Wives of Windsor," "Timon of Athens," "Troilus and Cressida," and
the "Merchant of Venice," have escaped, at least in part, from
the influence of the romantic taste. Some will, perhaps, be
surprised to find this merit ascribed to the "Tempest." Like the
"Mid-summer Night's Dream," the "Tempest" is peopled with sylphs
and sprites, and every thing is done under the sway of fairy
power. But after having laid the action in this unreal world, the
poet conducts it without inconsistency, complication, or languor;
none of the sentiments are forced, or ceaselessly interrupted;
the characters are simple and well sustained; the supernatural
power which disposes the events undertakes to supply all the
necessities of the plot, and leaves the personages of the drama
at liberty to show themselves in their natural character, and to
swim at ease in that magical atmosphere by which they are
surrounded, without at all injuring the truthfulness of their
impressions or ideas. The style is fantastic and sprightly; but,
when the supposition is once admitted, there is nothing in the
work to shock the judgment and disturb the imagination by the
incoherence of the effects produced.
{86}
In the system of intrigued comedy, the "Merry Wives of Windsor"
may be said to be almost perfect in its composition; it presents
a true picture of manners; the _denouement_ is as piquant as
it is well-prepared; and it is assuredly one of the merriest
works in the whole comic repertory. Shakspeare evidently aspired
higher in "Timon of Athens." It is an attempt at that scientific
style in which the ridiculous is made to flow from the serious,
and which constitutes _la grande comedie._ The scenes in
which Timon's friends excuse themselves, under various pretexts,
from rendering him assistance, are wanting neither in
truthfulness nor effect. But, then, Timon's misanthropy, as
furious as his confidence had previously been extravagant--the
equivocal character of Apemantus--the abruptness of the
transitions, and the violence of the sentiments, form a picture
more melancholy than true, which is scarcely softened down enough
by the fidelity of the old steward. Though far inferior to
"Timon," the drama of "Troilus and Cressida" is nevertheless
skillfully conceived; it is based upon the resolution taken by
the Grecian chiefs to flatter the stupid pride of Ajax, and make
him the hero of the army, in order to humble the haughty
disdainfulness of Achilles, and to obtain from his jealousy that
which he had refused to their prayers. But the idea is more comic
than its execution, and neither the buffooneries of Thersites nor
the truthfulness of the part played by Pandarus are sufficient to
impart to the piece that mirthful physiognomy without which
comedy is impossible.
These four works, which are less akin than his other comedies to
the romantic system, also belong more completely to Shakspeare's
invention. The "Merry Wives of Windsor" is an original creation;
no tale has been discovered from which Shakspeare could have
borrowed the subject of the "Tempest;" the composition of "Timon
of Athens" is indebted in no respect to Plutarch's account of
that misanthrope; and in "Troilus and Cressida" Shakspeare has
copied Chaucer in a very few particulars.
{87}
The story of the "Merchant of Venice" is of an entirely romantic
character, and was selected by Shakspeare, like the "Winter's
Tale," "Much Ado about Nothing," "Measure for Measure," and other
plays, merely that he might adorn it with the graceful brilliancy
of his poetry. But one incident of the subject conducted
Shakspeare to the confines of tragedy, and he suddenly became
aware of his domain; he entered into that real world in which the
comic and the tragic are commingled, and, when depicted with
equal truthfulness, concur, by their combination, to increase the
power of the effect produced. What can be more striking, in this
style of dramatic composition, than the part assigned to Shylock?
This son of a degraded race has all the vices and passions which
are engendered by such a position; his origin has made him what
he is, sordid and malignant, fearful and pitiless; he does not
think of emancipating himself from the rigors of the law, but he
is delighted at being able to invoke it for once, in all its
severity, in order to appease the thirst for vengeance which
devours him; and when, in the judgment scene, after having made
us tremble for the life of the virtuous Antonio, Shylock finds
the exactitude of that law, in which he triumphed with such
barbarity, turned unexpectedly against himself--when he feels
himself overwhelmed at once by the danger and the ridicule of his
position, two opposite feelings--mirth and emotion--arise almost
simultaneously in the breast of the spectator. What a singular
proof is this of the general disposition of Shakspeare's mind! He
has treated the whole of the romantic part of the drama without
any intermixture of comedy, or even of gayety; and we can discern
true comedy only when we meet with Shylock--that is, with
tragedy.
