that now he wishes to find shelter with the child who would be in the
right even were she to condemn him to death. "If, however," he says,
"she will receive me with love, it will be God's and her work, but not
my merit." To this Cordelia says: "Oh, I know for certain that thy
daughter will lovingly receive thee."--"How canst thou know this without
knowing her?" says Leir. "I know," says Cordelia, "because not far from
here, I had a father who acted toward me as badly as thou hast acted
toward her, yet, if I were only to see his white head, I would creep to
meet him on my knees."--"No, this can not be," says Leir, "for there are
no children in the world so cruel as mine."--"Do not condemn all for the
sins of some," says Cordelia, and falls on her knees. "Look here, dear
father," she says, "look on me: I am thy loving daughter." The father
recognizes her and says: "It is not for thee, but for me, to beg thy
pardon on my knees for all my sins toward thee."
Is there anything approaching this exquisite scene in Shakespeare's
drama?
However strange this opinion may seem to worshipers of Shakespeare, yet
the whole of this old drama is incomparably and in every respect
superior to Shakespeare's adaptation. It is so, first, because it has
not got the utterly superfluous characters of the villain Edmund and
unlifelike Gloucester and Edgar, who only distract one's attention;
secondly because it has not got the completely false "effects" of Lear
running about the heath, his conversations with the fool, and all these
impossible disguises, failures to recognize, and accumulated deaths;
and, above all, because in this drama there is the simple, natural, and
deeply touching character of Leir and the yet more touching and clearly
defined character of Cordelia, both absent in Shakespeare. Therefore,
there is in the older drama, instead of Shakespeare's long-drawn scene
of Lear's interview with Cordelia and of Cordelia's unnecessary murder,
the exquisite scene of the interview between Leir and Cordelia,
unequaled by any in all Shakespeare's dramas.
The old drama also terminates more naturally and more in accordance with
the moral demands of the spectator than does Shakespeare's, namely, by
the King of the Gauls conquering the husbands of the elder sisters, and
Cordelia, instead of being killed, restoring Leir to his former
position.
Thus it is in the drama we are examining, which Shakespeare has borrowed
from the drama "King Leir." So it is also with Othello, taken from an
Italian romance, the same also with the famous Hamlet. The same with
Antony, Brutus, Cleopatra, Shylock, Richard, and all Shakespeare's
characters, all taken from some antecedent work. Shakespeare, while
profiting by characters already given in preceding dramas, or romances,
chronicles, or, Plutarch's "Lives," not only fails to render them more
truthful and vivid, as his eulogists affirm, but, on the contrary,
always weakens them and often completely destroys them, as with Lear,
compelling his characters to commit actions unnatural to them, and,
above all, to utter speeches natural neither to them nor to any one
whatever. Thus, in "Othello," altho that is, perhaps, I will not say the
best, but the least bad and the least encumbered by pompous volubility,
the characters of Othello, Iago, Cassio, Emilia, according to
Shakespeare, are much less natural and lifelike than in the Italian
romance. Shakespeare's Othello suffers from epilepsy, of which he has an
attack on the stage; moreover, in Shakespeare's version, Desdemona's
murder is preceded by the strange vow of the kneeling Othello. Othello,
according to Shakespeare, is a negro and not a Moor. All this is
erratic, inflated, unnatural, and violates the unity of the character.
All this is absent in the romance. In that romance the reasons for
Othello's jealousy are represented more naturally than in Shakespeare.
In the romance, Cassio, knowing whose the handkerchief is, goes to
Desdemona to return it, but, approaching the back-door of Desdemona's
house, sees Othello and flies from him. Othello perceives the escaping
Cassio, and this, more than anything, confirms his suspicions.
Shakespeare has not got this, and yet this casual incident explains
Othello's jealousy more than anything else. With Shakespeare, this
jealousy is founded entirely on Iago's persistent, successful
machinations and treacherous words, which Othello blindly believes.
Othello's monolog over the sleeping Desdemona, about his desiring her
when killed to look as she is alive, about his going to love her even
dead, and now wishing to smell her "balmy breath," etc., is utterly
impossible. A man who is preparing for the murder of a beloved being,
does not utter such phrases, still less after committing the murder
would he speak about the necessity of an eclipse of sun and moon, and of
the globe yawning; nor can he, negro tho he may be, address devils,
inviting them to burn him in hot sulphur and so forth. Lastly, however
effective may be the suicide, absent in the romance, it completely
destroys the conception of his clearly defined character. If he indeed
suffered from grief and remorse, he would not, intending to kill
himself, pronounce phrases about his own services, about the pearl, and
about his eyes dropping tears "_as fast as the Arabian trees their
medicinal gum_"; and yet less about the Turk's beating an Italian and
how he, Othello, smote him--_thus!_ So that notwithstanding the powerful
expression of emotion in Othello when, under the influence of Iago's
hints, jealousy rises in him, and again in his scenes with Desdemona,
one's conception of Othello's character is constantly infringed by his
false pathos and the unnatural speeches he pronounces.
So it is with the chief character, Othello, but notwithstanding its
alteration and the disadvantageous features which it is made thereby to
present in comparison with the character from which it was taken in the
romance, this character still remains a character, but all the other
personages are completely spoiled by Shakespeare.
Iago, according to Shakespeare, is an unmitigated villain, deceiver, and
thief, a robber who robs Roderigo and always succeeds even in his most
impossible designs, and therefore is a person quite apart from real
life. In Shakespeare, the motive of his villainy is, first, that Othello
did not give him the post he desired; secondly, that he suspects Othello
of an intrigue with his wife and, thirdly, that, as he says, he feels a
strange kind of love for Desdemona. There are many motives, but they are
all vague. Whereas in the romance there is but one simple and clear
motive, Iago's passionate love for Desdemona, transmitted into hatred
toward her and Othello after she had preferred the Moor to him and
resolutely repulsed him. Yet more unnatural is the utterly unnecessary
Roderigo whom Iago deceives and robs, promising him Desdemona's love,
and whom he forces to fulfil all he commands: to intoxicate Cassio,
provoke and then kill Cassio. Emilia, who says anything it may occur to
the author to put into her mouth, has not even the slightest semblance
of a live character.
"But Falstaff, the wonderful Falstaff," Shakespeare's eulogists will
say, "of him, at all events, one can not say that he is not a living
character, or that, having been taken from the comedy of an unknown
author, it has been weakened."
Falstaff, like all Shakespeare's characters, was taken from a drama or
comedy by an unknown author, written on a really living person, Sir John
Oldcastle, who had been the friend of some duke. This Oldcastle had once
been convicted of heresy, but had been saved by his friend the duke. But
afterward he was condemned and burned at the stake for his religious
beliefs, which did not conform with Catholicism. It was on this same
Oldcastle that an anonymous author, in order to please the Catholic
public, wrote a comedy or drama, ridiculing this martyr for his faith
and representing him as a good-for-nothing man, the boon companion of
the duke, and it is from this comedy that Shakespeare borrowed, not
only the character of Falstaff, but also his own ironical attitude
toward it. In Shakespeare's first works, when this character appeared,
it was frankly called "Oldcastle," but later, in Elizabeth's time, when
Protestantism again triumphed, it was awkward to bring out with mockery
a martyr in the strife with Catholicism, and, besides, Oldcastle's
relatives had protested, and Shakespeare accordingly altered the name of
Oldcastle to that of Falstaff, also a historical figure, known for
having fled from the field of battle at Agincourt.
