  140,  163  seq. 
248 


■  IN   SHAKESPEARE^S   PLAYS 

hand,  we  have  already  seen  that  Shakespeare  characterizes,  for 

r instance,  Perdita  in  The  Winter's  Tale  as  intimately  as  any 
other  of  his  creations.  The  pale  colouring  of  the  principal 
figures  in  The  Tempest  we  must  rather  attribute,  it  seems,  to 
the  fact  that  all  the  transactions  on  the  enchanted  island 
are  represented  as  some  degrees  farther  removed  from 
reality,  less  immediate,  and  more  conventional  than  in 
Shakespeare*s  other  plays,  because  they  move  partly  in 
the  realm  of  the  supernatural.  The  whole  of  the  play  is 
steeped  in  an  atmosphere  of  solemnity,  and  solemnity 
always  tends  to  a  more  abstract  style  of  expression.  This 
is  in  no  way  contradicted  by  the  fact  that  this  style  is  not 
kept  up  throughout,  and  that  the  drunken  scenes  even 
break  up  the  unity  of  style  in  a  manner  resembling  that 
of  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  and  with  a  quite  similar 
artistic  effect. 

In  any  case,  this  explains  only  the  way  in  which  the 
characters  were  drawn,  not  their  psychological  behaviour. 
We  have  already  seen  that  in  the  latter  point  they  depart 
from  Shakespeare's  usual  manner.  Now  we  cannot  fail 
to  recognize  that  what  has  been  said  about  the  romantic 
style  in  which  the  love  affair  is  developed  is  really  applic- 
able to  the  whole  motif  of  the  figure  of  Miranda  :  it  shows 
us  Shakespeare  as  a  member  of  an  artistic  school  in  which 
we  should  not  have  expected  to  find  him.  Thorndike 
remarks  that  Miranda  is  in  essence  nothing  but  an  unsuc- 
cessful copy  of  the  sentimental  type  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher.  We  may  even  go  farther  than  that.  The  draw- 
ing of  this  figure,  if  it  is  intended  to  be  more  than  the 
sport  of  an  idle  hour,  results  in  a  glorification  of  that  kind 
of  innocence  which  rests  on  a  naivety  due  to  lack  of  ex- 
perience. The  conception,  however,  that  nature  most 
splendidly  manifests  itself  in  inexperience  is  characteristic 
of  a  conventional- and  artificial  society  ;  in  Shakespeare's 
time  it  is  represented  most  clearly  by  the  pastoral  poets, 
and  is  reflected  also  in  the  style  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 
As  this  society  grows  more  and  more  rotten  and,  above 
all,  permits  itself  ever  greater  licence  in  the  relation  of  the 
sexes,  its  art  is  more  and  more  merged  in  an  atmosphere 

249 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

of  open  and  secret  lasciviousness.  Therefore  it  seeks 
virtue  only  outside  its  own  realm. 

We   read   in   one   passage   of  Fletcher's    The  Faithful 
Shepherdess  : 

as  free  from  ill 
As  he  whose  conversation  never  knew 
The  court  or  city. 

In  this  literature  there  is  more  talk  of  chastity  than  is 
compatible  with  the  thing  itself.  An  instance  is  afforded 
by  the  shepherdesses  of  Fletcher,  who  are  constantly 
philosophizing  about  the  value  of  their  virginity.  Shake- 
speare, to  whose  nature  all  veiled  wantonness  is  alien,  has 
yet  been  touched  by  a  breath  from  that  world  when  in  The 
Tempest  he  makes  Prospero  again  and  again  impress  on 
Ferdinand  not  to  "  break  the  virgin-knot  "  of  the  lovely 
Miranda  before  their  marriage,  and  when  he  finally 
shows  the  triumph  of  their  chastity  in  the  innocent  game 
of  chess  in  which  they  indulge,  though  left  quite  alone. 
A  similar,  only  still  more  obtrusive,  trial  of  chastity  is 
undergone  in  Tourneur's  Atheist's  Tragedy  by  bridegroom 
and  bride  when  they  lie  down  to  sleep  side  by  side  on  the 
stage. 

It  is  with  astonishment  that  we  see  Shakespeare  drawn 
into  this  circle  of  ideas,  that  we  find  in  him  a  conception 
which  is  not  quite  free  from  the  confusion  of  false  naivety 
and  naturalness,  of  inexperience  and  innocence.  Thereby 
he  becomes  unfaithful  to  his  own  best  traditions,  which  had 
made  the  most  noble  and  refined  naturalness  shine  most 
brightly  and  steadily  amid  all  the  tempests  of  life  ;  he 
apparently  adopts  a  view  the  last  consequence  of  which  he 
strictly  refutes  in  this  very  play,  replying  in  the  name  of 
common  sense  to  the  description  of  Montaigne's  uncivilized 
ideal  state  ^  in  the  same  words  in  which  Romeo  declares  his 

1  "  I'  the  commonwealth  I  would  by  contraries 
Execute  all  things  ;  for  no  kind  of  traffic 
Would  I  admit ;  no  name  of  magistrate  ; 
Letters  should  not  be  known  ;  riches,  poverty. 
And  use  of  service  none  ;  contract,  succession, 
Bourn,  bound  of  land,  tilth,  wineyard  none  ; 
No  use  of  metal,  corn,  or  wine,  or  oil. 
No  occupation  ;  all  men  idle,  all ; 
250 


IN   SHAKESPEARE^S   PLAYS 

disbelief  in  the  rant  about  Queen  Mab  :  "  Thou  dost 
talk  nothing  to  me**  (II,  i).  So  Shakespeare,  after  all, 
meets  half-way  a  current  which  pleased  the  jaded  taste 
of  the  ensuing  period  better  than  that  truthfulness  to  life 
which  constitutes  the  undying  glory  of  his  real  art.  There- 
fore no  more  cruel,  though  unintentional,  criticism  of  this 
achievement  is  imaginable  than  the  heightening  of  the 
unnaturalness  contained  in  it  by  Davenant  and  Dryden, 
who  in  the  version  they  made  of  The  Tempest  partnered  the 
young  girl  who  had  never  seen  a  man  with  a  young  man 
who  had  never  seen  a  woman.  This  added  touch  at  one 
stroke  converts  the  picture,  which  Shakespeare's  great  art 
in  spite  of  all  its  unnaturalness  had  endowed  with  a  delicate 
grace  and  an  individual  life,  into  a  caricature. 

All  the  more  brilliantly  does  Shakespeare's  genius  shine 
in  the  figure  of  Ariel.  It  is,  indeed,  probable  that  his  model 
was  something  more  than  Ayrer's  little  demon,  but  it 
can  hardly  have  given  him  more  than  a  faint  suggestion  for 
that  development  and  refinement  of  motives  which  form 
so  great  a  part  of  his  artistic  work.  The  original  sketch 
of  the  figure,  which  is  still  faintly  discernible  beneath  the 
drawing,  is  evidently  a  good-natured  spirit.  Like  all 
spirits  he  is,  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  unwilling  to  serve, 
and  the  magician,  like  all  conjurers,  must  always  be  remind- 
ing him  of  his  contract.  But  though  Shakespeare  retains 
this  trait  he  transforms  it  into  a  great  longing  for  freedom, 
which  is  not  at  variance  with  the  pleasure  he  takes  in  his 
duties.  Being  a  mixture  of  spirit  and  elemental,  Ariel 
is  at  home  in  all  elements  ;  he  penetrates  into  the  earth, 
mixes  with  fire,  and  dives  into  the  sea.  He  changes  him- 
self into  all  shapes,  from  St  Elmo's  fire  to  a  water-nymph, 
from  a  harpy  to  Ceres.  He  is  always  present  whenever  he 
is  needed,  always  finds  out  what  it  is  most  urgent  to  know, 
keeps  good  discipline  among  the  lesser  spirits — in  a  word, 

And  women,  too,  but  innocent  and  pure  .  .  . 