{88}
It is utterly futile to attempt to base any classification of
Shakspeare's works on the distinction between the comic and
tragic elements; they can not possibly be divided into these two
styles, but must be separated into the fantastic and the real,
the romance and the world. The first class contains most of his
comedies; the second comprehends all his tragedies--immense and
living stages, upon which all things are represented, as it were,
in their solid form, and in the place which they occupied in a
stormy and complicated state of civilization. In these dramas,
the comic element is introduced whenever its character of reality
gives it the right of admission and the advantage of opportune
appearance. Falstaff appears in the train of Henry V., and Doll
Tear-Sheet in the train of Falstaff; the people surround the
kings, and the soldiers crowd around their generals; all
conditions of society, all the phases of human destiny appear by
turns in juxtaposition, with the nature which properly belongs to
them, and in the position which they naturally occupy. The tragic
and comic elements sometimes combine in the same individual, and
are developed in succession in the same character. The impetuous
preoccupation of Hotspur is amusing when it prevents him from
listening to any other voice than his own, and substitutes his
sentiments and words in the place of the things which his friends
are desirous to tell him, and which he is equally anxious to
learn; but it becomes serious and fatal when it leads him to
adopt, without due examination, a dangerous project which
suddenly inspires him with the idea of glory. The perverse
obstinacy which renders him so comical in his dealings with the
boastful and vainglorious Glendower, will be the tragical cause
of his ruin when, in contempt of all reason and advice, and
unaided by any succor, he hastens to the battle-field, upon
which, ere long, left alone, he looks around and sees naught but
death. Thus we find the entire world, the whole of human
realities, reproduced by Shakspeare in tragedy, which, in his
eyes, was the universal theatre of life and truth.
{89}
In the year 1595, at latest, "Romeo and Juliet" had appeared.
This work was succeeded, almost without interruption, until 1599,
by "Hamlet," "King John," "Richard II.," "Richard III.," the two
parts of "Henry IV.," and "Henry V." From 1599 to 1605, the
chronological order of Shakspeare's works contains none but
comedies and the play of "Henry VIII." After 1605, tragedy
regains the ascendant in "King Lear," "Macbeth," "Julius Caesar,"
"Antony and Cleopatra," "Coriolanus," and "Othello." The first
period, we perceive, belongs rather to historical plays; and the
second to tragedy properly so called, the subjects of which, not
being taken from the positive history of England, allowed the
poet a wider field, and permitted the free manifestation of all
the originality of his nature. Historical dramas, generally
designated by the name of _Histories_, had enjoyed
possession of popular favor for nearly twenty years. Shakspeare
emancipated himself but slowly from the taste of his age; though
always displaying more grandeur, and gaining greater approbation
in proportion as he abandoned himself with greater freedom to the
guidance of his own instinct--he was nevertheless always careful
to accommodate his progress to the advancement of his audience in
their appreciation of his art. It appears certain, from the dates
of his plays, that he never composed a single tragedy until some
other poet had, as it were, felt the pulse of the public on the
same subject; just as though he were conscious that he possessed
within himself a superiority which, before it could be trusted to
the taste of the multitude, required the exercise of a vulgar
caution.
{90}
It can not be doubted that, between historical dramas and
tragedies, properly so called, Shakspeare's genius inclined in
preference toward the latter class. The general and unvarying
opinion which has placed "Romeo and Juliet," "Hamlet," "King
Lear," "Macbeth," and "Othello" at the head of his works, would
suffice to prove this. Among his national dramas, "Richard III."
is the only one which has attained the same rank, and this is an
additional proof of the truth of my assertion; for it is the only
work which Shakspeare was able to conduct, in the same manner as
his tragedies, by the influence of a single character or idea.
Herein resides the fundamental difference between the two kinds
of dramatic works; in one class, events pursue their course, and
the poet accompanies them; in the other, events group themselves
around a man, and seem to serve only to bring him into bold
relief. "Julius Cæsar" is a true tragedy, and yet the progress of
the piece is framed in accordance with Plutarch's narrative, just
as "King John," "Richard II.," and "Henry IV." are made to
coincide with Holinshed's Chronicles; but in the first-named
piece, Brutus imparts to the play the unity of a great individual
character. In the same manner, the history of "Richard III." is
entirely his own history, the work of his design and will;
whereas, the history of the other kings with whom Shakspeare has
peopled his dramas is only a part, and frequently the smallest
part, of the picture of the events of their time.