Falstaff is, indeed, quite a natural and typical character; but then it
is perhaps the only natural and typical character depicted by
Shakespeare. And this character is natural and typical because, of all
Shakespeare's characters, it alone speaks a language proper to itself.
And it speaks thus because it speaks in that same Shakespearian
language, full of mirthless jokes and unamusing puns which, being
unnatural to all Shakespeare's other characters, is quite in harmony
with the boastful, distorted, and depraved character of the drunken
Falstaff. For this reason alone does this figure truly represent a
definite character. Unfortunately, the artistic effect of this character
is spoilt by the fact that it is so repulsive by its gluttony,
drunkenness, debauchery, rascality, deceit, and cowardice, that it is
difficult to share the feeling of gay humor with which the author treats
it. Thus it is with Falstaff.
But in none of Shakespeare's figures is his, I will not say incapacity
to give, but utter indifference to giving, his personages a typical
character so strikingly manifest as in Hamlet; and in connection with
none of Shakespeare's works do we see so strikingly displayed that blind
worship of Shakespeare, that unreasoning state of hypnotism owing to
which the mere thought even is not admitted that any of Shakespeare's
productions can be wanting in genius, or that any of the principal
personages in his dramas can fail to be the expression of a new and
deeply conceived character.
Shakespeare takes an old story, not bad in its way, relating:
"Avec quelle ruse Amlette qui depuis fut Roy de Dannemarch, vengea la
mort de son pere Horwendille, occis par Fengon son frere, et autre
occurrence de son histoire," or a drama which was written on this theme
fifteen years before him. On this subject he writes his own drama,
introducing quite inappropriately (as indeed he always does) into the
mouth of the principal person all those thoughts of his own which
appeared to him worthy of attention. And putting into the mouth of his
hero these thoughts: about life (the grave-digger), about death (To be
or not to be)--the same which are expressed in his sixty-sixth
sonnet--about the theater, about women. He is utterly unconcerned as to
the circumstances under which these words are said, and it naturally
turns out that the person expressing all these thoughts is a mere
phonograph of Shakespeare, without character, whose actions and words do
not agree.
In the old legend, Hamlet's personality is quite comprehensible: he is
indignant at his mother's and his uncle's deeds, and wishes to revenge
himself upon them, but is afraid his uncle may kill him as he had killed
his father. Therefore he simulates insanity, desiring to bide his time
and observe all that goes on in the palace. Meanwhile, his uncle and
mother, being afraid of him, wish to test whether he is feigning or is
really mad, and send to him a girl whom he loves. He persists, then sees
his mother in private, kills a courtier who was eavesdropping, and
convicts his mother of her sin. Afterward he is sent to England, but
intercepts letters and, returning from England, takes revenge of his
enemies, burning them all.
All this is comprehensible and flows from Hamlet's character and
position. But Shakespeare, putting into Hamlet's mouth speeches which he
himself wishes to express, and making him commit actions which are
necessary to the author in order to produce scenic effects, destroys all
that constitutes the character of Hamlet and of the legend. During the
whole of the drama, Hamlet is doing, not what he would really wish to
do, but what is necessary for the author's plan. One moment he is
awe-struck at his father's ghost, another moment he begins to chaff it,
calling it "old mole"; one moment he loves Ophelia, another moment he
teases her, and so forth. There is no possibility of finding any
explanation whatever of Hamlet's actions or words, and therefore no
possibility of attributing any character to him.
But as it is recognized that Shakespeare the genius can not write
anything bad, therefore learned people use all the powers of their minds
to find extraordinary beauties in what is an obvious and crying failure,
demonstrated with especial vividness in "Hamlet," where the principal
figure has no character whatever. And lo! profound critics declare that
in this drama, in the person of Hamlet, is expressed singularly
powerful, perfectly novel, and deep personality, existing in this person
having no character; and that precisely in this absence of character
consists the genius of creating a deeply conceived character. Having
decided this, learned critics write volumes upon volumes, so that the
praise and explanation of the greatness and importance of the
representation of the character of a man who has no character form in
volume a library. It is true that some of the critics timidly express
the idea that there is something strange in this figure, that Hamlet is
an unsolved riddle, but no one has the courage to say (as in Hans
Andersen's story) that the King is naked--_i.e._, that it is as clear as
day that Shakespeare did not succeed and did not even wish to give any
character to Hamlet, did not even understand that this was necessary.
And learned critics continue to investigate and extol this puzzling
production, which reminds one of the famous stone with an inscription
which Pickwick found near a cottage doorstep, and which divided the
scientific world into two hostile camps.
So that neither do the characters of Lear nor Othello nor Falstaff nor
yet Hamlet in any way confirm the existing opinion that Shakespeare's
power consists in the delineation of character.
If in Shakespeare's dramas one does meet figures having certain
characteristic features, for the most part secondary figures, such as
Polonius in "Hamlet" and Portia in "The Merchant of Venice," these few
lifelike characters among five hundred or more other secondary figures,
with the complete absence of character in the principal figures, do not
at all prove that the merit of Shakespeare's dramas consists in the
expression of character.
That a great talent for depicting character is attributed to Shakespeare
arises from his actually possessing a peculiarity which, for superficial
observers and in the play of good actors, may appear to be the capacity
of depicting character. This peculiarity consists in the capacity of
representative scenes expressing the play of emotion. However unnatural
the positions may be in which he places his characters, however improper
to them the language which he makes them speak, however featureless they
are, the very play of emotion, its increase, and alteration, and the
combination of many contrary feelings, as expressed correctly and
powerfully in some of Shakespeare's scenes, and in the play of good
actors, evokes even, if only for a time, sympathy with the persons
represented. Shakespeare, himself an actor, and an intelligent man, knew
how to express by the means not only of speech, but of exclamation,
gesture, and the repetition of words, states of mind and developments or
changes of feeling taking place in the persons represented. So that, in
many instances, Shakespeare's characters, instead of speaking, merely
make an exclamation, or weep, or in the middle of a monolog, by means of
gestures, demonstrate the pain of their position (just as Lear asks some
one to unbutton him), or, in moments of great agitation, repeat a
question several times, or several times demand the repetition of a word
which has particularly struck them, as do Othello, Macduff, Cleopatra,
and others. Such clever methods of expressing the development of
feeling, giving good actors the possibility of demonstrating their
powers, were, and are, often mistaken by many critics for the expression
of character. But however strongly the play of feeling may be expressed
in one scene, a single scene can not give the character of a figure when
this figure, after a correct exclamation or gesture, begins in a
language not its own, at the author's arbitrary will, to volubly utter
words which are neither necessary nor in harmony with its character.