.  i  .  treason,  felony. 
Sword,  pike,  knife,  gun,  or  need  of  any  engine. 
Would  I  not  have  ;  but  nature  should  bring  forth 
Of  its  own  kind,  all  foison,  all  abundance. 
To  feed  my  innocent  people."  II.  i 

251 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

he  is  Prosperous  right  hand.  He  shows  consideration  and 
tactfulness,  reverence  and  admiration,  toward  his  master, 
whose  orders  he  carries  out  as  quick  as  lightning,  thoroughly 
enjoying  the  exercise  of  his  own  powers.  At  the  same 
time  his  nature  is  full  of  charm  (III,  iii,  84),  his  voice  has 
the  sweetest  music  in  it,  and  his  songs  reveal  a  fund  of 
deep  poetry.  In  this  embodiment  of  supreme  human 
qualities  there  is  something  ideally  feminine^  suggested  by 
absence  of  material  motives,  the  harmonious  association 
of  incorporeal,  tender,  and  graceful  traits  with  a  joyful 
readiness  to  serve  and  help,  which  is  perhaps  unconsciously 
the  reason  why  Ariel  throughout  appears  only  in  female, 
never  in  male,  transfigurations. 

Many  of  these  features,  as  well  as  his  decoying  people 
and  putting  them  to  sleep,  show  that  there  exists  a  rela- 
tionship between  him  and  the  figure  of  Puck  in  the  Mid- 
summer  Nighfs  Dream^  who  combined  the  traditions  of 
the  *  Familiar,*  of  *  Robin  Goodfellow,'  and  of  the  teasing 
imp  ;  and  in  the  course  of  the  play  he  becomes  more 
and  more  a  tricksy  spirit  and  a  fairy.  So,  for  instance, 
when,  invisible  to  all  eyes,  he  stirs  up  strife  among  the 
drunkards  by  shouting  **  thou  liest "  in  the  midst  of 
their  conversation,  and  so  makes  them  come  to  blows,  he 
imitates  Puck,  and  the  more  his  term  of  service  approaches 
its  end,  the  more  the  drollery  of  his  nature  appears. 
The  tone  in  which  he  speaks  to  his  master  becomes 
almost  extravagantly  playful  and  roguish,  like  that  of  a 
mischievous  child,  and  when  finally  he  is  about  to  acquire 
his  freedom  his  fancies  show  him  to  us  as  a  proper  flower- 
elf  who,  hardly  visible  to  the  naked  eye,  wants  to  hide 
with  the  bee  in  cowslip-bells  and  to  sail  on  the  bat's  back 
in  pursuit  of  summer. 

Here,  as  elsewhere  {cf,  p.  137),  the  fact  that  the  character 
is  composed  of  ingredients  which  differ  widely  in  point  of 
origin  has  not  been  injurious  to  the  general  effect.  One 
trait  which  perhaps  seemed  less  remarkable  to  Shakespeare's 
contemporaries,  who  were  better  versed  in  devilry  and 
witchcraft  than  we  are  and  knew  the  ways  of  spirits  forced 
into  the  service  of  men — Ariel's  deep  yearning  for  freedom 
252 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

— appears  to  us  nowadays  as  the  real  soul  and  essence  of 
the  figure,  and  is  chiefly  instrumental  in  endearing  it  to 
us.  His  blissful  joy,  too,  at  being  allowed  to  live  with 
nature  could  hardly  have  made  any  deep  impression  upon 
his  time,  which  was  not  attached  to  nature  by  any  particularly 
strong  sympathies.  The  sense  of  freedom  and  the  sense 
of  nature  had  first  to  gain  that  enormous  influence  which 
they  have  exercised  over  the  thoughts  of  modern  men  since 
the  romantic  movement  before  the  figure  of  Ariel  could 
acquire  the  full  charm  and  attraction  which  it  has  for  us 
to-day. 

The  artistic  counterpart  of  this  figure  in  the  play  is 
Caliban.  According  to  his  appearance,  Caliban — whose 
name  is  derived  by  means  of  metathesis  from  Canibal — 
is  really  a  monster  of  the  sea.  His  fantastic  exterior  is 
adumbrated  by  some  hints  contained  in  the  text.  His 
eyes  lie  deep  in  his  head,  he  has  long  claws,  is  apparently 
covered  with  scales  all  over  his  body,  has  arms  like  fins, 
and  he  exhales  a  penetrating  odour  of  fish.  He  was 
probably  put  by  Shakespeare  in  the  place  of  a  less  mari- 
time demon  who  was  the  son  of  the  witch  Sycorax  and  the 
devil,  and  therein  the  poet  was  perhaps  influenced  by  a 
piece  of  news  which  dated  from  about  1597  and  mentioned 
a  sea-monster  having  at  its  elbows  large  fins  like  a  fish 
as  the  sole  inhabitant  of  the  Bermudas  Islands  ("  Arden  " 
edition,  p.  170).^  This  figure  was  elaborated  by  Shake- 
speare with  especial  care.  We  learn  that  Caliban,  while 
still  young,  was  on  good  terms  with  the  newcomer  Prospero, 
consented  to  be  received  by  the  latter  in  his  house  and  to 
be  educated  by  him,  in  return  for  which  he  served  him  as 
guide  on  the  island,  until  his  beastly  nature  broke  out 
and  a  vicious  attack  on  Miranda  opened  his  benevolent 
master's  eyes  and  turned  him  into  a  severe  ruler  who  has 
now  become  accustomed  to  enforce  service  by  means  of 
threats  and  violence.  From  that  time  a  profound  hatred 
of  Prospero  has  taken  hold  of  Caliban  and  fills  his  whole 

1  A  figure  similar  in  some  details  occurring  in  the  Icones  animalium  aqua- 
tilium,  which  illustrates  Gessner's  Book  of  Fishes  (1560), has  been  discovered 
and  pointed  out  by  K.  Meier,  Neuere  Sprachen,  xv,  193. 

253 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

nature,  all  the  more  as  it  is  not  merely  the  vindictiveness 
of  onejwhojhasj^been  dispossessed,  enchained,  and,  according 
to  his  own  opinion,  ill-treated,  but  also  the  deeply  rooted 
opposition  of  the  mean  and  base  to  the  noble. 