{91}
This arises from the fact that events were not what chiefly
occupied Shakspeare's mind; his special attention was bestowed
upon the men who occasioned them. He establishes his domain, not
in historical, but in dramatic truth. Give him a fact to
represent upon the stage, and he will not inquire minutely into
the circumstances which accompanied it, or into the various and
multiplied causes which may have combined to produce it; his
imagination will not require an exact picture of the time or
place in which it occurred, or a complete acquaintance with the
infinite combinations of which the mysterious web of destiny is
composed. These constitute only the materials of the drama; and
Shakspeare will not look to them to furnish it with vitality. He
takes the fact as it is related to him; and, guided by this
thread, he descends into the depths of the human soul. It is man
that he wishes to resuscitate; it is man whom he interrogates
regarding the secret of his impressions, inclinations, ideas, and
volitions. He does not inquire, "What hast thou done?" but, "How
art thou constituted? Whence originated the part thou hast taken
in the events in which I find thee concerned? What wert thou
seeking after? What couldst thou do? Who art thou? Let me know
thee; and then I shall know in what respects thy history is
important to me."
Thus we may explain that depth of natural truth which reveals
itself, in Shakspeare's works, even to the least practiced eyes,
and that somewhat frequent absence of local truth which he would
have been able to delineate with equal excellence if he had
studied it with equal assiduity. Hence, also, arises that
difference of conception which is observable between his
historical dramas and his tragedies. Composed in accordance with
a plan more national than dramatic, written beforehand in some
sort by events well known in all their details, and already in
possession of the stage under determinate forms, most of his
historical plays could not be subjected to that individual unity
which Shakspeare delighted to render dominant in his
compositions, but which so rarely holds sway in the actual
narratives of history.
{92}
Every man has usually a very small share in the events in which
he has taken part; and the brilliant position which rescues a
name from oblivion has not always preserved the man who bore it
from sinking into a nullity. Kings especially, who are forced to
appear upon the stage of the world independently of their
aptitude to perform their part upon it, frequently afford less
assistance than embarrassment to the conduct of an historical
action. Most of the princes whose reigns furnished Shakspeare
with his national dramas, undoubtedly exercised some influence
upon their own history; but none of them, with the exception of
Richard III., wrought it out entirely for himself. Shakspeare
would have sought in vain to discover, in their conduct and
personal nature, that sole cause of events, that simple and
pregnant truth, which was called for by the instinct of his
genius. While, therefore, in his tragedies, a moral position, or
a strongly conceived character, binds and confines the action in
a powerful knot, from whence the facts as well as the sentiments
of the drama issue to return thither again, his historical plays
contain a multitude of incidents and scenes which are destined
rather to fill up the action than to facilitate its progress. As
events pass in succession before his view, Shakspeare stops them
to catch some few details, which suffice to determine their
character; and these details he derives, not from the lofty or
general causes of the facts, but from their practical and
familiar results. An historical event may originate in a very
exalted source, but it always descends to a very low position; it
matters little that its sources be concealed in the elevated
summits of social order, it ever reaches its consummation in the
popular masses, producing among them a widely-diffused and
manifest effect and feeling.
{93}
At this point, Shakspeare seems to wait for events, and here he
takes his stand to portray them. The intervention of the people,
who bear so heavy a part of the weight of history, is assuredly
legitimate, at least in historical representations. It was,
moreover, necessary to Shakspeare. Those partial pictures of
private or popular history, which lie far behind its great
events, are brought by Shakspeare to the front of the stage, and
placed in prominent relief; indeed, we feel that he relies upon
them to impart to his work the form and coloring of reality. The
invasion of France, the battle of Agincourt, the marriage of a
daughter of France to a king of England, in whose favor the
French monarch disinherits the dauphin, are not sufficient, in
his opinion, to occupy the whole of the historical drama of
"Henry V.;" so he summons to his aid the comic erudition of the
brave Welshman, Fluellen, the conversations of the king with the
soldiers, Pistol, Nym, and Bardolph, all the subaltern movement
of an army, and even the joyous loves of Catharine and Henry. In
the two parts of "Henry IV.," the comedy is more closely
connected with the events, and yet it does not emanate from them.
Even if Falstaff and his crew occupied less space, the principal
facts would not be less determinate, and would not follow another
course; but these facts have only supplied Shakspeare with the
external conformation of the drama; the incidents of private
life, the comic details, Hotspur and his wife, and Falstaff and
his companions, give it life and animation.