V
"Well, but the profound utterances and sayings expressed by
Shakespeare's characters," Shakespeare's panegyrists will retort. "See
Lear's monolog on punishment, Kent's speech about vengeance, or Edgar's
about his former life, Gloucester's reflections on the instability of
fortune, and, in other dramas, the famous monologs of Hamlet, Antony,
and others."
Thoughts and sayings may be appreciated, I will answer, in a prose work,
in an essay, a collection of aphorisms, but not in an artistic dramatic
production, the object of which is to elicit sympathy with that which is
represented. Therefore the monologs and sayings of Shakespeare, even did
they contain very many deep and new thoughts, which they do not, do not
constitute the merits of an artistic, poetic production. On the
contrary, these speeches, expressed in unnatural conditions, can only
spoil artistic works.
An artistic, poetic work, particularly a drama, must first of all excite
in the reader or spectator the illusion that whatever the person
represented is living through, or experiencing, is lived through or
experienced by himself. For this purpose it is as important for the
dramatist to know precisely what he should make his characters both do
and say as what he should not make them say and do, so as not to destroy
the illusion of the reader or spectator. Speeches, however eloquent and
profound they may be, when put into the mouth of dramatic characters, if
they be superfluous or unnatural to the position and character, destroy
the chief condition of dramatic art--the illusion, owing to which the
reader or spectator lives in the feelings of the persons represented.
Without putting an end to the illusion, one may leave much unsaid--the
reader or spectator will himself fill this up, and sometimes, owing to
this, his illusion is even increased, but to say what is superfluous is
the same as to overthrow a statue composed of separate pieces and
thereby scatter them, or to take away the lamp from a magic lantern: the
attention of the reader or spectator is distracted, the reader sees the
author, the spectator sees the actor, the illusion disappears, and to
restore it is sometimes impossible; therefore without the feeling of
measure there can not be an artist, and especially a dramatist.
Shakespeare is devoid of this feeling. His characters continually do and
say what is not only unnatural to them, but utterly unnecessary. I do
not cite examples of this, because I believe that he who does not
himself see this striking deficiency in all Shakespeare's dramas will
not be persuaded by any examples and proofs. It is sufficient to read
"King Lear," alone, with its insanity, murders, plucking out of eyes,
Gloucester's jump, its poisonings, and wranglings--not to mention
"Pericles," "Cymbeline," "The Winter's Tale," "The Tempest"--to be
convinced of this. Only a man devoid of the sense of measure and of
taste could produce such types as "Titus Andronicus" or "Troilus and
Cressida," or so mercilessly mutilate the old drama "King Leir."
Gervinus endeavors to prove that Shakespeare possessed the feeling of
beauty, "Schoenheit's sinn," but all Gervinus's proofs prove only that he
himself, Gervinus, is completely destitute of it. In Shakespeare
everything is exaggerated: the actions are exaggerated, so are their
consequences, the speeches of the characters are exaggerated, and
therefore at every step the possibility of artistic impression is
interfered with. Whatever people may say, however they may be enraptured
by Shakespeare's works, whatever merits they may attribute to them, it
is perfectly certain that he was not an artist and that his works are
not artistic productions. Without the sense of measure, there never was
nor can be an artist, as without the feeling of rhythm there can not be
a musician. Shakespeare might have been whatever you like, but he was
not an artist.
"But one should not forget the time at which Shakespeare wrote," say his
admirers. "It was a time of cruel and coarse habits, a time of the then
fashionable euphemism, _i.e._, artificial way of expressing oneself--a
time of forms of life strange to us, and therefore, to judge about
Shakespeare, one should have in view the time when he wrote. In Homer,
as in Shakespeare, there is much which is strange to us, but this does
not prevent us from appreciating the beauties of Homer," say these
admirers. But in comparing Shakespeare with Homer, as does Gervinus,
that infinite distance which separates true poetry from its semblance
manifests itself with especial force. However distant Homer is from us,
we can, without the slightest effort, transport ourselves into the life
he describes, and we can thus transport ourselves because, however alien
to us may be the events Homer describes, he believes in what he says and
speaks seriously, and therefore he never exaggerates, and the sense of
measure never abandons him. This is the reason why, not to speak of the
wonderfully distinct, lifelike, and beautiful characters of Achilles,
Hector, Priam, Odysseus, and the eternally touching scenes of Hector's
leave-taking, of Priam's embassy, of Odysseus's return, and others--the
whole of the "Iliad" and still more the "Odyssey" are so humanly near to
us that we feel as if we ourselves had lived, and are living, among its
gods and heroes. Not so with Shakespeare. From his first words,
exaggeration is seen: the exaggeration of events, the exaggeration of
emotion, and the exaggeration of effects. One sees at once that he does
not believe in what he says, that it is of no necessity to him, that he
invents the events he describes, and is indifferent to his
characters--that he has conceived them only for the stage and therefore
makes them do and say only what may strike his public; and therefore we
do not believe either in the events, or in the actions, or in the
sufferings of the characters. Nothing demonstrates so clearly the
complete absence of esthetic feeling in Shakespeare as comparison
between him and Homer. The works which we call the works of Homer are
artistic, poetic, original works, lived through by the author or
authors; whereas the works of Shakespeare--borrowed as they are, and,
externally, like mosaics, artificially fitted together piecemeal from
bits invented for the occasion--have nothing whatever in common with art
and poetry.
VI
But, perhaps, the height of Shakespeare's conception of life is such
that, tho he does not satisfy the esthetic demands, he discloses to us a
view of life so new and important for men that, in consideration of its
importance, all his failures as an artist become imperceptible. So,
indeed, say Shakespeare's admirers. Gervinus says distinctly that
besides Shakespeare's significance in the sphere of dramatic poetry in
which, according to his opinion, Shakespeare equals "Homer in the sphere
of Epos, Shakespeare being the very greatest judge of the human soul,
represents a teacher of most indisputable ethical authority and the most
select leader in the world and in life."
In what, then, consists this indisputable authority of the most select
leader in the world and in life? Gervinus devotes the concluding chapter
of his second volume, about fifty pages, to an explanation of this.
The ethical authority of this supreme teacher of life consists in the
following: The starting point of Shakespeare's conception of life, says
Gervinus, is that man is gifted with powers of activity, and therefore,
first of all, according to Gervinus, Shakespeare regarded it as good and
necessary for man that he should act (as if it were possible for a man
not to act):
"Die thatkraeftigen Maenner, Fortinbras, Bolingbroke, Alcibiades, Octavius
spielen hier die gegensaetzlichen Rollen gegen die verschiedenen
thatlosen; nicht ihre Charaktere verdienen ihnen Allen ihr Glueck und
Gedeihen etwa durch eine grosse Ueberlegenheit ihrer Natur, sondern
trotz ihrer geringeren Anlage stellt sich ihre Thatkraft an sich ueber
die Unthaetigkeit der Anderen hinaus, gleichviel aus wie schoener Quelle
diese Passivitaet, aus wie schlechter jene Thaetigkeit fliesse."