It  is  precisely  this,  however,  that  wins  for  Caliban  a 
higher  degree  of  psychological  probability  and  a  more 
specific  personal  attraction  than  the  most  finished  Shake- 
spearean villains.  Like  Shylock,  he  lives  in  a  spiritual 
world  of  his  own,  with  his  own  valuations  and  his  own 
horizon.  He  has  obscure  ideas  of  a  Setebos,  his  mother's 
god,  clearly  outlined  legal  conceptions  of  his  title  as 
rightful  owner  of  the  island,  does  not  allow  himself  to  be 
impressed  by  the  wisdom  of  Prospero,  but  in  a  way  finds 
out  its  weak  point  by  scornfully  turning  up  his  nose  at 
the  dependence  of  the  sorcerer  upon  his  magic  books, 
and  rejoices  at  the  reluctance  with  which  the  spirits  serve 
him.  He  betrays  his  sub-human  nature  when  he  incites 
another  person  to  bite  his  enemy  to  deaths  but  on  the  other 
hand  he  reveals  an  inner  life  of  his  own  by  listening  with 
rapture  to  music  and  telling  of  the  beautiful  dreams  in 
which  heaven  rains  down  treasures  upon  him,  and  which 
upon  awaking  he  yearns,  with  childish  tears,  to  renew. 
There  is  hardly  a  touch  of  Shakespeare's  art  of  charac- 
terization which  has  been  applied  with  more  consummate 
skill  than  this,  which  speaks  of  that  peculiar  sadness 
which  usually  accompanies  spiritual  deformity.  But  the 
slight  touch  of  tragedy  which  lies  in  this  loneliness,  and 
which  is  still  increased  by  the  open  defiance  with  which 
in  the  beginning  he  faces  his  master,  is  quickly  lost  in 
the  subsequent  comic  situations.  We  see  him  fall  into 
the  hands  of  the  half-drunk  butler  and  the  jester,  who 
have  saved  from  the  shipwreck  a  cask  of  liquor  which  they 
are  discussing.  With  a  simplicity  which,  however,  like 
the  cowardice  he  shows  on  this  occasion,  does  not  quite 
agree  with  his  behaviour  at  the  beginning  he  goes  down 
on  his  knees  before  the  giver  of  the  supernatural  drink,  wor- 
ships him  as  a  god,  swears  loyalty  to  him,  and  courts  him 
with  disgusting  self-abasement  and  servility.  What  began 
almost  like  a  tragedy  now  becomes  a  merry  comedy,  and 
254 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

we  may  be  sure  that  nothing  in  The  Tempest  was  so  certain 
to  please  the  audience  as  the  drunken  monster,  the  bawling 
fish-man,  whose  previous  sulkiness  turns  under  the  influence 
of  this  heavenly  draught  to  excessive  merriment,  as  he 
joins  the  two  boon  companions  from  whom,  with  a  quite 
groundless  confidence,  he  hopes  to  receive  his  longed-for 
freedom.  With  a  certain  native  shrewdness  he  feels  that 
one  of  the  two  is  brave,  the  other  a  coward — yet  he  enor- 
mously overrates  them  in  considering  them  capable  of 
carrying  out  the  murder  of  his  master  to  which  he  adroitly 
and  perfidiously  incites  them.  Only  when  they  have 
promptly  allowed  themselves  to  be  deflected  from  their 
boastfully  announced  purpose  by  the  variety  of  glistening 
apparel  which  Prospero  has  intentionally  hung  up  for 
them  are  his  eyes  opened  to  the  stupidity  of  his  adored 
protectors.  Chased  by  the  demon  hounds  of  his  angry 
master,  he  recognizes  too  late  that  he  has  deceived  himself 
and  failed.  No  comic  part  in  all  Shakespeare's  works 
offers  such  a  splendid  opportunity  to  the  actors.  The 
self-destruction  of  the  wicked,  not  always  convincingly 
developed  from  the  character  itself  in  other  cases,  in  this 
case,  without  any  forcing,  becomes  an  exceedingly  fruitful 
theme  of  comic  action. 

2.  The  alleged  Symbolism. — Though,  as  we  now  see, 
the  characters  of  this  piece  upon  closer  examination  offer 
nothing  that  goes  beyond  their  purpose  in  the  drama,  yet 
a  great  bulk  of  expository  literature  has  been  produced 
with  the  object  of  discovering  a  much  more  profound 
meaning  than  that  of  which  we  have  so  far  treated. 
As  a  rule  it  starts  with  Prospero.  That  the  Duke,  the 
powerful  magician,  speaks  with  Shakespeare's  own  voice 
is  apparently  taken  for  granted  by  most  of  these  ex- 
positors and,  in  their  opinion,  hardly  requires  any  proof. 
The  Tempest  is  regarded  as  Shakespeare's  last  play.  Duke 
Prospero  in  it  bids  good-bye  to  his  magic  art.  What 
is  more  natural  than  to  assume  that  the  good-bye  to 
magic  is  meant  to  represent  Shakespeare's  farewell  to  the 
theatre  }  The  passage  in  question  is  the  following  famous 
speech  : 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

Ye  elves  of  hills,  brooks,  standing  lakes,  and  groves  ; 
And  ye  that  on  the  sands  v^ith  printless  foot 
Do  chase  the  ebbing  Neptune,  and  do  fly  him 
When  he  comes  back  ;  you  demi-puppets  that 
By  moonshine  do  the  green  sour  ringlets  make. 
Whereof  the  ew^e  not  bites  ;  and  you  w^hose  pastime 
Is  to  make  midnight  mushrooms,  that  rejoice 
To  hear  the  solemn  curfew  ;  by  whose  aid — 
Weak  masters  though  ye  be — I  have  bedimm'd 
The  noontide  sun,  call'd  forth  the  mutinous  winds. 
And  'twixt  the  green  sea  and  the  azured  vault 
Set  roaring  war  :  to  the  dread  rattling  thunder 
Have  I  given  fire,  and  rifted  Jove's  stout  oak 
With  his  own  bolt  ;  the  strong-based  promontory 
Have  I  made  shake,  and  by  the  spurs  pluck'd  up 
The  pine  and  cedar  :  graves  at  my  command 
Have  waked  their  sleepers,  oped,  and  let  'em  forth 
By  my  so  potent  art.     But  this  rough  magic 
I  here  abjure  ;  and,  when  I  have  required 
Some  heavenly  music, — which  even  now  I  do, — 
To  work  mine  end  upon  their  senses,  that 
This  airy  charm  is  for,  I'll  break  my  staff, 
Bury  it  certain  fathoms  in  the  earth. 
And  deeper  than  did  ever  plummet  sound 
I'll  drown  my  book. 

One  cannot  read  these  lines,  however,  without  con- 
cluding that,  if  Shakespeare  here  intended  to  express  him- 
self allegorically,  he  has  made  the  perception  of  his  meaning 
unnecessarily  difficult  to  his  audience,  more  difficult  than 
would  have  been  necessary  if  he  had  wanted  to  speak  about 
his  art  in  a  veiled  manner.  To  mention  only  one  example  ; 
the  spirit  of  medieval  subtlety  in  excogitating  allegories 
would  be  required  to  tell  us  what  side  of  Shakespeare's  art 
we  are  to  understand  by  the  mushrooms  produced  at  night 
by  the  fairies.  Even  if  we  leave  aside  all  details,  however, 
the  central  principle  of  the  whole  idea  is  far  too  vague. 
**  The  poet,**  it  is  said,  for  example,  by  Wolff,  "  gives  back 
to  the  elements  the  genii  who  for  twenty  years  have  been 
in  his  service.'*  But  what  genii  are  these  ?  Where  do 
we  find  Shakespeare,  or  one  of  his  circle,  speaking  of  his 
256 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