{94}
In true tragedy, every circumstance assumes another character and
another aspect; no incident is isolated, or alien to the very
substance of the drama; no link is slight or fortuitous. The
events grouped around the principal personage present themselves
to view with the importance which they derive from the impression
that he receives of them; to him they address themselves, and
from him they proceed; he is the beginning and the end, the
instrument and the object of the decrees of God, who, in the
world which He has created for man, wills that every thing should
be done by the hands of man, and nothing according to his
designs. God employs the human will to accomplish intentions
which man never entertained, and allows him to proceed freely
toward a goal which he has not selected. But though man is
exposed to the influence of events, he does not fall into
subjection to them; if impotence be his condition, liberty is his
nature; the feelings, ideas, and wishes with which he is inspired
by external objects emanate from himself alone; in him resides an
independent and spontaneous power which rejects and defies the
empire to which his destiny is subjected. Thus was the world
constituted, and thus has Shakspeare conceived tragedy. Give him
an obscure and remote event; let him be bound to conduct it
toward a determinate result, through a series of incidents more
or less known; amid these facts he will place a passion or a
character, and put all the threads of the action into the hands
of the creature of his own origination. Events follow their
course, and man enters upon his; he employs his power to divert
them from the direction which he does not wish them to pursue, to
conquer them when they thwart him, and to elude them when they
embarrass him; he subjects them for a moment to his authority, to
find them soon acting with greater hostility toward him in the
new course which he has forced them to take; and at last he
succumbs entirely in the struggle in which his destiny and his
life have gone to wreck.
{95}
The power of man in conflict with the power of fate--this is the
spectacle which fascinated and inspired the dramatic genius of
Shakspeare. Perceiving it for the first time in the catastrophe
of "Romeo and Juliet," he felt his will suddenly terror-struck at
the aspect of the vast disproportion which exists between the
efforts of man and the inflexibility of destiny--between the
immensity of our desires and the nullity of our means. In
"Hamlet," the second of his tragedies, he reproduces this picture
with a sort of shuddering dread. A feeling of duty has prescribed
to Hamlet a terrible project; he does not think that any thing
can permit him to evade it; and from the very outset, he
sacrifices every thing to it--his love, his self-respect, his
pleasures, and even the studies of his youth. He has now only one
object in the world--to prove and punish the crime which had
caused his father's death. That, in order to accomplish this
design, he must break the heart of her he loves; that, during the
course of the incidents which he originates in order to effect
his purpose, a mistake renders him the murderer of the
inoffensive Polonius; that he himself becomes an object of mirth
and contempt--he cares not, does not even bestow a thought upon
it; these are the natural results of his determination, and in
this determination his whole existence is concentrated. But he is
desirous to accomplish his plan with certainty; he wishes to feel
assured that the blow will be legitimate, and that it will not
fail to strike home. Henceforward accumulate in his path those
doubts, difficulties, and obstacles which the course of things
invariably sets in opposition to the man who aims at subjecting
it to his will. By bestowing a less philosophical observation
upon these impediments, Hamlet would surmount them more easily;
but the hesitation and dread which they inspire form part of
their power, and Hamlet must undergo its entire influence.
{96}
Nothing, however, can shake his resolution, nothing divert him
from his purpose: he advances, slowly it is true, with his eyes
constantly fixed upon his object; whether he originates an
opportunity, or merely appropriates one already existing, every
step is a progress, until he seems to border on the final term of
his design. But time has had its career; Providence is at its
limit; the events which Hamlet has prepared hasten onward without
his co-operation; they are consummated by him, and to his own
destruction; and he falls a victim to those decrees whose
accomplishment he has insured, destined to show how little man
can avail to effect, even in that which he most ardently desires.
Already more inured to the contemplation of human life, Richard
III., at the commencement of his sanguinary career, contemplates,
with steady gaze, that immense disproportion before which the
thought of the courageous but inexperienced Hamlet had
incessantly quailed. Richard merely promises himself greater
pride and pleasure from the subjugation of this hostile power;
and resolves to give the lie to fate, which appeared to have
destined him to abasement and contempt. In fact, we behold him
ruling, like a conqueror, the chances of his life; events spring
from his hands bearing the impress of his will; just as his
thought conceives them, his power accomplishes them; he completes
what he has projected, raises his existence to a level with his
ambition, and falls at the moment appointed by inflexible
destiny, to render the punishment of his crimes more striking, by
inflicting it in the midst of his successes. Macbeth, Othello,
Coriolanus, all equally active and blind in the conduct of their
destiny, bring down upon themselves, in the same manner, with all
the force of a passionate will, the event which is fated to crush
them.
{97}