although the hero perishes, the side opposed to him, being the more
faulty or evil, cannot be allowed to triumph when he falls. Otherwise
the type of construction is the same. The fortunes of Romeo and Juliet
rise and culminate in their marriage (II. vi.), and then begin to
decline before the opposition of their houses, which, aided by
accidents, produces a catastrophe, but is thereupon converted into a
remorseful reconciliation. Hamlet's cause reaches its zenith in the
success of the play-scene (III. ii.). Thereafter the reaction makes way,
and he perishes through the plot of the King and Laertes. But they are
not allowed to survive their success.
The construction in the remaining Roman plays follows the same plan, but
in both plays (as in _Richard II._ and _Richard III._) it suffers from
the intractable nature of the historical material, and is also
influenced by other causes. In _Coriolanus_ the hero reaches the topmost
point of success when he is named consul (II. iii.), and the rest of the
play shows his decline and fall; but in this decline he attains again
for a time extraordinary power, and triumphs, in a sense, over his
original adversary, though he succumbs to another. In _Antony and
Cleopatra_ the advance of the hero's cause depends on his freeing
himself from the heroine, and he appears to have succeeded when he
becomes reconciled to Octavius and marries Octavia (III. ii.); but he
returns to Egypt and is gradually driven to his death, which involves
that of the heroine.
There remain two of the greatest of the tragedies, and in both of them a
certain difficulty will be felt. _King Lear_ alone among these plays has
a distinct double action. Besides this, it is impossible, I think, from
the point of view of construction, to regard the hero as the leading
figure. If we attempt to do so, we must either find the crisis in the
First Act (for after it Lear's course is downward), and this is absurd;
or else we must say that the usual movement is present but its direction
is reversed, the hero's cause first sinking to the lowest point (in the
Storm-scenes) and then rising again. But this also will not do; for
though his fortunes may be said to rise again for a time, they rise only
to fall once more to a catastrophe. The truth is, that after the First
Act, which is really filled by the exposition, Lear suffers but hardly
initiates action at all; and the right way to look at the matter, _from
the point of view of construction_, is to regard Goneril, Regan and
Edmund as the leading characters. It is they who, in the conflict,
initiate action. Their fortune mounts to the crisis, where the old King
is driven out into the storm and loses his reason, and where Gloster is
blinded and expelled from his home (III. vi. and vii.). Then the
counter-action begins to gather force, and their cause to decline; and,
although they win the battle, they are involved in the catastrophe which
they bring on Cordelia and Lear. Thus we may still find in _King Lear_
the usual scheme of an ascending and a descending movement of one side
in the conflict.
The case of _Othello_ is more peculiar. In its whole constructional
effect _Othello_ differs from the other tragedies, and the cause of this
difference is not hard to find, and will be mentioned presently. But
how, after it is found, are we to define the principle of the
construction? On the one hand the usual method seems to show itself.
Othello's fortune certainly advances in the early part of the play, and
it may be considered to reach its topmost point in the exquisite joy of
his reunion with Desdemona in Cyprus; while soon afterwards it begins to
turn, and then falls to the catastrophe. But the topmost point thus
comes very early (II. i.), and, moreover, is but faintly marked; indeed,
it is scarcely felt as a crisis at all. And, what is still more
significant, though reached by conflict, it is not reached by conflict
with the force which afterwards destroys it. Iago, in the early scenes,
is indeed shown to cherish a design against Othello, but it is not Iago
against whom he has at first to assert himself, but Brabantio; and Iago
does not even begin to poison his mind until the third scene of the
Third Act.
Can we then, on the other hand, following the precedent of _King Lear_,
and remembering the probable chronological juxtaposition of the two
plays, regard Iago as the leading figure from the point of view of
construction? This might at first seem the right view; for it is the
case that _Othello_ resembles _King Lear_ in having a hero more acted
upon than acting, or rather a hero driven to act by being acted upon.
But then, if Iago is taken as the leading figure, the usual mode of
construction is plainly abandoned, for there will nowhere be a crisis
followed by a descending movement. Iago's cause advances, at first
slowly and quietly, then rapidly, but it does nothing but advance until
the catastrophe swallows his dupe and him together. And this way of
regarding the action does positive violence, I think, to our natural
impressions of the earlier part of the play.