dramatic  abilities  as  genii  ?  This  conception  is  quite 
foreign  to  that  time,  and  so  the  identification  of  dramatic 
talent  with  the  tricks  of  fairies  is  to  be  regarded  as  purely 
arbitrary.  The  symbolical  view  further  rests  on  the  idea 
that  Shakespeare  must  in  reality  have  understood  something 
higher  by  Prosperous  magic.  Kreyssig  was  one  of  the  first 
to  find  (p.  500)  that  it  can  be  only  "  a  symbolical  garment 
for  the  holy  service  of  art  and  science.**  But  this  is  surely 
to  credit  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century  with  the 
imagination  of  the  century  which  reads  Goethe's  Faust^ 
and  is  a  gross  misunderstanding  not  only  of  the  specific 
conception  of  that  period,  but  of  the  purely  poetic  view  of 
things  as  well.  Art  and  science  in  ahstracto  were  far  less 
interesting  to  the  audience  of  those  days  than  feats  of 
magic.  A  magician  then  was  a  very  serious  personage  ; 
a  magician,  however,  who  bade  good-bye  to  his  magic  was 
acting  in  a  quite  compr^ehensible  manner,  as  the  intercourse 
with  supernatural  spirits  is  not  profitable  to  man.  That 
Prospero  at  the  end  dismisses  his  spirits  is  therefore  a  very 
natural  consequence  of  the  whole  situation.  That  he  should 
do  this  in  solemn  words  is  inevitable,  considering  the  dignity 
of  his  character.  That  his  words  are  filled  with  a  sense  of 
parting  is  in  accordance  with  Shakespeare's  art.  We  need 
not  dispute,  however,  whether  this  sentiment  was  due  to 
actual  experience  or  not.  It  is  by  no  means  absolutely 
certain  that  The  Tempest  really  is  Shakespeare's  last  work — 
the  play  of  Henry  VIII^  though  possibly  only  in  part  by  his 
hand,  is  certainly  later — or  that  immediately  after  writing 
The  Tempest  he  retired  to  Stratford.  Yet  we  cannot  deny 
that  a  kind  of  holiday  mood  pervades  the  end  of  The  Tempest^ 
more  noticeably,  indeed,  in  the  words  of  Ariel,  who  is  con- 
stantly growing  merrier,  than  in  those  of  Prospero.  But 
what  does  this  signify  }  Is  it  not  the  greatness  of  Shake- 
speare's art  that  it  contains  no  trace  of  borrowed  feeling,  but 
springs  throughout  from  the  inmost  experience  of  his  own 
heart  }  What  is  there  in  this  passage  to  distinguish  it 
from  others  } 

Some,  again,  have  tried  to  show  that  what  is  generally 
considered  to  be  Prospero's  view  of  life  and  the  world  is 

257 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

Shakespeare's  own  conception.  From  the  state  of  feeling 
which  Masson  styles  the  Romeo-Proteus-Biron  mood  he  is 
said  to  have  reached,  by  way  of  the  Jaques-Hamlet  and 
Coriolanus-Timon  moods,  the  conception  of  Prospero.  This 
question  demands  a  more  thorough  treatment  than  it  can 
receive  within  the  limits  of  the  present  work.  So  much, 
however,  may  be  said,  that  in  the  attempt  to  establish  this 
evolutionary  process  the  unconscious  desire  for  an  effective 
conclusion  has  been  instrumental.  It  is  quite  possible  that 
some  elements  of  Prosperous  mental  conception  may  have 
been  uppermost  in  Shakespeare's  own  mind  also  at  the  time 
when  The  Tempest  was  written.  But  as  Shakespeare  never 
wholly  enters  into  his  characters,  as  in  every  case  only  a  part 
of  his  personality  is  contained  in  them,  we  cannot  regard 
Prospero  as  an  embodiment  or  symbolization  of  Shake- 
speare merely  because  his  ripeness  and  serenity  of  mind 
may  possibly  reflect  a  part  of  Shakespeare's  nature  as  it 
was  at  that  time.  It  is  surely  an  amazing  piece  of  irony 
that  critics  seek  to  discover  the  greatest  humorist  the 
world  has  ever  known  precisely  in  that  creation  of  his 
genius  which  is  the  least  gifted  with  a  sense  of  humour. 

A  more  extensive  and  detailed  interpretation  sees  in  The 
Tempest  not  only  a  farewell  which  Shakespeare  bids  to  the 
stage,  but  also  a  kind  of  settling  of  accounts  between  him- 
self and  the  theatre.  The  Enchanted  Island  is  the  stage, 
Prospero  is  the  poet  himself,  Ariel  imagination,  which  must 
be  kept  under  strict  control  in  order  to  produce  sound  work, 
Miranda  is  the  drama,  Caliban  the  low  populace  whom  the 
poet  in  vain  tries  to  lift  up  to  himself,  because  it  proves 
itself  incapable  of  education  ,and  accessible  only  to  stimula- 
tion of  the  senses ;  Ferdinand  is  the  poet  Fletcher,  Alonso, 
Antonio,  and  Sebastian  represent  fellow- writers  who  have 
done  Shakespeare  ill  turns.  This  conception  was  originally 
due  to  Dowden.  But  it  too  is  without  the  slightest 
foundation  of  fact.  We  are  too  well  acquainted  with 
Shakespeare's  philosophy  not  to  cavil  at  the  suggestion 
that  he  would  ever  have  thought  of  embodying  his  idea  of 
the  imaginative  faculty  in  the  figure  of  an  air-spirit.  Nor 
do  we  ever  in  his  works  meet  with  expressions  even  remotely 
258 


IN    SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

suggesting  the  idea  that  imagination  must  be  kept  under 
control,  or  that  genius,  as  Churton  Collins  {Contemporary 
Review^  1908,  p.  65  seq^^  says,  is  powerful  only  when 
controlled,  and  impotent  in  absolute  licence.  All  these 
are  reflections  arising  from  speculations  on  the  nature 
and  soul  of  the  artist  in  the  nineteenth  century  which, 
however,  were  never  dreamt  of  at  the  beginning  of  the 
seventeenth.  As  regards  Caliban,  there  is  not  the  slightest 
evidence  that  he  was  meant  to  represent  the  "  ground- 
lings.'' It  is  not  easy  to  understand  either  why  Shake- 
speare should  have  conceived  his  art  in  the  image  of  a 
beautiful  girl,  viz.,  Miranda.  Nowhere  in  his  time  do  we 
find  a  similar  personification  of  the  dramatic  productions 
of  a  playwright.  Moreover,  of  all  the  female  characters 
described  in  his  works  none  would  have  been  less  fit  to 
be  made  the  emblem  of  an  art  which  had  always  been 
obliged  to  appeal  to  the  masses  than  a  girl  of  tender 
years,  untouched  by  any  breath  of  the  world,  who  has 
never  set  eyes  upon  a  man.  Shakespeare,  with  that 
habit  of  laughing  at  himself  which  appears  in  many  of 
his  remarks  about  poets  and  poetry,  would  certainly  have 
been  far  more  inclined  to  recommend  to  his  critics  for  this 
allegorical  purpose  his  Doll  Tearsheet  !  And  it  is  quite 
contrary  to  literary  and  historical  probabilities  to  suppose 
that  he  would  have  recommended  this  art,  upon  his  own 
departure,  to  the  young  Fletcher.  The  position  of  Fletcher 
in  161 1  was  anything  but  that  of  a  pupil  lending  his  master 
Shakespeare  a  helping  hand.  On  the  contrary,  the  younger 
dramatist  by  this  time  had  acquired  a  renown  by  his  pieces 
produced  in  collaboration  with  Beaumont  which  had  begun 
to  eclipse  that  of  Shakespeare,  and  in  all  probability  had 
even  induced  the  latter  to  go  in  for  a  certain  amount  of 
imitation.^ 