_I.e._, active people, like Fortinbras, Bolingbroke, Alcibiades,
Octavius, says Gervinus, are placed in contrast, by Shakespeare, with
various characters who do not exhibit energetic activity. And happiness
and success, according to Shakespeare, are attained by individuals
possessing this active character, not at all owing to the superiority
of their nature; on the contrary, notwithstanding their inferior gifts,
the capacity of activity itself always gives them the advantage over
inactivity, quite independent of any consideration whether the
inactivity of some persons flows from excellent impulses and the
activity of others from bad ones. "Activity is good, inactivity is evil.
Activity transforms evil into good," says Shakespeare, according to
Gervinus. Shakespeare prefers the principle of Alexander (of Macedonia)
to that of Diogenes, says Gervinus. In other words, he prefers death and
murder due to ambition, to abstinence and wisdom.
According to Gervinus, Shakespeare believes that humanity need not set
up ideals, but that only healthy activity and the golden mean are
necessary in everything. Indeed, Shakespeare is so penetrated by this
conviction that, according to Gervinus's assertion, he allows himself to
deny even Christian morality, which makes exaggerated demands on human
nature. Shakespeare, as we read, did not approve of limits of duty
exceeding the intentions of nature. He teaches the golden mean between
heathen hatred to one's enemies and Christian love toward them (pp.
561, 562). How far Shakespeare was penetrated with this fundamental
principle of _reasonable moderation_, says Gervinus, can be seen from
the fact that he has the courage to express himself even against the
Christian rules which prompt human nature to the excessive exertion of
its powers. He did not admit that the limits of duties should exceed the
biddings of Nature. Therefore he preached a reasonable mean natural to
man, between Christian and heathen precepts, of love toward one's
enemies on the one hand, and hatred toward them on the other.
That one may do too much good (exceed the reasonable limits of good) is
convincingly proved by Shakespeare's words and examples. Thus excessive
generosity ruins Timon, while Antonio's moderate generosity confers
honor; normal ambition makes Henry V. great, whereas it ruins Percy, in
whom it has risen too high; excessive virtue leads Angelo to
destruction, and if, in those who surround him, excessive severity
becomes harmful and can not prevent crime, on the other hand the divine
element in man, even charity, if it be excessive, can create crime.
Shakespeare taught, says Gervinus, that one _may be too good_.
He teaches that morality, like politics, is a matter in which, owing to
the complexity of circumstances and motives, one can not establish any
principles (p. 563), and in this he agrees with Bacon and
Aristotle--there are no positive religious and moral laws which may
create principles for correct moral conduct suitable for all cases.
Gervinus most clearly expresses the whole of Shakespeare's moral theory
by saying that Shakespeare does not write for those classes for whom
definite religious principles and laws are suitable (_i.e._, for nine
hundred and ninety-nine one-thousandths of men) but for the educated:
"There are classes of men whose morality is best guarded by the positive
precepts of religion and state law; to such persons Shakespeare's
creations are inaccessible. They are comprehensible and accessible only
to the educated, from whom one can expect that they should acquire the
healthy tact of life and self-consciousness by means of which the innate
guiding powers of conscience and reason, uniting with the will, lead us
to the definite attainment of worthy aims in life. But even for such
educated people, Shakespeare's teaching is not always without danger.
The condition on which his teaching is quite harmless is that it should
be accepted in all its completeness, in all its parts, without any
omission. Then it is not only without danger, but is the most clear and
faultless and therefore the most worthy of confidence of all moral
teaching" (p. 564).
In order thus to accept all, one should understand that, according to
his teaching, it is stupid and harmful for the individual to revolt
against, or endeavor to overthrow, the limits of established religious
and state forms. "Shakespeare," says Gervinus, "would abhor an
independent and free individual who, with a powerful spirit, should
struggle against all convention in politics and morality and overstep
that union between religion and the State which has for thousands of
years supported society. According to his views, the practical wisdom of
men could not have a higher object than the introduction into society of
the greatest spontaneity and freedom, but precisely because of this one
should safeguard as sacred and irrefragable the natural laws of
society--one should respect the existing order of things and,
continually verifying it, inculcate its rational sides, not overlooking
nature for the sake of culture, or _vice versa_" (p. 566). Property, the
family, the state, are sacred; but aspiration toward the recognition of
the equality of men is insanity. Its realization would bring humanity to
the greatest calamities. No one struggled more than Shakespeare against
the privileges of rank and position, but could this freethinking man
resign himself to the privileges of the wealthy and educated being
destroyed in order to give room to the poor and ignorant? How could a
man who so eloquently attracts people toward honors, permit that the
very aspiration toward that which was great be crushed together with
rank and distinction for services, and, with the destruction of all
degrees, "the motives for all high undertakings be stifled"? Even if the
attraction of honors and false power treacherously obtained were to
cease, could the poet admit of the most dreadful of all violence, that
of the ignorant crowd? He saw that, thanks to this equality now
preached, everything may pass into violence, and violence into arbitrary
acts and thence into unchecked passion which will rend the world as the
wolf does its prey, and in the end the world will swallow itself up.
Even if this does not happen with mankind when it attains equality--if
the love of nations and eternal peace prove not to be that impossible
"nothing," as Alonso expressed it in "The Tempest"--but if, on the
contrary, the actual attainment of aspirations toward equality is
possible, then the poet would deem that the old age and extinction of
the world had approached, and that, therefore, for active individuals,
it is not worth while to live (pp. 571, 572).
Such is Shakespeare's view of life as demonstrated by his greatest
exponent and admirer.
Another of the most modern admirers of Shakespeare, George Brandes,
further sets forth:[2]
"No one, of course, can conserve his life quite pure from evil, from
deceit, and from the injury of others, but evil and deceit are not
always vices, and even the evil caused to others, is not necessarily a
vice: it is often merely a necessity, a legitimate weapon, a right. And
indeed, Shakespeare always held that there are no unconditional
prohibitions, nor unconditional duties. For instance, he did not doubt
Hamlet's right to kill the King, nor even his right to stab Polonius to
death, and yet he could not restrain himself from an overwhelming
feeling of indignation and repulsion when, looking around, he saw
everywhere how incessantly the most elementary moral laws were being
infringed. Now, in his mind there was formed, as it were, a closely
riveted ring of thoughts concerning which he had always vaguely felt:
such unconditional commandments do not exist; the quality and
significance of an act, not to speak of a character, do not depend upon
their enactment or infringement; the whole substance lies in the
contents with which the separate individual, at the moment of his
decision and on his own responsibility, fills up the form of these
laws."