I think, therefore, that the usual scheme is so far followed that the
drama represents first the rise of the hero, and then his fall. But,
however this question may be decided, one striking peculiarity remains,
and is the cause of the unique effect of _Othello_. In the first half of
the play the main conflict is merely incubating; then it bursts into
life, and goes storming, without intermission or change of direction, to
its close. Now, in this peculiarity _Othello_ is quite unlike the other
tragedies; and in the consequent effect, which is that the second half
of the drama is immeasurably more exciting than the first, it is
approached only by _Antony and Cleopatra_. I shall therefore reserve it
for separate consideration, though in proceeding to speak further of
Shakespeare's treatment of the tragic conflict I shall have to mention
some devices which are used in _Othello_ as well as in the other
tragedies.
3
Shakespeare's general plan, we have seen, is to show one set of forces
advancing, in secret or open opposition to the other, to some decisive
success, and then driven downward to defeat by the reaction it provokes.
And the advantages of this plan, as seen in such a typical instance as
_Julius Caesar_, are manifest. It conveys the movement of the conflict
to the mind with great clearness and force. It helps to produce the
impression that in his decline and fall the doer's act is returning on
his own head. And, finally, as used by Shakespeare, it makes the first
half of the play intensely interesting and dramatic. Action which
effects a striking change in an existing situation is naturally watched
with keen interest; and this we find in some of these tragedies. And the
spectacle, which others exhibit, of a purpose forming itself and, in
spite of outward obstacles and often of inward resistance, forcing its
way onward to a happy consummation or a terrible deed, not only gives
scope to that psychological subtlety in which Shakespeare is scarcely
rivalled, but is also dramatic in the highest degree.
But when the crisis has been reached there come difficulties and
dangers, which, if we put Shakespeare for the moment out of mind, are
easily seen. An immediate and crushing counter-action would, no doubt,
sustain the interest, but it would precipitate the catastrophe, and
leave a feeling that there has been too long a preparation for a final
effect so brief. What seems necessary is a momentary pause, followed by
a counter-action which mounts at first slowly, and afterwards, as it
gathers force, with quickening speed. And yet the result of this
arrangement, it would seem, must be, for a time, a decided slackening of
tension. Nor is this the only difficulty. The persons who represent the
counter-action and now take the lead, are likely to be comparatively
unfamiliar, and therefore unwelcome, to the audience; and, even if
familiar, they are almost sure to be at first, if not permanently, less
interesting than those who figured in the ascending movement, and on
whom attention has been fixed. Possibly, too, their necessary prominence
may crowd the hero into the back-ground. Hence the point of danger in
this method of construction seems to lie in that section of the play
which follows the crisis and has not yet approached the catastrophe. And
this section will usually comprise the Fourth Act, together, in some
cases, with a part of the Third and a part of the Fifth.
Shakespeare was so masterly a playwright, and had so wonderful a power
of giving life to unpromising subjects, that to a large extent he was
able to surmount this difficulty. But illustrations of it are easily to
be found in his tragedies, and it is not always surmounted. In almost
all of them we are conscious of that momentary pause in the action,
though, as we shall see, it does not generally occur _immediately_ after
the crisis. Sometimes he allows himself to be driven to keep the hero
off the stage for a long time while the counter-action is rising;
Macbeth, Hamlet and Coriolanus during about 450 lines, Lear for nearly
500, Romeo for about 550 (it matters less here, because Juliet is quite
as important as Romeo). How can a drama in which this happens compete,
in its latter part, with _Othello_? And again, how can deliberations
between Octavius, Antony and Lepidus, between Malcolm and Macduff,
between the Capulets, between Laertes and the King, keep us at the
pitch, I do not say of the crisis, but even of the action which led up
to it? Good critics--writers who have criticised Shakespeare's dramas
from within, instead of applying to them some standard ready-made by
themselves or derived from dramas and a theatre of quite other kinds
than his--have held that some of his greatest tragedies fall off in the
Fourth Act, and that one or two never wholly recover themselves. And I
believe most readers would find, if they examined their impressions,
that to their minds _Julius Caesar_, _Hamlet_, _King Lear_ and _Macbeth_
have all a tendency to 'drag' in this section of the play, and that the
first and perhaps also the last of these four fail even in the
catastrophe to reach the height of the greatest scenes that have
preceded the Fourth Act. I will not ask how far these impressions are
justified. The difficulties in question will become clearer and will
gain in interest if we look rather at the means which have been employed
to meet them, and which certainly have in part, at least, overcome them.
