destroy at once the sense and the effect. What these two persons are
and do it is impossible to represent by one. In such small matters
we discover Shakespeare’s greatness. These soft approaches, this
smirking and bowing, this assenting, wheedling, flattering, this
whisking agility, this wagging of the tail, this allness and emptiness,
this legal knavery, this ineptitude and insipidity,--how can they
be expressed by a single man? There ought to be at least a dozen of
these people, if they could be had; for it is only in society that
they are anything; they are society itself; and Shakespeare showed no
little wisdom and discernment in bringing in a pair of them. Besides,
I need them as a couple that may be contrasted with the single, noble,
excellent Horatio....”
* * * * *
Though in this remolding of _Hamlet_ many characters had been cut off,
a sufficient number of them still remained,--a number which the company
was scarcely adequate to meet.
“If this is the way of it,” said Serlo, “our prompter himself must
issue from his den, and mount the stage, and become a personage like
one of us....”
* * * * *
“The very man!” exclaimed our friend, “the very man! What a fortunate
discovery! We have now the proper hand for delivering the passage of
‘The rugged Pyrrhus.’”
“One requires your eagerness,” said Serlo, “before he can employ every
object in the use it was meant for.”
“In truth,” said Wilhelm, “I was very much afraid we should be obliged
to leave this passage out: the omission would have lamed the whole
play.”
“Well! That is what I cannot understand,” observed Aurelia.
“I hope you will erelong be of my opinion,” answered Wilhelm.
“Shakespeare has introduced these traveling players with a double
purpose. The person who recites the death of Priam with such feeling,
in the _first_ place, makes a deep impression on the prince himself; he
sharpens the conscience of the wavering youth: and, accordingly, this
scene becomes a prelude to that other, where, in the _second_ place,
the little play produces such effect upon the King. Hamlet sees himself
reproved and put to shame by the player, who feels so deep a sympathy
in foreign and fictitious woes; and the thought of making an experiment
upon the conscience of his stepfather is in consequence suggested to
him. What a royal monologue is that which ends the second act! How
charming it will be to speak it!”
“‘Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
Is it not monstrous that this player here,
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit,
That, from her working, all his visage wann’d;
Tears in his eyes, distraction in’s aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit? and all for nothing!
For Hecuba!
What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
That he should weep for her?’” ...
In particular, one evening, the manager was very merry in speaking of
the part of Polonius, and how he meant to take it up. “I engage,” said
he, “on this occasion, to present a very meritorious person in his best
aspect. The repose and security of this old gentleman, his emptiness
and his significance, his exterior gracefulness and interior meanness,
his frankness and sycophancy, his sincere roguery and deceitful truth,
I will introduce with all due elegance in their fit proportions. This
respectable, gray-haired, enduring, time-serving half-knave, I will
represent in the most courtly style: the occasional roughness and
coarseness of our author’s strokes will further me here. I will speak
like a book when I am prepared beforehand, and like an ass when I utter
the overflowings of my heart. I will be insipid and absurd enough to
chime in with every one, and acute enough never to observe when people
make a mock of me. I have seldom taken up a part with so much zeal and
roguishness.”
“Could I but hope as much from mine!” exclaimed Aurelia. “I have
neither youth nor softness enough to be at home in this character. One
thing alone I am too sure of,--the feeling that turns Ophelia’s brain,
I shall not want.”
“We must not take the matter up so strictly,” said our friend. “For my
share, I am certain that the wish to act the character of Hamlet has
led me exceedingly astray throughout my study of the play. And now, the
more I look into the part, the more clearly do I see that, in my whole
form and physiognomy, there is not one feature such as Shakespeare
meant for Hamlet. When I consider with what nicety the various
circumstances are adapted to each other, I can scarcely hope to produce
even a tolerable effect.”
“You are entering on your new career with becoming conscientiousness,”
said Serlo. “The actor fits himself to his part as he can, and the part
to him as it must. But how has Shakespeare drawn his Hamlet? Is he so
utterly unlike you?”