Others  have  tried  to  find  the  personal  connexions  in 
another  circle.  As  they  believe  The  Tempest  to  have  been 
composed  for  the  celebration  of  the  betrothal  of  Frederick 
— afterward  the  *  Winter  King  * — and  the  daughter^  of 
James  I,  they  recognize  in  the  picture  of  Prospero  the  King 

1  Thorndike,  p.  50  seq.    Author,  Shah,  im  lit.  Urteil  seiner  Zeii,  p.  78  seq. 

259 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

himself,  seeing  in  the  island  princess  the  *  Winter  Queen,' 
and  in  Ferdinand,  who  has  come  from  the  other  side  of  the 
sea,  the  Count  Palatine,  Frederick  V.  This  conception 
has  been  popularized,  especially  by  the  English  literary  his- 
torian Garnett  {Shah  Jahrh,^  xxxv),  but  in  vain  do  we  look 
for  the  shadow  of  a  foundation  for  it.  A  striking  parallel 
is  seen  in  the  fact  that  the  wise  father  brings  about  the 
marriage  ;  but  how  many  marriages  were  contracted  in 
that  time  that  were  not  brought  about  by  the  parents  ? 
Then  the  motive  of  the  play  that  Ferdinand  is  separated  for 
a  while  from  his  people,  who  lament  him  as  drowned — how 
else  could  he  get  to  know  Miranda  ? — is  connected  with 
the  death  of  the  King's  eldest  son,  which  had  taken  place 
shortly  before  the  marriage,  and  it  is  praised  as  a  supremely 
felicitous  touch  of  Shakespeare's  art  that  he  has  referred  to 
the  recent  loss  in  such  a  tactful  manner.  But  these  events 
have  next  to  nothing  in  common  !  Then  again  the  resem- 
blance between  Prospero  and  James  is  based  on  quite 
featureless  generalizations.  "  A  wise,  humane,  peace- 
loving  prince,"  it  is  said,  "  who  attains  his  ends  not  by  force, 
but  by  means  of  policy  ;  devoted  to  far-sighted  enterprises, 
which  none  but  himself  can  realize,  much  less  fathom  [are 
we  to  suppose  that  the  reunion  of  the  Protestant  and 
Catholic  Churches,  which  was  planned  by  James  for  a  time, 
or  his  Spanish  policy,  is  represented  by  Ariel's  flights  .?]  ; 
independent  of  counsellors  [?],  in  a  secure  position,  fearing 
no  enemies,  and  watching  over  all  around  him  with  his 
superior  wisdom  ;  holding  back  until  the  hour  for  decision 
had  come  and  then  successfully  intervening  ;  serving  legi- 
timate science,  but  the  sworn  enemy  of  the  black  art  [?] : 
this  is  what  James  was  in  James's  eyes  and  this  is  Prospero." 
We  see  that  here  already  the  expositor  is  forced  to  substitute 
for  the  real  character  of  the  King  the  ideal  picture  which  he 
is  alleged  to  have  conceived  of  himself  ;  but  even  then  the 
equation  is  not  complete.  Nearly  all  the  traits  adduced  are 
possessed  already  by  the  exiled  prince  in  the  Spanish  tale 
or  are  evolved  from  the  plot.  Shakespeare  has  certainly 
not  worked  them  into  the  play  with  a  view  to  depicting 
James.  Moreover,  as  Sir  Sidney  Lee  has  pointed  out,  a 
260 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

Co^it  poet  would  not  have  acted  very  wisely  in  representing 
the  King,  who  was  very  sensitive  with  respect  to  his  title, 
as  a  prince  who  had  been  thrust  from  his  throne.  Lastly, 
Garnett's  attempt  to  discover  a  serious  warning  addressed 
to  the  King  in  the  description  of  Prosperous  becoming 
estranged  from  his  people  through  his  studies  shows  the 
usual  complete  misunderstanding  of  Shakespeare's  moral 
and  social  attitude. 

Almost  the  same  objections  must  be  raised  against  the 
conception  of  The  Tempest  2^^  a  "  drama  of  culture."  What 
might  at  first  sight  incline  us  in  favour  of  this  view  is  the 
idea  that  in  this  play  the  question  of  the  indigenous  races 
is  treated.  It  cannot  be  denied  that  in  the  Caliban  action 
a  number  of  typical  incidents  in  the  history  of  colonization 
are  touched  upon.  The  savage  who  takes  the  white  man 
for  a  god,  the  enjoyment  of  alcoholic  drink,  the  unsuccessful 
attempts  at  education,  the  anger  due  to  the  feeling  of  being 
dispossessed,  are  facts  so  well  known  from  colonial  history 
that  because  of  them  Caliban  has  been  regarded  as  the 
representative  of  the  disinherited  natives,  and  Shakespeare's 
representation  has  been  looked  upon  as  the  expression  of  his 
view  that  the  native  has  proved  himself  incapable  of  educa- 
tion, has  forfeited  his  rights,  and  himself  forced  the  settlers 
to  treat  him  as  a  slave. 

This  opinion,  however,  which  was  suggested  by  Gervinus 
(p.  221),  is  invalidated  by  the  fact  that  Caliban  is  not  a 
native  at  all,  but  a  kind  of  fish-man.  "  Monster  "  and 
"  servant-monster  "  are  the  terms  of  endearment  used  by 
his  accomplices,  and  as  apparently  the  fraternizing  of  this 
fantastic  monster  with  the  two  merry  drunkards  had  proved 
the  most  successful  part  of  the  whole  play,  we  find  Ben 
Jonson,  in  16 14,  in  the  introduction  to  his  Bartholomew's 
Fair^  saying  that  there  is  no  "  servant-monster  "  in  his  play. 
Being  a  monster  who  began  life  as  the  son  of  the  devil  and 
a  witch,  Caliban  cannot  possibly  be  the  representative  of  the 
natives.  If  Shakespeare  had  really  wished,  as  even  Sir  Sidney 
Lee,  to  our  great  surprise,  assumes  {Scrihner's  Magazine^ 
September  1907),  to  represent  the  native  in  his  mentality, 
why  then  did  he  endow  him  with  such  an  outward  appearance 

261 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

that  the  spectators  no  longer  saw  in  him  a  native,  but  a 
monster  ?  Lee  explains  this  by  saying  that  Shakespeare 
was  perhaps  unconsciously  following  the  platonic  idea  that 
it  is  the  soul  which  builds  its  own  body  ;  but  we  may  well 
doubt  whether  his  audience  would  have  been  able  to  grasp 
this  almost  *  expressionistic '  subtlety  of  expressing  the  soul 
of  a  native  by  means  of  a  monster^s  body.  If  Caliban  has 
some  things  in  common  with  the  natives  we  must  attribute 
this  to  the  fact  that  Shakespeare  utilized  the  freshly  received 
information  about  men  and  conditions  in  the  colonies  as 
additional  material.  But  if  any  fundamental  conceptions 
could  be  gathered  from  The  Tempest  concerning  the  natives 
they  would  tend  in  the  opposite  direction  to  what  has  been 
maintained.  When  before  the  wandering  shipwrecked 
crew  there  suddenly  appears  the  ghostly  banquet,  and 
"  several  strange  shapes  '*  dance  round  it  with  inviting 
gestures,  the  good  Gonzalo  remarks: 

If  in  Naples 
I  should  report  this  now,  would  they  believe  me  ? 
If  I  should  say,  I  saw  such  islanders, — 
For,  certes,  these  are  people  of  the  island, — 
Who,  though  they  are  of  monstrous  shape,  yet,  note, 
Their  manners  are  more  gentle-kind  than  of 
Our  human  generation  you  shall  find 
Many,  nay,  almost  any. 