(_a_) The first of these is always strikingly effective, sometimes
marvellously so. The crisis in which the ascending force reaches its
zenith is followed quickly, or even without the slightest pause, by a
reverse or counter-blow not less emphatic and in some cases even more
exciting. And the effect is to make us feel a sudden and tragic change
in the direction of the movement, which, after ascending more or less
gradually, now turns sharply downward. To the assassination of Caesar
(III. i.) succeeds the scene in the Forum (III. ii.), where Antony
carries the people away in a storm of sympathy with the dead man and of
fury against the conspirators. We have hardly realised their victory
before we are forced to anticipate their ultimate defeat and to take the
liveliest interest in their chief antagonist. In _Hamlet_ the thrilling
success of the play-scene (III. ii.) is met and undone at once by the
counter-stroke of Hamlet's failure to take vengeance (III. iii.) and his
misfortune in killing Polonius (III. iv.). Coriolanus has no sooner
gained the consulship than he is excited to frenzy by the tribunes and
driven into exile. On the marriage of Romeo follows immediately the
brawl which leads to Mercutio's death and the banishment of the hero
(II. vi. and III. i.). In all of these instances excepting that of
_Hamlet_ the scene of the counter-stroke is at least as exciting as that
of the crisis, perhaps more so. Most people, if asked to mention the
scene that occupies the _centre_ of the action in _Julius Caesar_ and in
_Coriolanus_, would mention the scenes of Antony's speech and
Coriolanus' banishment. Thus that apparently necessary pause in the
action does not, in any of these dramas, come directly after the crisis.
It is deferred; and in several cases it is by various devices deferred
for some little time; _e.g._ in _Romeo and Juliet_ till the hero has
left Verona, and Juliet is told that her marriage with Paris is to take
place 'next Thursday morn' (end of Act III.); in _Macbeth_ till the
murder of Duncan has been followed by that of Banquo, and this by the
banquet-scene. Hence the point where this pause occurs is very rarely
reached before the end of the Third Act.
(_b_) Either at this point, or in the scene of the counter-stroke which
precedes it, we sometimes find a peculiar effect. We are reminded of the
state of affairs in which the conflict began. The opening of _Julius
Caesar_ warned us that, among a people so unstable and so easily led
this way or that, the enterprise of Brutus is hopeless; the days of the
Republic are done. In the scene of Antony's speech we see this same
people again. At the beginning of _Antony and Cleopatra_ the hero is
about to leave Cleopatra for Rome. Where the play takes, as it were, a
fresh start after the crisis, he leaves Octavia for Egypt. In _Hamlet_,
when the counter-stroke succeeds to the crisis, the Ghost, who had
appeared in the opening scenes, reappears. Macbeth's action in the first
part of the tragedy followed on the prediction of the Witches who
promised him the throne. When the action moves forward again after the
banquet-scene the Witches appear once more, and make those fresh
promises which again drive him forward. This repetition of a first
effect produces a fateful feeling. It generally also stimulates
expectation as to the new movement about to begin. In _Macbeth_ the
scene is, in addition, of the greatest consequence from the purely
theatrical point of view.