“In the first place,” answered Wilhelm, “he is fair-haired.”
“That I call far-fetched,” observed Aurelia. “How do you infer that?”
“As a Dane, as a Northman, he is fair-haired and blue-eyed by descent.”
“And you think Shakespeare had this in view?”
“I do not find it specially expressed; but, by comparison of passages,
I think it incontestable. The fencing tires him; the sweat is
running from his brow; and the Queen remarks, ‘_He’s fat, and scant
of breath._’ Can you conceive him to be otherwise than plump and
fair-haired? Brown-complexioned people, in their youth, are seldom
plump. And does not his wavering melancholy, his soft lamenting, his
irresolute activity, accord with such a figure? From a dark-haired
young man, you would look for more decision and impetuosity.”
“You are spoiling my imagination,” cried Aurelia; “away with your fat
Hamlets! Do not set your well-fed prince before us! Give us rather any
_succedancum_ that will move us, will delight us. The intention of the
author is of less importance to us than our own enjoyment, and we need
a charm that is adapted for us.”
* * * * *
One evening a dispute arose among our friends about the novel and the
drama, and which of them deserved the preference. Serlo said it was a
fruitless and misunderstood debate: both might be superior in their
kinds, only each must keep within the limits proper to it.
“About their limits and their kinds,” said Wilhelm, “I confess myself
not altogether clear.”
“Who _is_ so?” said the other; “and yet perhaps it were worth while to
come a little closer to the business.”
They conversed together long upon the matter; and, in fine, the
following was nearly the result of their discussion:--
“In the novel as well as in the drama, it is human nature and human
action that we see. The difference between these sorts of fiction lies
not merely in their outward form,--not merely in the circumstance that
the personages of the one are made to speak, while those of the other
have commonly their history narrated. Unfortunately many dramas are but
novels which proceed by dialogue; and it would not be impossible to
write a drama in the shape of letters.
“But, in the novel, it is chiefly _sentiments_ and _events_ that are
exhibited; in the drama, it is _characters_ and _deeds_. The novel
must go slowly forward; and the sentiments of the hero, by some means
or another, must restrain the tendency of the whole to unfold itself
and to conclude. The drama, on the other hand, must hasten; and the
character of the hero must press forward to the end: it does not
restrain, but is restrained. The novel-hero must be suffering,--at
least he must not in a high degree be active; in the dramatic one, we
look for activity and deeds. Grandison, Clarissa, Pamela, the Vicar
of Wakefield, Tom Jones himself, are, if not suffering, at least
retarding, personages; and the incidents are all in some sort modeled
by their sentiments. In the drama the hero models nothing by himself;
all things withstand him; and he clears and casts away the hindrances
from off his path, or else sinks under them.”
Our friends were also of opinion that, in the novel, some degree of
scope may be allowed to Chance, but that it must always be led and
guided by the sentiments of the personages; on the other hand, that
Fate, which, by means of outward, unconnected circumstances, proceeds
to an unforeseen catastrophe, can have place only in the drama; that
Chance may produce pathetic situations, but never tragic ones; Fate, on
the other hand, ought always to be terrible,--and is, in the highest
sense, tragic, when it brings into a ruinous concatenation the guilty
man and the guiltless that was unconcerned with him.
These considerations led them back to the play of _Hamlet_, and
the peculiarities of its composition. The hero in this case, it
was observed, is endowed more properly with sentiments than with a
character: it is events alone that push him on, and accordingly the
play has in some measure the expansion of a novel. But as it is Fate
that draws the plan, as the story issues from a deed of terror, the
work is tragic in the highest sense, and admits of no other than a
tragic end....
* * * * *
The necessary preparations for scenery and dresses, and whatever else
was requisite, were now proceeding. In regard to certain scenes and
passages, our friend had whims of his own, which Serlo humored, partly
in consideration of their bargain, partly from conviction, and because
he hoped by these civilities to gain Wilhelm, and to lead him according
to his own purposes the more implicitly in time to come.