Prospero  (aside).  Honest  lord. 

Thou  hast  said  well ;  for  some  of  you  there  present 
Are  worse  than  devils. 

Ill,  iii,  27 

The  friendly  way  in  which  supposed  natives  are  spoken 
of  here  does  not  betray  any  preconceived  aversion  to  them, 
rather  the  contrary.  For  the  rest  Shakespeare,  here  as  in 
other  cases  of  this  kind,  follows  public  opinion.  Moreover, 
he  had  no  desire  to  write  a  colonial  drama.  If,  for  instance, 
the  attempt  of  Antonio  and  Sebastian  to  murder  the  sleeping 
King  of  Naples  and  his  councillor  is  regarded  as  a  symbolical 
representation  of  the  quarrels  which  broke  out  among  the 
settlers  of  the  New  World,  the  fact  is  altogether  overlooked 
that  this  incident  was  very  frequently  used  by  the  dramatist 
262 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

in  his  other  works.  Neither  does  the  colonial  environment 
attract  him,  as  Venice  does  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice, 
Though  in  The  Tempest  attention  has  been  drawn  to  the 
employment  of  details  taken  from  the  reports  of  the  historical 
shipwreck  on  the  Bermudas,  yet  they  do  not  strike  the  eye, 
being  of  minor  importance  and  mixed  with  allusions  to 
Shakespeare's  nearer  surroundings. 

While  Shakespeare  is  hailed  by  this  class  of  expositors 
as  a  colonial  politician,  he  appeals  to  others  as  the  great 
student  of  nature  and  philosopher  of  culture.  Caliban, 
according  to  Churton  Collins  (Contemporary  Review,  1908), 
is  humanity  in  evolution,  the  emergence  of  the  primitive 
qualities  from  chaos.  CaHban,  exclaims  Brandes  (p.  958), 
is  the  type  of  prehistoric  man,  the  first  human  inhabitant 
of  the  earth,  the  half-animal ;  Prospero,  on  the  other  hand, 
typifies  the  higher  perfection  of  humanity,  the  man  of  the 
future,  the  superman  1  Caliban — this  revelation  comes 
from  the  American,  Wilson — is  the  missing  link,  the  tran- 
sition from  the  anthropoid  ape  to  primitive  man.  By  this 
pronouncement  he  succeeds  in  ranking  Shakespeare  among 
the  Darwinians,  even  among  the  Nietzscheans.  But  where 
do  we  find  a  word  in  Shakespeare's  reflections  indicating 
that  he  had  anticipated  the  discovery  of  a  later  century 
which  has  taught  us  to  see  in  the  present  juxtaposition  of 
divergent  forms  the  remains  of  a  gradual  evolution  in 
different  geological  and  historical  epochs  ? 

A  great  favourite  with  certain  critics  is  also  the  political 
conception  :  Caliban  as  the  representative  of  the  masses,  as 
the  embodiment  of  the  populace  which  is  ever  inclined  to 
sedition.  According  to  this  view,  which  Renan  too  took 
for  his  poifit  of  departure  in  writing  his  Caliban  drama,  we 
see  reflected  in  Caliban  the  soul  of  the  masses  who,  as 
Kreyssig  expresses  it,  in  return  for  sensual  enjoyment  take 
the  lowest  for  their  master,  kiss  the  feet  of  the  drunkard 
that  he  may  help  them  to  slay  the  wise,  are  full  of  currish 
malice  against  persons  of  their  own  station,  and  also  pos- 
sessed of  **  the  unfailing  popular  instinct  for  courage,  which 
in  the  eyes  of  the  multitude  is  the  sole  virtue  of  the  ruler  "  (?). 
Now  it  is  true  that  some  of  the  essential  and  necessary 

263 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

presuppositions  for  such  a  view  are  to  be  found  in  Shake- 
speare's anti-democratic  way  of  thinking,  which,  however, 
was  partly  determined  by  literary  tradition.  Still,  the  exposi- 
tor has  absolutely  no  right  to  tear  isolated  traits  and  actions 
of  a  single  character,  which  are  fully  in  harmony  with  his 
peculiar  individuality,  away  from  their  context  in  order  to 
make  the  character  appear  a  type  of  a  sociological  group,  and 
then  deduce  from  it  the  poet's  general  conceptions  of  life. 
It  would  be  just  as  fair  to  regard  Shylock  as  the  representa- 
tive of  the  Jewish  race,  and  Falstaff  as  the  type  of  the  poor 
nobleman.  But  though  Falstaff  is  a  knight  and  Shylock  a 
Jew,  yet  the  poet  does  not  use  these  characters  for  formu- 
lating his  own  views  on  the  Jewish  race  and  on  the  nobility. 
Furthermore,  it  is  characteristic  of  the  failure  to  under- 
stand the  thoroughly  individualistic  nature  of  Shakespeare's 
art  that  the  deep-searching  wisdom  of  the  expositors 
almost  without  an  exception  overlooks  that  side  of  Caliban 
which,  as  has  been  indicated,  was  certainly  the  most 
effective  one,  namely,  the  comic  side,  which  usually  afforded 
the  audience,  on  seeing  the  drunken  fish-man  frustrated 
in  his  attempt  to  commit  murder,  a  kind  of  pleasure  similar 
to  that  aroused  by  the  cheating  of  the  devil. 

Still  less  seriously  can  we  take  interpretations  in  which 
the  action  of  The  Tempest  is  explained  as  a  symbol  of  the 
moral  order  of  the  world  in  the  Christian  sense  (Collins) 
or  of  a  new  sociological  order,  in  which  Ariel  represents 
active  intelligence,  Miranda  symbolizes  art,  and  the 
marriage  of  Miranda  and  Ferdinand  represents  the  penetra- 
tion of  art  by  morally  purified  force  (Wolff).  It  is  equally 
futile  to  explain  the  pregnant  witch  Sycorax  as  a  cloud, 
Ariel,  her  prisoner,  as  lightning,  Caliban,  her  child,  as 
water,  all  of  which  taken  together  are  to  represent  a  thunder- 
storm (K.  Meier),  or  to  identify  Ariel  with  electricity  and 
Caliban  with  raw  matter  (Thlimmel).  Here  interpretation 
becomes  a  game  which,  though  it  no  longer  possesses  any 
importance  for  Shakespearean  exegesis,  may,  if  elevated 
into  a  method,  furnish  suggestions  for  a  very  pleasant 
drawing-room  pastime. 