(_c_) It has yet another function. It shows, in Macbeth's furious
irritability and purposeless savagery, the internal reaction which
accompanies the outward decline of his fortunes. And in other plays also
the exhibition of such inner changes forms a means by which interest is
sustained in this difficult section of a tragedy. There is no point in
_Hamlet_ where we feel more hopeless than that where the hero, having
missed his chance, moralises over his irresolution and determines to
cherish now only thoughts of blood, and then departs without an effort
for England. One purpose, again, of the quarrel-scene between Brutus and
Cassius (IV. iii), as also of the appearance of Caesar's ghost just
afterwards, is to indicate the inward changes. Otherwise the
introduction of this famous and wonderful scene can hardly be defended
on strictly dramatic grounds. No one would consent to part with it, and
it is invaluable in sustaining interest during the progress of the
reaction, but it is an episode, the removal of which would not affect
the actual sequence of events (unless we may hold that, but for the
emotion caused by the quarrel and reconciliation, Cassius would not have
allowed Brutus to overcome his objection to the fatal policy of offering
battle at Philippi).
(_d_) The quarrel-scene illustrates yet another favourite expedient. In
this section of a tragedy Shakespeare often appeals to an emotion
different from any of those excited in the first half of the play, and
so provides novelty and generally also relief. As a rule this new
emotion is pathetic; and the pathos is not terrible or lacerating, but,
even if painful, is accompanied by the sense of beauty and by an outflow
of admiration or affection, which come with an inexpressible sweetness
after the tension of the crisis and the first counter-stroke. So it is
with the reconciliation of Brutus and Cassius, and the arrival of the
news of Portia's death. The most famous instance of this effect is the
scene (IV. vii.) where Lear wakes from sleep and finds Cordelia bending
over him, perhaps the most tear-compelling passage in literature.
Another is the short scene (IV. ii.) in which the talk of Lady Macduff
and her little boy is interrupted by the entrance of the murderers, a
passage of touching beauty and heroism. Another is the introduction of
Ophelia in her madness (twice in different parts of IV. v.), where the
effect, though intensely pathetic, is beautiful and moving rather than
harrowing; and this effect is repeated in a softer tone in the
description of Ophelia's death (end of Act IV.). And in _Othello_ the
passage where pathos of _this_ kind reaches its height is certainly that
where Desdemona and Emilia converse, and the willow-song is sung, on the
eve of the catastrophe (IV. iii.).
(_e_) Sometimes, again, in this section of a tragedy we find humorous or
semi-humorous passages. On the whole such passages occur most frequently
in the early or middle part of the play, which naturally grows more
sombre as it nears the close; but their occasional introduction in the
Fourth Act, and even later, affords variety and relief, and also
heightens by contrast the tragic feelings. For example, there is a touch
of comedy in the conversation of Lady Macduff with her little boy.
Purely and delightfully humorous are the talk and behaviour of the
servants in that admirable scene where Coriolanus comes disguised in
mean apparel to the house of Aufidius (IV. v.); of a more mingled kind
is the effect of the discussion between Menenius and the sentinels in V.
ii.; and in the very middle of the supreme scene between the hero,
Volumnia and Virgilia, little Marcius makes us burst out laughing (V.
iii.) A little before the catastrophe in _Hamlet_ comes the grave-digger
passage, a passage ever welcome, but of a length which could hardly be
defended on purely dramatic grounds; and still later, occupying some
hundred and twenty lines of the very last scene, we have the chatter of
Osric with Hamlet's mockery of it. But the acme of audacity is reached
in _Antony and Cleopatra_, where, quite close to the end, the old
countryman who brings the asps to Cleopatra discourses on the virtues
and vices of the worm, and where his last words, 'Yes, forsooth: I wish
you joy o' the worm,' are followed, without the intervention of a line,
by the glorious speech,
Give me my robe; put on my crown; I have
Immortal longings in me....
In some of the instances of pathos or humour just mentioned we have been
brought to that part of the play which immediately precedes, or even
contains, the catastrophe. And I will add at once three remarks which
refer specially to this final section of a tragedy.