In other words, Shakespeare at last clearly saw that the moral of the
_aim_ is the only true and possible one; so that, according to Brandes,
Shakespeare's fundamental principle, for which he extols him, is that
_the end justifies the means_--action at all costs, the absence of all
ideals, moderation in everything, the conservation of the forms of life
once established, and the end justifying the means. If you add to this a
Chauvinist English patriotism, expressed in all the historical dramas, a
patriotism according to which the English throne is something sacred,
Englishmen always vanquishing the French, killing thousands and losing
only scores, Joan of Arc regarded as a witch, and the belief that Hector
and all the Trojans, from whom the English came, are heroes, while the
Greeks are cowards and traitors, and so forth,--such is the view of life
of the wisest teacher of life according to his greatest admirers. And he
who will attentively read Shakespeare's works can not fail to recognize
that the description of this Shakespearian view of life by his admirers
is quite correct.
The merit of every poetic work depends on three things:
(1) The subject of the work: the deeper the subject, _i.e._, the more
important it is to the life of mankind, the higher is the work.
(2) The external beauty achieved by technical methods proper to the
particular kind of art. Thus, in dramatic art, the technical method will
be a true individuality of language, corresponding to the characters, a
natural, and at the same time touching plot, a correct scenic rendering
of the demonstration and development of emotion, and the feeling of
measure in all that is represented.
(3) Sincerity, _i.e._, that the author should himself keenly feel what
he expresses. Without this condition there can be no work of art, as the
essence of art consists in the contemplation of the work of art being
infected with the author's feeling. If the author does not actually feel
what he expresses, then the recipient can not become infected with the
feeling of the author, does not experience any feeling, and the
production can no longer be classified as a work of art.
The subject of Shakespeare's pieces, as is seen from the demonstrations
of his greatest admirers, is the lowest, most vulgar view of life, which
regards the external elevation of the lords of the world as a genuine
distinction, despises the crowd, _i.e._, the working
classes--repudiates not only all religious, but also all humanitarian,
strivings directed to the betterment of the existing order.
The second condition also, with the exception of the rendering of the
scenes in which the movement of feelings is expressed, is quite absent
in Shakespeare. He does not grasp the natural character of the positions
of his personages, nor the language of the persons represented, nor the
feeling of measure without which no work can be artistic.
The third and most important condition, sincerity, is completely absent
in all Shakespeare's works. In all of them one sees intentional
artifice; one sees that he is not _in earnest_, but that he is playing
with words.
VII
Shakespeare's works do not satisfy the demands of all art, and, besides
this, their tendency is of the lowest and most immoral. What then
signifies the great fame these works have enjoyed for more than a
hundred years?
Many times during my life I have had occasion to argue about Shakespeare
with his admirers, not only with people little sensitive to poetry, but
with those who keenly felt poetic beauty, such as Turgenef, Fet,[3] and
others, and every time I encountered one and the same attitude toward my
objection to the praises of Shakespeare. I was not refuted when I
pointed out Shakespeare's defects; they only condoled with me for my
want of comprehension, and urged upon me the necessity of recognizing
the extraordinary supernatural grandeur of Shakespeare, and they did not
explain to me in what the beauties of Shakespeare consisted, but were
merely vaguely and exaggeratedly enraptured with the whole of
Shakespeare, extolling some favorite passages: the unbuttoning of Lear's
button, Falstaff's lying, Lady Macbeth's ineffaceable spots, Hamlet's
exhortation to his father's ghost, "forty thousand brothers," etc.
"Open Shakespeare," I used to say to these admirers, "wherever you like,
or wherever it may chance, you will see that you will never find ten
consecutive lines which are comprehensible, unartificial, natural to the
character that says them, and which produce an artistic impression."
(This experiment may be made by any one. And either at random, or
according to their own choice.) Shakespeare's admirers opened pages in
Shakespeare's dramas, and without paying any attention to my criticisms
as to why the selected ten lines did not satisfy the most elementary
demands of esthetic and common sense, they were enchanted with the very
thing which to me appeared absurd, incomprehensible, and inartistic. So
that, in general, when I endeavored to get from Shakespeare's worshipers
an explanation of his greatness, I met in them exactly the same
attitude which I have met, and which is usually met, in the defenders of
any dogmas accepted not through reason, but through faith. It is this
attitude of Shakespeare's admirers toward their object--an attitude
which may be seen also in all the mistily indefinite essays and
conversations about Shakespeare--which gave me the key to the
understanding of the cause of Shakespeare's fame. There is but one
explanation of this wonderful fame: it is one of those epidemic
"suggestions" to which men constantly have been and are subject. Such
"suggestion" always has existed and does exist in the most varied
spheres of life. As glaring instances, considerable in scope and in
deceitful influence, one may cite the medieval Crusades which afflicted,
not only adults, but even children, and the individual "suggestions,"
startling in their senselessness, such as faith in witches, in the
utility of torture for the discovery of the truth, the search for the
elixir of life, the philosopher's stone, or the passion for tulips
valued at several thousand guldens a bulb which took hold of Holland.
Such irrational "suggestions" always have been existing, and still
exist, in all spheres of human life--religious, philosophical,
political, economical, scientific, artistic, and, in general,
literary--and people clearly see the insanity of these suggestions only
when they free themselves from them. But, as long as they are under
their influence, the suggestions appear to them so certain, so true,
that to argue about them is regarded as neither necessary nor possible.
With the development of the printing press, these epidemics became
especially striking.
With the development of the press, it has now come to pass that so soon
as any event, owing to casual circumstances, receives an especially
prominent significance, immediately the organs of the press announce
this significance. As soon as the press has brought forward the
significance of the event, the public devotes more and more attention to
it. The attention of the public prompts the press to examine the event
with greater attention and in greater detail. The interest of the public
further increases, and the organs of the press, competing with one
another, satisfy the public demand. The public is still more
interested; the press attributes yet more significance to the event. So
that the importance of the event, continually growing, like a lump of
snow, receives an appreciation utterly inappropriate to its real
significance, and this appreciation, often exaggerated to insanity, is
retained so long as the conception of life of the leaders of the press
and of the public remains the same. There are innumerable examples of
such an inappropriate estimation which, in our time, owing to the mutual
influence of press and public on one another, is attached to the most
insignificant subjects. A striking example of such mutual influence of
the public and the press was the excitement in the case of Dreyfus,
which lately caught hold of the whole world.
The suspicion arose that some captain of the French staff was guilty of
treason. Whether because this particular captain was a Jew, or because
of some special internal party disagreements in French society, the
press attached a somewhat prominent interest to this event, whose like
is continually occurring without attracting any one's attention, and
without being able to interest even the French military, still less the
whole world. The public turned its attention to this incident, the
organs of the press, mutually competing, began to describe, examine,
discuss the event; the public was yet more interested; the press
answered to the demand of the public, and the lump of snow began to grow
and grow, till before our eyes it attained such a bulk that there was
not a family where controversies did not rage about "l'affaire." The
caricature by Caran d'Ache representing at first a peaceful family
resolved to talk no more about Dreyfus, and then, like exasperated
furies, members of the same family fighting with each other, quite
correctly expressed the attitude of the whole of the reading world to
the question about Dreyfus. People of foreign nationalities, who could
not be interested in the question whether a French officer was a traitor
or not--people, moreover, who could know nothing of the development of
the case--all divided themselves for and against Dreyfus, and the moment
they met they talked and argued about Dreyfus, some asserting his guilt
with assurance, others denying it with equal assurance. Only after the
lapse of some years did people begin to awake from the "suggestion" and
to understand that they could not possibly know whether Dreyfus was
guilty or not, and that each one had thousands of subjects much more
near to him and interesting than the case of Dreyfus.