Thus, for example, the King and Queen were, at the first audience, to
appear sitting on the throne, with the courtiers at the sides, and
Hamlet standing undistinguished in the crowd. “Hamlet,” said he, “must
keep himself quiet; his sable dress will sufficiently point him out. He
should rather shun remark than seek it. Not till the audience is ended,
and the King speaks with him as with a son, should he advance, and
allow the scene to take its course.”
A formidable obstacle remained, in regard to the two pictures which
Hamlet so passionately refers to in the scene with his mother. “We
ought,” said Wilhelm, “to have both of them visible, at full length, in
the bottom of the chamber, near the main door; and the former king must
be clad in armor, like the Ghost, and hang at the side where it enters.
I could wish that the figure held its right hand in a commanding
attitude, were somewhat turned away, and, as it were, looked over its
shoulder, that so it might perfectly resemble the Ghost at the moment
when he issues from the door. It will produce a great effect when
at this instant Hamlet looks upon the Ghost, and the Queen upon the
picture. The stepfather may be painted in royal ornaments, but not so
striking.”
There were several other points of this sort, about which we shall,
perhaps, elsewhere have opportunity to speak.
“Are you, then, inexorably bent on Hamlet’s dying at the end?” inquired
Serlo.
“How can I keep him alive,” said Wilhelm, “when the whole play is
pressing him to death? We have already talked at large on that matter.”
“But the public wishes him to live.”
“I will show the public any other complaisance; but, as to this, I
cannot. We often wish that some gallant, useful man, who is dying
of a chronic disease, might yet live longer. The family weep, and
conjure the physician; but he cannot stay him: and no more than this
physician can withstand the necessity of nature, can we give law to
an acknowledged necessity of art. It is a false compliance with the
multitude, to raise in them emotions which they _wish_, when these are
not emotions which they _ought_, to feel.”
“Whoever pays the cash,” said Serlo, “may require the ware according to
his liking.”
“Doubtless, in some degree,” replied our friend; “but a great public
should be reverenced, not used as children are when peddlers wish to
hook the money from them. By presenting excellence to the people, you
should gradually excite in them a taste and feeling for the excellent;
and they will pay their money with double satisfaction when reason
itself has nothing to object against this outlay. The public you may
flatter, as you do a well-beloved child, to better, to enlighten it;
not as you do a pampered child of quality, to perpetuate the error you
profit from.”
In this manner various other topics were discussed relating to the
question, What might still be changed in the play, and what must of
necessity remain untouched? We shall not enter farther on those points
at present; but, perhaps, at some future time we may submit this
altered _Hamlet_ itself to such of our readers as feel any interest in
the subject.
SHAKESPEARE AD INFINITUM
(1813-16)
There has already been so much said about Shakespeare that it
would seem as if there was nothing left to say; and yet it is the
characteristic of genius ever to be stimulating other men’s genius.
In the present case I wish to consider Shakespeare from more than one
point of view,--first as a poet in general, then in comparison with the
classic and modern writers, and finally as a writer of poetic drama. I
shall attempt to work out what the imitation of his art has meant to
us, and what it can mean in the future. I shall express my agreement
with what has been written by reiterating it, and express my dissent
briefly and positively, without involving myself in conflict and
contradiction. I proceed to the first topic.
_I. Shakespeare as Poet in General_
The highest achievement possible to a man is the full consciousness of
his own feelings and thoughts, for this gives him the means of knowing
intimately the hearts of others. Now there are men who are born with
a natural talent for this and who cultivate it by experience towards
practical ends. From this talent springs the ability to profit in a
higher sense by the world and its opportunities. Now the poet is born
with the same talent, only he cultivates it not for his immediate
worldly purposes but for a loftier spiritual and universal purpose. If
we call Shakespeare one of the greatest poets, we mean that few have
perceived the world as accurately as he, that few who have expressed
their inner contemplation of it have given the reader deeper insight
into its meaning and consciousness. It becomes for us completely
transparent: we find ourselves at once in the most intimate touch with
virtue and vice, greatness and meanness, nobility and infamy, and all
this through the simplest of means. If we ask what these means are, it
seems as if they were directed towards our visual apprehension. But we
are mistaken; Shakespeare’s works are not for the physical vision. I
shall attempt to explain what I mean.
