‘nothing left remarkable
Beneath the visiting moon.’
She tells Proculeius before he surprises her that she would gladly look
Cæsar in the face, but she tries to stab herself, for,
‘Know, sir, that I
Will not wait pinion’d at your master’s court;
Nor once be chastis’d with the sober eye
Of dull Octavia. Shall they hoist me up
And show me to the shouting varletry
Of censuring Rome? Rather a ditch in Egypt
Be gentle grave unto me! rather on Nilus’ mud
Lay me stark naked, and let the water-flies
Blow me into abhorring! rather make
My country’s high pyramides my gibbet,
And hang me up in chains!’
She asks Dolabella what Cæsar means to do with her, and when she learns
that she is to be taken to Rome she recurs to the horror of the triumph.
‘Now, Iras, what think’st thou?
Thou, an Egyptian puppet, shalt be shown
In Rome, as well as I: mechanick slaves
With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall
Uplift us to the view; in their thick breaths,
Rank of gross diet, shall we be enclouded,
And forced to drink their vapour.
_Iras_. The gods forbid!
_Cleopatra_. Nay, ’tis most certain, Iras: saucy lictors
Will catch at us, like strumpets; and scald rhymers
Ballad us out o’ tune; the quick comedians,
Extemporally will stage us, and present
Our Alexandrian revels; Antony
Shall be brought drunken forth, and I shall see
Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness
I’ the posture of a whore.’
This was a motive for death, but it was not all. She reproves herself
because she let Iras die first, because Antony will
‘make demand of her, and spend that kiss
Which is my heaven to have’;
and Antony is her last word.
Charmian declares her to be ‘a lass unparallel’d,’ of ‘royal eyes.’
It is impossible to shut this woman up within the limits of what we call
a character, but why should we attempt it? Why cannot we be content with
what we have before us? Shakespeare never defined his people to himself.
In Cleopatra we have a new combination of the simple, eternal elements, a
combination subtle, and beyond analysis. What celestial lights begin to
play over this passion as the drama goes on!
* * * * *
_Coriolanus_.—We cannot help being sorry that Shakespeare should have
gone out of his way to select such a subject. It leaves a disagreeable
taste in the mouth. The aristocrat is overdone. No true aristocrat
would talk such rant as Coriolanus talks in Act i. Sc. I. Shakespeare
omits Plutarch’s account of the oppression of the plebeians, or only
slightly alludes to it. Volumnia’s contempt for the people is worse than
that of Coriolanus. To her they are not human, and she does not consider
that common truthfulness is binding in her intercourse with them.
‘It lies you on to speak
To the people, not by your own instruction,
Nor by the matter which your heart prompts you,
But with such words that are but rooted in
Your tongue, though but bastards and syllables
Of no allowance to your bosom’s truth.’
Reading such passages as these we understand Whitman when he says that
although Shakespeare is ‘of astral genius,’ he is ‘entirely fit for
feudalism . . . is incarnated, uncompromising feudalism,’ and contains
much which is ‘ever offensive to democracy.’
* * * * *
_Winter’s Tale_.—Coleridge is perhaps super-subtle in his discrimination
between the jealousy of Leontes and that of Othello, which Coleridge will
not call jealousy. But the difference is not greater than that between
the two men. The passion of Leontes is roused simply by Hermione’s
giving her hand to Polixenes. This common courtesy is ‘paddling palms.’
There is something contemptible in his transports: not so in the case of
Othello. Leontes cursing Hermione in the presence of his lords is
unendurable.
Leontes in his passion disbelieves the oracle.
‘There is no truth at all i’ the oracle:
The sessions shall proceed: this is mere falsehood.’
But he is reversed, suddenly, completely, when he is told his son is
dead.
‘Apollo’s angry; and the heavens themselves
Do strike at my injustice.’
Perdita is brought up by a shepherd and talks like a well-educated
patrician’s daughter. ‘O Proserpina,’ etc. Polixenes says to Camillo:
‘This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever
Ran on the green-sward: nothing she does or seems
But smacks of something greater than herself,
Too noble for this place.’
Here again the emphasis on descent is exaggerated and we resent it.