A  symbolical  interpretation  of  The  Tempest  is  therefore 
264 


IN   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

altogether  out  of  the  question,  both  as  regards  the  whole 
or  single  parts  of  the  play.  Those  who  have  explained 
it  in  this  manner  forget  the  foundation  of  Shakespearean 
art  which  we  have  characterized  above.  Shakespeare's 
drama  is  never  intended  for  such  a  small  audience  as  would 
be  required  for  an  understanding  of  most  of  the  allegorical 
meanings  which  the  expositors  elicit  from  The  Tempest, 
In  this  connexion  no  great  importance  is  to  be  attached  to 
the  fact  that  this  piece  was  originally  written  for  a  private 
purpose,  because  it  was  soon  transferred  to  the  public 
stage  which  the  poet  was  already  aiming  at  while  writing 
it.  Neither  can  we  find,  as  some  have  tried  to  do,  a  proof 
of  the  symbolical  character  of  The  Tempest  in  The  Phcenix 
and  the  Turtle^  which  is  really  an  allegorical  poem  written 
by  Shakespeare.  The  lyric  and  the  drama  in  that  time 
have  very  few  points  of  their  evolution  in  common.  The 
contents  of  the  poem,  its  involved  and  artificial  ornament, 
are  explained  by  the  tradition  which  rendered  it  intelligible 
and  acceptable  to  the  time.  But  where  shall  we  find  the 
allegorical  tradition  of  which  The  Tempest  forms  part  } 
Here  too  the  end  of  our  subject  touches  its  beginning. 
Shakespeare's  art  does  not  consist  in  pointing  out  entirely 
new  ways  to  the  drama,  as  was  done  by  Marlowe  or  Jonson, 
but  in  developing  and  making  original  contributions  to 
what  was  already  in  existence.  The  symbolists  will  prob- 
ably find  it  difficult  to  prove  that  Shakespeare  was  able 
to  find  suggestions  of  the  alleged  symbolism  elsewhere, 
especially  as  Lilly's  symbolical  Court  comedies  are  separated 
from  The  Tempest  by  a  considerable  space  of  time  and  have 
no  connexion  with  it.  This  fact  alone  suffices  to  invalidate 
this  assumption.  More  important,  however,  is  the  general 
disinclination  of  his  art  consciously  to  make  the  individual 
the  bearer  of  super-individual  traits.  This  circumstance 
has  often  escaped  recognition.  Thus  the  objection  has 
been  raised  against  King  Lear  that  it  is  not  the  tragedy  of 
old  age.  The  tragic  element  contained  in  growing  old  is 
represented,  according  to  Paul  Ernst,  by  quite  different 
things  from  the  experience  of  ingratitude  in  a  younger 
generation.     But  he  who  criticizes  thus  overlooks  the  fact 

265 


CHARACTER   PROBLEMS 

that  King  Lear  was  never  intended  to  be  the  tragedy  of 
old  age,  any  more  than  Othello  was  meant  for  tragedy  of 
race.  Gervinus  in  a  similar  manner  has  represented  Shake- 
speare as  a  philosopher  of  history  who  goes  in  for  prac- 
tical politics  ;  he  conceives,  for  example,  in  Henry  Fill  all 
the  more  important  figures  as  representatives,  intentionally 
chosen  by  the  poet,  of  definite  sociological  groups.  Such 
conceptions  become  possible  only  by  doing  violence  to 
the  obvious  facts.  Their  final  results  would  be  to  burden 
the  poet  with  something  which  would  drag  him  down  to 
the  perishable  world  in  which  his  expositors  dwell.  For 
in  art  all  things  that  are  meant  to  serve  only  as  a  fair  cloak 
for  rigid  doctrines  quickly  crumble  to  pieces  ;  but  the 
human  soul  in  it  can  never  die. 


266 


INDEX  OF   CHARACTERS 


Angelo,  196-7,  199 

Anne  {Richard  III),  I13,  179 

Antonio,  171,  184 

Antony,  Mark,  44,  73,  114,  117,  120 

&eq. 
Arc,  Joan  of — se&  Joan  of  Arc 
Ariel,  98-9,    134,  239-40,    251    seq., 

257,  258,  260,  264 

Banquo,  65,  75  seq. 

Bertram,  Count  of    Rousillon   {All's 

Well  that  Ends  Well),  195-6 
Bottom,  96-7 
Brutus,  39-40>  42,  203 

CiESAR,  Julius,  40  seq.,  126 
Caliban,  134,  239-40,  253  seq.,  258- 

259,  261  seq. 
Camillo,  98  n. 
Capulet,  132 
Capulet,  Lady,  94 
Cassio,  206,  207  seq. 
Cassius,  43,  44,  66-7 
Clr.udius,  King,  70,  172  seq.,  212,  228 
Cleopatra,  43,  119  seq. ^  222^^23^-4 
Cloten,  36  ' 

Coidelia,  38-9,  I79  seq.,  224 
Coviolauus,  46,  53 
Crcssida,  39,  54  seq. 

D:  SDEMONA,  128,  199,  208  seq.,  224, 

i48 
D(  gberry,  102 

Edgar,  60,  87,  191,  237 
Edmund,  60  seq.,  81,  190-1 
Eiiobarbus,  228 

Falstaff,  32-4^  49,  90,  218,  221-2 
Ferdinand  {ThS  Tempest),  246-7 
Fijol  {King  Lear),  85,  87 

GxiRTRUDE,  Queen,  85,  225-6 
C-loster,  Earl   of    {King  Lear),   181, 

191,  199,  237 
Goneril,  178,  182-3 
Oremio,  no 


Hamlet,  31-2,  67  seq.,  74,  100  seq., 

117-18,    147    seq.,    213   seq.,    225- 

226,  235-6 
Hamlet  the  elder,  38 
Helena  {All's  Well  that  Ends  Well), 

195-6 
Henry  IV,  175 
Henry  V  (Prince  Hal),    39-40,   218 

seq. 
Horatio,  1 16-17,  170 
Hotspur — see  Percy,  Henry 

Iago,  56,  60,  62  seq.,  81,  96,  200, 
205  seq.,  228 

Jaques,  157,  168 
Joan  of  Arc,  109-10 

Katharine  {Henry  VIII),  184 
Kent,  87,  i8i'  seq. 

Laertes,  67-8,  104-5,  168,  186 

Laurence,  Friar,  94 

Lear,  King,  34-5,  87,  94,  165  «., 

166,  176  seq.,  225 
Leontes,  95-6,  198  «• 

Macbeth,  71  seq.,  94-5,  n^^?,  ^38, 

166,  203,  227  seq. 
Macbeth,  Lady,  36,  71,    83-4,    n6- 

117,  200,  227  seq. 
Macduff,  95,  ^44  seq. 
Malcolm,  144  seq. 
Malvolio,  102 
M.3.ria.n3.  {Measure  for  Measure),  197 

198 
Marullus,  90 
4^1VIercutio,  97  seq. 
Miranda,  244  seq.,  258  seq.,  264 

OCTAVIUS,  128 
Oliver,  60  seq. 

Ophelia,  67  seq.,  85-6,  171-2,  225 
Orlando,  60-1 

Othello,  63  seq.,  66-7,  73. 94.  "4-i5, 
248  . 

267 


CHARACTER  PROBLEMS 


Percy,  Henry  (Hotspur),  93 
Perdita,  246 
Polixenes,  198  n. 
Polonius,  99  seq. 
Portia  {Julius  Ccssar),  229 
Prosper©,    38,    115,    239,     242     seq. 
253  seq. 