The eye, the most facile of our organs of receptivity, may well be
called the clearest of the senses; but the inner sense is still
clearer, and to it by means of words belongs the most sensitive and
clear receptivity. This is particularly obvious when what we apprehend
with the eye seems alien and unimpressive considered in and for itself.
But Shakespeare speaks always to our inner sense. Through this, the
picture-world of imagination becomes animated, and a complete effect
results, of which we can give no reckoning. Precisely here lies the
ground for the illusion that everything is taking place before our
eyes. But if we study the works of Shakespeare enough, we find that
they contain much more of spiritual truth than of spectacular action.
He makes happen what can easily be conceived by the imagination, indeed
what can be better imagined than seen. Hamlet’s ghost, Macbeth’s
witches, many fearful incidents, get their value only through the power
of the imagination, and many of the minor scenes get their force from
the same source. In reading, all these things pass easily through our
minds, and seem quite appropriate, whereas in representation on the
stage they would strike us unfavorably and appear not only unpleasant
but even disgusting.
Shakespeare gets his effect by means of the living word, and it is
for this reason that one should hear him read, for then the attention
is not distracted either by a too adequate or a too inadequate
stage-setting. There is no higher or purer pleasure than to sit with
closed eyes and hear a naturally expressive voice recite, not declaim,
a play of Shakespeare’s. According to the delineation of the characters
we can picture to ourselves certain forms, but more particularly are we
able by the succession of words and phrases to learn what is passing
in their souls; the characters seem to have agreed to leave us in the
dark, in doubt, about nothing. To that end conspire heroes and lackeys,
gentlemen and slaves, kings and heralds; indeed even the subordinate
characters are often more expressive in this way than the leading
figures. Everything which in an affair of great importance breathes
only secretly through the air, or lies hidden in the hearts of men, is
here openly expressed. What the soul anxiously conceals and represses
is here brought freely and abundantly to the light. We experience the
truth of life,--how, we do not know!
Shakespeare associates himself with the World-Spirit; like it, he
explores the world; from neither is anything hidden. But whereas it is
the business of the World-Spirit to keep its secrets both before and
after the event, it is the work of the poet to tell them, and take us
into his confidence before the event or in the very action itself. The
depraved man of power, the well-intentioned dullard, the passionate
lover, the quiet scholar, all carry their heart in their hand, often
contrary to verisimilitude. Every one is candid and loquacious. It is
enough that the secret must out, and even the stones would publish it.
The inanimate insists upon speaking; the elements, the phenomena of
sky, earth and sea, thunder and lightning, wild animals, lift their
voice, often apparently symbolically, but all joining in the revelation.
The whole civilized world too brings its treasures to Shakespeare;
Art and Science, Commerce and Industry, all bear him their gifts.
Shakespeare’s poems are a great animated fair; and it is to his own
country that he owes his riches.
For back of him is England, the sea-encircled and mist-covered country,
whose enterprise reaches all the parts of the earth. The poet lives
at a noble and important epoch, and presents all its glory and its
deficiencies with great vivacity; indeed, he would hardly produce such
an effect upon us were it not just his own life-epoch that he was
representing. No one despised the outer costume of men more than he;
but he understood well the inner man, and here all are similar. It is
said that he has delineated the Romans with wonderful skill. I cannot
see it. They are Englishmen to the bone; but they are human, thoroughly
human, and thus the Roman toga presumably fits them. When one takes
this into consideration, one finds his anachronisms entirely admirable;
indeed, it is just his neglect of the outer form that makes his works
so vital.