Such infatuations take place in all spheres, but they are especially
noticeable in the sphere of literature, as the press naturally occupies
itself the more keenly with the affairs of the press, and they are
particularly powerful in our time when the press has received such an
unnatural development. It continually happens that people suddenly begin
to extol some most insignificant works, in exaggerated language, and
then, if these works do not correspond to the prevailing view of life,
they suddenly become utterly indifferent to them, and forget both the
works themselves and their former attitude toward them.
So within my recollection, in the forties, there was in the sphere of
art the laudation and glorification of Eugene Sue, and Georges Sand; and
in the social sphere Fourier; in the philosophical sphere, Comte and
Hegel; in the scientific sphere, Darwin.
Sue is quite forgotten, Georges Sand is being forgotten and replaced by
the writings of Zola and the Decadents, Beaudelaire, Verlaine,
Maeterlinck, and others. Fourier with his phalansteries is quite
forgotten, his place being taken by Marx. Hegel, who justified the
existing order, and Comte, who denied the necessity of religious
activity in mankind, and Darwin with his law of struggle, still hold on,
but are beginning to be forgotten, being replaced by the teaching of
Nietzsche, which, altho utterly extravagant, unconsidered, misty, and
vicious in its bearing, yet corresponds better with existing tendencies.
Thus sometimes artistic, philosophic, and, in general, literary crazes
suddenly arise and are as quickly forgotten. But it also happens that
such crazes, having arisen in consequence of special reasons
accidentally favoring to their establishment, correspond in such a
degree to the views of life spread in society, and especially in
literary circles, that they are maintained for a long time. As far back
as in the time of Rome, it was remarked that often books have their own
very strange fates: consisting in failure notwithstanding their high
merits, and in enormous undeserved success notwithstanding their
triviality. The saying arose: "pro captu lectoris habent sua fata
libelli"--_i.e._, that the fate of books depends on the understanding of
those who read them. There was harmony between Shakespeare's writings
and the view of life of those amongst whom his fame arose. And this fame
has been, and still is, maintained owing to Shakespeare's works
continuing to correspond to the life concept of those who support this
fame.
Until the end of the eighteenth century Shakespeare not only failed to
gain any special fame in England, but was valued less than his
contemporary dramatists: Ben Jonson, Fletcher, Beaumont, and others. His
fame originated in Germany, and thence was transferred to England. This
happened for the following reason:
Art, especially dramatic art, demanding for its realization great
preparations, outlays, and labor, was always religious, _i.e._, its
object was to stimulate in men a clearer conception of that relation of
man to God which had, at that time, been attained by the leading men of
the circles interested in art.
So it was bound to be from its own nature, and so, as a matter of fact,
has it always been among all nations--Egyptians, Hindus, Chinese,
Greeks--commencing in some remote period of human life. And it has
always happened that, with the coarsening of religious forms, art has
more and more diverged from its original object (according to which it
could be regarded as an important function--almost an act of worship),
and, instead of serving religious objects, it strove for worldly aims,
seeking to satisfy the demands of the crowd or of the powerful, _i.e._,
the aims of recreation and amusement. This deviation of art from its
true and high vocation took place everywhere, and even in connection
with Christianity.
The first manifestations of Christian art were services in churches: in
the administration of the sacraments and the ordinary liturgy. When, in
course of time, the forms of art as used in worship became insufficient,
there appeared the Mysteries, describing those events which were
regarded as the most important in the Christian religious view of life.
When, in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, the center of gravity
of Christian teaching was more and more transferred, the worship of
Christ as God, and the interpretation and following of His teaching, the
form of Mysteries describing external Christian events became
insufficient, and new forms were demanded. As the expression of the
aspirations which gave rise to these changes, there appeared the
Moralities, dramatic representations in which the characters were
personifications of Christian virtues and their opposite vices.
But allegories, owing to the very fact of their being works of art of a
lower order, could not replace the former religious dramas, and yet no
new forms of dramatic art corresponding to the conception now
entertained of Christianity, according to which it was regarded as a
teaching of life, had yet been found. Hence, dramatic art, having no
foundation, came in all Christian countries to swerve farther and
farther from its proper use and object, and, instead of serving God, it
took to serving the crowd (by crowd, I mean, not simply the masses of
common people, but the majority of immoral or unmoral men, indifferent
to the higher problems of human life). This deviation was, moreover,
encouraged by the circumstance that, at this very time, the Greek
thinkers, poets, and dramatists, hitherto unknown in the Christian
world, were discovered and brought back into favor. From all this it
followed that, not having yet had time to work out their own form of
dramatic art corresponding to the new conception entertained of
Christianity as being a teaching of life, and, at the same time,
recognizing the previous form of Mysteries and Moralities as
insufficient, the writers of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, in
their search for a new form, began to imitate the newly discovered Greek
models, attracted by their elegance and novelty.
Since those who could principally avail themselves of dramatic
representations were the powerful of this world: kings, princes,
courtiers, the least religious people, not only utterly indifferent to
the questions of religion, but in most cases completely
depraved--therefore, in satisfying the demands of its audience, the
drama of the fifteenth and sixteenth and seventeenth centuries entirely
gave up all religious aim. It came to pass that the drama, which
formerly had such a lofty and religious significance, and which can, on
this condition alone, occupy an important place in human life, became,
as in the time of Rome, a spectacle, an amusement, a recreation--_only_
with this difference, that in Rome the spectacles existed for the whole
people, whereas in the Christian world of the fifteenth, sixteenth, and
seventeenth centuries they were principally meant for depraved kings and
the higher classes. Such was the case with the Spanish, English,
Italian, and French drama.
The dramas of that time, principally composed, in all these countries,
according to ancient Greek models, or taken from poems, legends, or
biographies, naturally reflected the characteristics of their respective
nationalities: in Italy comedies were chiefly elaborated, with humorous
positions and persons. In Spain there flourished the worldly drama, with
complicated plots and historical heroes. The peculiarities of the
English drama were the coarse incidents of murders, executions, and
battles taking place on the stage, and popular, humorous interludes.
Neither the Italian nor the Spanish nor the English drama had European
fame, but they all enjoyed success in their own countries. General fame,
owing to the elegance of its language and the talent of its writers,
was possessed only by the French drama, distinguished by its strict
adherence to the Greek models, and especially to the law of the three
Unities.