Regan,  178,  182-3 
Richard  II,  52,  74,  170-1 
Richard  III,   73,  81,  113,  179, 

228 
Roderigo,  96,  208 


206, 


Romeo,  55,  248 
Rosalind,  49 

Rousillon,    Count  of — see   Bertram, 
Count  of  Rousillon 

Shallow,  Justice,  102,  221 
Shylock,    15,   87  seq.,   1 18-19,    204- 
205 

TiTANIA,  96 

Titus  Andronicus,  178 
Troilus,  54  seq.,  106  n.,  134 
Tubal,  1 1 8-1 9 


268 


INDEX  OF  NAMES 


Anzengruber, 92-3 
Ayrer,  Jacob,  239,  251 
Ayres,  H.  M.,  50 

Barker,  Granville,  95 

Beaumont,  10  «.,  16,  21,  25,  54,  139, 

140,  197,  248  seq.,  259 
Belief  orest,  149 
Bernhardt,  Sarah,  164 
Bieber,  G.  A.,  152  n. 
Boas,  F.  S.,  142 
Boccaccio,  22,  195,  196,  198 
Bradley,  A.  C,  116  «.,  153  «•,  158  «-, 

169,  180,  185,  199,  201,  206,  211, 

223,  226,  230 
Brand es,    Georg,    9,     25-6,   41    seq., 

56,   65,   73,   74,   89-90,    126,    135, 

138,  141,  179,  206,  207,  214,  219, 

263 
Brandl,  A.,  115 
Brie,  Fr.,  106  «. 
Browning,  Robert,  35  «.,  201 
Buckle,  H.  Th.,  106 
Burton,  Robert,  165 
Byron,  37 

Chapman,  George,  155-6 

Chaucer,  iii 

Chesterfield,  Philip,  Earl  of.  93 

Cicero,  156 

Cinthio,  63 

Coleridge,  S.  T.,  206,  210 

Cojlins,  Churton,  259,  263 

Conrad,  H.,  105 

Craig,  W.  J.,  177  «• 

Creizenach,  10  w.,  24  m.,  148  w.,  i94> 

199  w.,  200 
Cn:)sby,  E.,  186 
Cuningham,  H.,  74,  79,  82,  84,  95 

Dante,  7 

Davenant,  Sir  William,  251 

Diikker,  Thomas,  16,  139,  140.  ^^^» 

197 
Dempewolf,  W.,  92  w. 
D(>vrient,  Edward,  106 
Dowden.'iE.,  115,  158  «•,  185,  258 
Drake,  N.,  240 


Drummond  of  Hawthomden,  13 
Dryden,  251 
Dyce,  A.,  109 

Ebner-Eschenbach,  M.  von,  81 
Eckermann,  119 
Ernst,  Paul,  265 

Fielding,  Henry,  201 

Fischer,  Kuno,  118,  147,  158  «.,  167 

Fletcher,  10  «.,  16,  21,  25,  54,  139, 

140,  197,  248  seq.,  258,  259 
Forman,  Simon,  13 
Friesen,  von,  75,  77 
Fumess,  H.  H.,  153  «.,  198  n. 

Garnett,  E.,  260 

Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  177  »»• 

Gervinus,  73-4,  118,  147,  206,  261, 

266 
Gessner,  253    ■ 

Goethe,  93,  ii9,  163,  215,  257 
Greene,  Robert,  14 
Grillparzer,  112,  140,  176,  202 

Hall,  J.,  198 

Hart,  H.  C,  109 

Hauptmann,  Gerhard,  19 

Hazhtt,  22 

Heywood,  Thomas,  25,  197 

Hohnshed,  73 

Hugo,  Victor,  147 

Ibsen,  8,  14,  113 

Johnson,  Samuel,  22,  95 
Jonson,  Ben,  10,  16,  17,  22,  87,  I57. 
202,  261,  265 

Kilian,  29-30 

Klein,  D.,  87 

Koch,  Max,  242 

Kreyssig,  39,  56.  74.  75,  98.  127,  "9, 
131,  133,  179,  183,  184-5,  214, 
219-20,  228,  240,  257,  263 

Kyd,  Thomas,  13,  69,  148  «*?•,  ^54, 

'^°' '''  269 


CHARACTER  PROBLEMS 


Landsberg,  Gertrud,   68-9,    100  n., 

134  «.,  148  M. 
Lee.  Sir  Sidney,  260-2 
Lenbach,  201 
Lessing,  8 

Lewis,  Ch.  M.,  148  ».,  151 
Lilly,  John,  97 
Loning,  68,  100,  105  seq.,  153  w.,  173, 

214 
Luce,  Morton,  115,  134  «. 
Ludwig,  Otto,  59 

MacCallum,  M.  W.,  41,  42«.,  117, 

133,  138,  142,  143 
Mackenzie,  Compton,  56 
Mackenzie,  Henry,  153  n. 
Manningham,  J.-,  13 
Marlowe,  9,  14-15,  88  seg.,  265 
Marston,  John,  16,   17,   153  and  n., 

165,  217 
Massinger,  Phlhp,  10  m. 
Masson,  D.,  258 
Meier,  K.,  253  k.,  264 
Montaigne,  250 
Munro.  J.,  165! 
Muret,  50  \ 

Nashe,  Thomas,  214 

North,  Sir  Thomas,  120,  142  n. 

OvERBURY,    Sir    Thomas,    154    seq.^ 

198 
Ovid,  115 

Peele,  George,  12 

Perott,  J.  de,  239  n.  ^ 

Pescetti,  50 

Plutarch,  39  seq.,  120  seq. 

Pooler,  Ch.  K,  119 

Radebrecht,  153  «.,  160  «.,  170  n. 
Raleigh,  Sir  Walter,  7,  74,  94,  192 
Renan,  263 
Rhys,  E.,  177  n. 


Rodin,  Auguste,  201 
Riimelin,  27-8,  107-8,  112,  113,  163, 
178-9,  191,  193,  228 

Saxo  Grammaticus,  100,  149 
Schiller,  7,  73,  113 
Schlegel,  22,  93,  98 
Sheridan,  8 
Siburg,  Bruno,  72 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  190 
Sonnenthal,  108 
Spenser,  Edmund,  189 
Spingarn,  J.  E.,  87 
Steevens,  George,  116  n. 
StoU,  E.  E.,  26,  153,  169,  212 
Suetonius,  49 
Symons,  Arthur,  126 
Synge,  J.  M.,  177 

Tatlock,  John  S.  P.,  25  «.,  57 

Thackeray,  232 

Thomdike,  A.  H.,  248-9,  259 

Thijmmel,  158  n.,  264 

Tolstoi,  87,  88,  191 

Tourneur,  Cyril,  16,  178  ».,  250 

Tiirck,  167 

Ulrici,  15,  74,  81,  82,  206,  226 

ViscHER,  Fr.  Th.,  61,  72,  83,  93, 
96,  106,  112,  118,  127,  146,  179, 
209,  214,  229 

Volkelt,  57 

Walzel,  135-6 

Wann,  L.,  10  «. 

Wetz,  36,  61,  209,  234 

Whetstone,  George,  196 

Wilson,  D.,  263 

Wolff,  M.  J.,  36-7,  56-7,  83,  89,  106, 

136,     138,    210,    220,    229,     237, 

256,  264 
Wiillner,  L.,  244 


I 


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29B9  Character  problems  in 

S38  Shakespeare's  plays 


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