(_f_) In several plays Shakespeare makes here an appeal which in his own
time was evidently powerful: he introduces scenes of battle. This is the
case in _Richard III._, _Julius Caesar_, _King Lear_, _Macbeth_ and
_Antony and Cleopatra_. Richard, Brutus and Cassius, and Macbeth die on
the battlefield. Even if his use of this expedient were not enough to
show that battle-scenes were extremely popular in the Elizabethan
theatre, we know it from other sources. It is a curious comment on the
futility of our spectacular effects that in our theatre these scenes, in
which we strive after an 'illusion' of which the Elizabethans never
dreamt, produce comparatively little excitement, and to many spectators
are even somewhat distasteful.[22] And although some of them thrill the
imagination of the reader, they rarely, I think, quite satisfy the
_dramatic_ sense. Perhaps this is partly because a battle is not the
most favourable place for the exhibition of tragic character; and it is
worth notice that Brutus, Cassius and Antony do not die fighting, but
commit suicide after defeat. The actual battle, however, does make us
feel the greatness of Antony, and still more does it help us to regard
Richard and Macbeth in their day of doom as heroes, and to mingle
sympathy and enthusiastic admiration with desire for their defeat.
(_g_) In some of the tragedies, again, an expedient is used, which
Freytag has pointed out (though he sometimes finds it, I think, where it
is not really employed). Shakespeare very rarely makes the least attempt
to surprise by his catastrophes. They are felt to be inevitable, though
the precise way in which they will be brought about is not, of course,
foreseen. Occasionally, however, where we dread the catastrophe because
we love the hero, a moment occurs, just before it, in which a gleam of
false hope lights up the darkening scene; and, though we know it is
false, it affects us. Far the most remarkable example is to be found in
the final Act of _King Lear_. Here the victory of Edgar and the deaths
of Edmund and the two sisters have almost made us forget the design on
the lives of Lear and Cordelia. Even when we are reminded of it there is
still room for hope that Edgar, who rushes away to the prison, will be
in time to save them; and, however familiar we are with the play, the
sudden entrance of Lear, with Cordelia dead in his arms, comes on us
with a shock. Much slighter, but quite perceptible, is the effect of
Antony's victory on land, and of the last outburst of pride and joy as
he and Cleopatra meet (IV. viii.). The frank apology of Hamlet to
Laertes, their reconciliation, and a delusive appearance of quiet and
even confident firmness in the tone of the hero's conversation with
Horatio, almost blind us to our better knowledge, and give to the
catastrophe an added pain. Those in the audience who are ignorant of
_Macbeth_, and who take more simply than most readers now can do the
mysterious prophecies concerning Birnam Wood and the man not born of
woman, feel, I imagine, just before the catastrophe, a false fear that
the hero may yet escape.
(_h_) I will mention only one point more. In some cases Shakespeare
spreads the catastrophe out, so to speak, over a considerable space, and
thus shortens that difficult section which has to show the development
of the counter-action. This is possible only where there is, besides the
hero, some character who engages our interest in the highest degree, and
with whose fate his own is bound up. Thus the murder of Desdemona is
separated by some distance from the death of Othello. The most
impressive scene in _Macbeth_, after that of Duncan's murder, is the
sleep-walking scene; and it may truly, if not literally, be said to show
the catastrophe of Lady Macbeth. Yet it is the opening scene of the
Fifth Act, and a number of scenes in which Macbeth's fate is still
approaching intervene before the close. Finally, in _Antony and
Cleopatra_ the heroine equals the hero in importance, and here the death
of Antony actually occurs in the Fourth Act, and the whole of the Fifth
is devoted to Cleopatra.
* * * * *
Let us now turn to _Othello_ and consider briefly its exceptional scheme
of construction. The advantage of this scheme is obvious. In the second
half of the tragedy there is no danger of 'dragging,' of any awkward
pause, any undue lowering of pitch, any need of scenes which, however
fine, are more or less episodic. The tension is extreme, and it is
relaxed only for brief intervals to permit of some slight relief. From
the moment when Iago begins to poison Othello's mind we hold our breath.
_Othello_ from this point onwards is certainly the most exciting of
Shakespeare's plays, unless possibly _Macbeth_ in its first part may be
held to rival it. And _Othello_ is such a masterpiece that we are
scarcely conscious of any disadvantage attending its method of
construction, and may even wonder why Shakespeare employed this
method--at any rate in its purity--in this tragedy alone. Nor is it any
answer to say that it would not elsewhere have suited his material. Even
if this be granted, how was it that he only once chose a story to which
this method was appropriate? To his eyes, or for his instinct, there
must have been some disadvantage in it. And dangers in it are in fact
not hard to see.