So it continued till the end of the eighteenth century, at which time
this happened: In Germany, which had not produced even passable dramatic
writers (there was a weak and little known writer, Hans Sachs), all
educated people, together with Frederick the Great, bowed down before
the French pseudo-classical drama. Yet at this very time there appeared
in Germany a group of educated and talented writers and poets, who,
feeling the falsity and coldness of the French drama, endeavored to find
a new and freer dramatic form. The members of this group, like all the
upper classes of the Christian world at that time, were under the charm
and influence of the Greek classics, and, being utterly indifferent to
religious questions, they thought that if the Greek drama, describing
the calamities and sufferings and strife of its heroes, represented the
highest dramatic ideal, then such a description of the sufferings and
the struggles of heroes would be a sufficient subject in the Christian
world, too, if only the narrow demands of pseudo-classicalism were
rejected. These men, not understanding that, for the Greeks, the strife
and sufferings of their heroes had a religious significance, imagined
that they needed only to reject the inconvenient law of the three
Unities, without introducing into the drama any religious element
corresponding to their time, in order that the drama should have
sufficient scope in the representation of various moments in the lives
of historical personages and, in general, of strong human passions.
Exactly this kind of drama existed at that time among the kindred
English people, and, becoming acquainted with it, the Germans decided
that precisely such should be the drama of the new period.
Thereupon, because of the clever development of scenes which constituted
Shakespeare's peculiarity, they chose Shakespeare's dramas in preference
to all other English dramas, excluding those which were not in the least
inferior, but were even superior, to Shakespeare. At the head of the
group stood Goethe, who was then the dictator of public opinion in
esthetic questions. He it was who, partly owing to a desire to destroy
the fascination of the false French art, partly owing to his desire to
give a greater scope to his own dramatic writing, but chiefly through
the agreement of his view of life with Shakespeare's, declared
Shakespeare a great poet. When this error was announced by an authority
like Goethe, all those esthetic critics who did not understand art threw
themselves on it like crows on carrion and began to discover in
Shakespeare beauties which did not exist, and to extol them. These men,
German esthetic critics, for the most part utterly devoid of esthetic
feeling, without that simple, direct artistic sensibility which, for
people with a feeling for art, clearly distinguishes esthetic
impressions from all others, but believing the authority which had
recognized Shakespeare as a great poet, began to praise the whole of
Shakespeare indiscriminately, especially distinguishing such passages as
struck them by their effects, or which expressed thoughts corresponding
to their views of life, imagining that these effects and these thoughts
constitute the essence of what is called art. These men acted as blind
men would act who endeavored to find diamonds by touch among a heap of
stones they were fingering. As the blind man would for a long time
strenuously handle the stones and in the end would come to no other
conclusion than that all stones are precious and especially so the
smoothest, so also these esthetic critics, without artistic feeling,
could not but come to similar results in relation to Shakespeare. To
give the greater force to their praise of the whole of Shakespeare, they
invented esthetic theories according to which it appeared that no
definite religious view of life was necessary for works of art in
general, and especially for the drama; that for the purpose of the drama
the representation of human passions and characters was quite
sufficient; that not only was an internal religious illumination of what
was represented unnecessary, but art should be objective, _i.e._, should
represent events quite independently of any judgment of good and evil.
As these theories were founded on Shakespeare's own views of life, it
naturally turned out that the works of Shakespeare satisfied these
theories and therefore were the height of perfection.
It is these people who are chiefly responsible for Shakespeare's fame.
It was principally owing to their writings that the interaction took
place between writers and public which expressed itself, and is still
expressing itself, in an insane worship of Shakespeare which has no
rational foundation. These esthetic critics have written profound
treatises about Shakespeare. Eleven thousand volumes have been written
about him, and a whole science of Shakespearology composed; while the
public, on the one hand, took more and more interest, and the learned
critics, on the other hand, gave further and further explanations,
adding to the confusion.
So that the first cause of Shakespeare's fame was that the Germans
wished to oppose to the cold French drama, of which they had grown
weary, and which, no doubt, was tedious enough, a livelier and freer
one. The second cause was that the young German writers required a model
for writing their own dramas. The third and principal cause was the
activity of the learned and zealous esthetic German critics without
esthetic feeling, who invented the theory of objective art,
deliberately rejecting the religious essence of the drama.
"But," I shall be asked, "what do you understand by the word's religious
essence of the drama? May not what you are demanding for the drama,
religious instruction, or didactics, be called 'tendency,' a thing
incompatible with true art?" I reply that by the religious essence of
art I understand not the direct inculcation of any religious truths in
an artistic guise, and not an allegorical demonstration of these truths,
but the exhibition of a definite view of life corresponding to the
highest religious understanding of a given time, which, serving as the
motive for the composition of the drama, penetrates, to the knowledge of
the author, through all of his work. So it has always been with true
art, and so it is with every true artist in general and especially the
dramatist. Hence--as it was when the drama was a serious thing, and as
it should be according to the essence of the matter--that man alone can
write a drama who has something to say to men, and something which is of
the greatest importance for them: about man's relation to God, to the
Universe, to the All, the Eternal, the Infinite. But when, thanks to
the German theories about objective art, the idea was established that,
for the drama, this was quite unnecessary, then it is obvious how a
writer like Shakespeare--who had not got developed in his mind the
religious convictions proper to his time, who, in fact, had no
convictions at all, but heaped up in his drama all possible events,
horrors, fooleries, discussions, and effects--could appear to be a
dramatic writer of the greatest genius.
But these are all external reasons. The fundamental inner cause of
Shakespeare's fame was and is this: that his dramas were "pro captu
lectoris," _i.e._, they corresponded to the irreligious and immoral
frame of mind of the upper classes of his time.
VIII
At the beginning of the last century, when Goethe was dictator of
philosophic thought and esthetic laws, a series of casual circumstances
made him praise Shakespeare. The esthetic critics caught up this praise
and took to writing their lengthy, misty, learned articles, and the
great European public began to be enchanted with Shakespeare. The
critics, answering to the popular interest, and endeavoring to compete
with one another, wrote new and ever new essays about Shakespeare; the
readers and spectators on their side were increasingly confirmed in
their admiration, and Shakespeare's fame, like a lump of snow, kept
growing and growing, until in our time it has attained that insane
worship which obviously has no other foundation than "suggestion."
Shakespeare finds no rival, not even approximately, either among the old
or the new writers. Here are some of the tributes paid to him.
"Poetic truth is the brightest flower in the crown of Shakespeare's
merits;" "Shakespeare is the greatest moralist of all times;"
"Shakespeare exhibits such many-sidedness and such objectivism that they
carry him beyond the limits of time and nationality;" "Shakespeare is
the greatest genius that has hitherto existed;" "For the creation of
tragedy, comedy, history, idyll, idyllistic comedy, esthetic idyll, for
the profoundest presentation, or for any casually thrown off, passing
piece of verse, he is the only man. He not only wields an unlimited
power over our mirth and our tears, over all the workings of passion,
humor, thought, and observation, but he possesses also an infinite
region full of the phantasy of fiction, of a horrifying and an amusing
character. He possesses penetration both in the world of fiction and of
reality, and above this reigns one and the same truthfulness to
character and to nature, and the same spirit of humanity;" "To
Shakespeare the epithet of Great comes of itself; and if one adds that
independently of his greatness he has, further, become the reformer of
all literature, and, moreover, has in his works not only expressed the
phenomenon of life as it was in his day, but also, by the genius of
thought which floated in the air has prophetically forestalled the
direction that the social spirit was going to take in the future (of
which we see a striking example in Hamlet),--one may, without
hesitation, say that Shakespeare was not only a great poet, but the
greatest of all poets who ever existed, and that in the sphere of poetic
creation his only worthy rival was that same life which in his works he
expressed to such perfection."