Enough of these slight words, which cannot begin to sound the praises
of Shakespeare. His friends and worshipers will have to add many a word
to them. But one more remark:--it would be hard to find a poet each of
whose works was more thoroughly pervaded by a definite and effective
idea than his.
Thus _Coriolanus_ is permeated by the idea of anger at the refusal of
the lower classes to recognize the superiority of their betters. In
_Julius Cæsar_ everything hinges on the idea that the upper classes
are not willing to see the highest place in the State occupied, since
they wrongly imagine that they are able to act together. _Antony and
Cleopatra_ expresses with a thousand tongues the idea that pleasure and
action are ever incompatible. And so one will ever find, in searching
his works, new cause for astonishment and admiration.
_II. Shakespeare Compared with the Ancients and the Moderns_
The interests which vitalize Shakespeare’s great genius are interests
which centre in this world. For if prophecy and madness, dreams, omens,
portents, fairies and gnomes, ghosts, imps, and conjurers introduce
a magical element which so beautifully pervades his poems, yet these
figures are in no way the basic elements of his works, but rest on a
broad basis of the truth and fidelity of life, so that everything that
comes from his pen seems to us genuine and sound. It has already been
suggested that he belongs not so much to the poets of the modern era,
which has been called “romantic,” but much more to the “naturalistic”
school, since his work is permeated with the reality of the present,
and scarcely touches the emotions of unsatisfied desire, except at his
highest points.
Disregarding this, however, he is, from a closer point of view, a
decidedly modern poet, separated from the ancients by an enormous gulf,
not perhaps with regard to his outer form, which is here beside our
point, but with regard to his inner and most profound spirit.
Here let me say that it is not my idea to use the following terminology
as exhaustive or exclusive; it is an attempt not so much to add another
new antithesis to those already recognized, as to indicate that it is
already contained in these. These are the antitheses:--
Ancient Modern
Natural Sentimental
Pagan Christian
Classic Romantic
Realistic Idealistic
Necessity Freedom
Duty (_sollen_) Will (_wollen_)[8]
The greatest ills to which men are exposed, as well as the most
numerous, arise from a certain inner conflict between duty and will,
as well as between duty and its accomplishment, and desire and its
accomplishment; and it is these conflicts which bring us so often into
trouble in the course of our lives. Little difficulties, springing
from a slight error which, though taking us by surprise, can be solved
easily, give the clue to situations of comedy. The great difficulties,
on the other hand, unresolved and unresolvable, give us tragedy.
Predominating in the old poems is the conflict between duty and
performance, in the new between desire and accomplishment. Let us put
this decided divergency among the other antitheses and see if it does
not prove suggestive. In both epochs, I have said, there predominates
now this side, now that; but since duty and desire are not radically
separated in men’s characters, both will be found together, even if
one prevails and the other is subordinate. Duty is imposed upon men;
“must” is a bitter pill. The Will man imposes upon himself; man’s will
is his kingdom of heaven. A long-continued obligation is burdensome,
the inability to perform it even terrible; but a constant will is
pleasurable, and with a firm will men can console themselves for their
inability to accomplish their desire.
Let us consider a game of cards as a kind of poem; it consists of both
those elements. The form of the game, bound up with chance, plays here
the rôle of necessity, just as the ancients knew it under the form of
Fate; the will, bound up with the skill of the player, works in the
other direction. In this sense I might call whist “classic.” The form
of play limits the operation of chance, and even of the will itself. I
have to play, in company with definite partners and opponents, with
the cards which come into my hand, make the best of a long series of
chance plays, without being able to control or parry them. In Ombre and
similar games, the contrary is the case. Here are many openings left
for skill and daring. I can disavow the cards that fall to my hand,
make them count in different ways, half or completely discard them, get
help by luck, and in the play get the best advantage out of the worst
cards. Thus this kind of game resembles perfectly the modern mode of
thought and literature.