The obvious exaggeration of this estimate proves more conclusively than
anything that it is the consequence, not of common sense, but of
suggestion. The more trivial, the lower, the emptier a phenomenon is, if
only it has become the subject of suggestion, the more supernatural and
exaggerated is the significance attributed to it. The Pope is not merely
saintly, but most saintly, and so forth. So Shakespeare is not merely a
good writer, but the greatest genius, the eternal teacher of man kind.
Suggestion is always a deceit, and every deceit is an evil. In truth,
the suggestion that Shakespeare's works are great works of genius,
presenting the height of both esthetic and ethical perfection, has
caused, and is causing, great injury to men.
This injury is twofold: first, the fall of the drama, and the
replacement of this important weapon of progress by an empty and immoral
amusement; and secondly, the direct depravation of men by presenting to
them false models for imitation.
Human life is perfected only through the development of the religious
consciousness, the only element which permanently unites men. The
development of the religious consciousness of men is accomplished
through all the sides of man's spiritual activity. One direction of this
activity is in art. One section of art, perhaps the most influential, is
the drama.
Therefore the drama, in order to deserve the importance attributed to
it, should serve the development of religious consciousness. Such has
the drama always been, and such it was in the Christian world. But upon
the appearance of Protestantism in its broader sense, _i.e._, the
appearance of a new understanding of Christianity as of a teaching of
life, the dramatic art did not find a form corresponding to the new
understanding of Christianity, and the men of the Renaissance were
carried away by the imitation of classical art. This was most natural,
but the tendency was bound to pass, and art had to discover, as indeed
it is now beginning to do, its new form corresponding to the change in
the understanding of Christianity.
But the discovery of this new form was arrested by the teaching arising
among German writers at the end of the eighteenth and beginning of the
nineteenth centuries--as to so-called objective art, _i.e._, art
indifferent to good or evil--and therein the exaggerated praise of
Shakespeare's dramas, which partly corresponded to the esthetic teaching
of the Germans, and partly served as material for it. If there had not
been exaggerated praise of Shakespeare's dramas, presenting them as the
most perfect models, the men of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries
would have had to understand that the drama, to have a right to exist
and to be a serious thing, must serve, as it always has served and can
not but do otherwise, the development of the religious consciousness.
And having understood this, they would have searched for a new form of
drama corresponding to their religious understanding.
But when it was decided that the height of perfection was Shakespeare's
drama, and that we ought to write as he did, not only without any
religious, but even without any moral, significance, then all writers of
dramas in imitation of him began to compose such empty pieces as are
those of Goethe, Schiller, Hugo, and, in Russia, of Pushkin, or the
chronicles of Ostrovski, Alexis Tolstoy, and an innumerable number of
other more or less celebrated dramatic productions which fill all the
theaters, and can be prepared wholesale by any one who happens to have
the idea or desire to write a play. It is only thanks to such a low,
trivial understanding of the significance of the drama that there
appears among us that infinite quantity of dramatic works describing
men's actions, positions, characters, and frames of mind, not only void
of any spiritual substance, but often of any human sense.
Let not the reader think that I exclude from this estimate of
contemporary drama the theatrical pieces I have myself incidentally
written. I recognize them, as well as all the rest, as not having that
religious character which must form the foundation of the drama of the
future.
The drama, then, the most important branch of art, has, in our time,
become the trivial and immoral amusement of a trivial and immoral crowd.
The worst of it is, moreover, that to dramatic art, fallen as low as it
is possible to fall, is still attributed an elevated significance no
longer appropriate to it. Dramatists, actors, theatrical managers, and
the press--this last publishing in the most serious tone reports of
theaters and operas--and the rest, are all perfectly certain that they
are doing something very worthy and important.
The drama in our time is a great man fallen, who has reached the last
degree of his degradation, and at the same time continues to pride
himself on his past of which nothing now remains. The public of our time
is like those who mercilessly amuse themselves over this man once so
great and now in the lowest stage of his fall.
Such is one of the mischievous effects of the epidemic suggestion about
the greatness of Shakespeare. Another deplorable result of this worship
is the presentation to men of a false model for imitation. If people
wrote of Shakespeare that for his time he was a good writer, that he had
a fairly good turn for verse, was an intelligent actor and good stage
manager--even were this appreciation incorrect and somewhat
exaggerated--if only it were moderately true, people of the rising
generation might remain free from Shakespeare's influence. But when
every young man entering into life in our time has presented to him, as
the model of moral perfection, not the religious and moral teachers of
mankind, but first of all Shakespeare, concerning whom it has been
decided and is handed down by learned men from generation to generation,
as an incontestable truth, that he was the greatest poet, the greatest
teacher of life, the young man can not remain free from this pernicious
influence. When he is reading or listening to Shakespeare the question
for him is no longer whether Shakespeare be good or bad, but only: In
what consists that extraordinary beauty, both esthetic and ethical, of
which he has been assured by learned men whom he respects, and which he
himself neither sees nor feels? And constraining himself, and distorting
his esthetic and ethical feeling, he tries to conform to the ruling
opinion. He no longer believes in himself, but in what is said by the
learned people whom he respects. I have experienced all this. Then
reading critical examinations of the dramas and extracts from books with
explanatory comments, he begins to imagine that he feels something of
the nature of an artistic impression. The longer this continues, the
more does his esthetical and ethical feeling become distorted. He ceases
to distinguish directly and clearly what is artistic from an artificial
imitation of art. But, above all, having assimilated the immoral view of
life which penetrates all Shakespeare's writings, he loses the capacity
of distinguishing good from evil. And the error of extolling an
insignificant, inartistic writer--not only not moral, but directly
immoral--executes its destructive work.
This is why I think that the sooner people free themselves from the
false glorification of Shakespeare, the better it will be.
First, having freed themselves from this deceit, men will come to
understand that the drama which has no religious element at its
foundation is not only not an important and good thing, as it is now
supposed to be, but the most trivial and despicable of things. Having
understood this, they will have to search for, and work out, a new form
of modern drama, a drama which will serve as the development and
confirmation of the highest stage of religious consciousness in men.
Secondly, having freed themselves from this hypnotic state, men will
understand that the trivial and immoral works of Shakespeare and his
imitators, aiming merely at the recreation and amusement of the
spectators, can not possibly represent the teaching of life, and that,
while there is no true religious drama, the teaching of life should be
sought for in other sources.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] This essay owes its origin to Leo Tolstoy's desire to contribute a
preface to the article he here mentions by Ernest Crosby, which latter
follows in this volume.--(_Trans._)
[2] "Shakespeare and His Writings," by George Brandes.
[3] A Russian poet, remarkable for the delicacy of his works.