form for the Théâtre Français (an attempt which, moreover, we
will applaud from the very bottom of our heart), in this attempt
to reproduce "Othello," verse by verse, without any abridgment,
except of a part which the police would not have suffered to
pass--the part of a girl of vicious life, a part besides which is
quite useless, and a crowd of indecent equivoques and disgusting
obscenities--who could be persuaded to see in all this a design
to offer to the public, not a spectacle interesting on account of
its novelty, or curious because of the period to which it carries
us back, but an accomplished model of art--a work perfect in all
its features?
{266}
Well! we will venture to assert that the time for these
exaggerations has already passed in France; we will venture to
predict that there is in the general good sense of the people--a
good sense which the controversies that have been going on for
the last fifteen or twenty years have developed and
prepared--something which will prove an invincible obstacle to
these adorations of individuals, and will prevent them from ever
so gaming ground as to become common opinions and recognized
doctrines. We have, with some trouble, emancipated ourselves from
one extreme--we will not allow ourselves to run heedlessly into
its opposite. We have disencumbered ourselves from some thousands
of small prejudices--we will not allow ourselves to be swathed in
a host of prejudices of another kind.
Every time that the attempt which has just been made at the
Théâtre Français shall be renewed (and we hope it may be often
renewed--this will be a much more worthy thing than the
presentation before us of new and mediocre pieces), the problem
which has already been once offered will be repeated--whether the
public will consent to abandon the freedom of its judgment in
favor of any thing, by whatever sanctions it may be
supported--whether many of the things which it is asked to admire
it will be contented only to tolerate--whether other things,
similarly presented, it will condemn--whether others will be
received with admiration, but from new motives, of a more
immediate and personal character--whether, so far at least as
impartiality is concerned, it will show itself to be superior to
its leaders--and whether it will regard what is presented to it
from a point of view more elevated than theirs.
{267}
We say that this has already been once realized; and we say so,
not only because the mass of the public refused to take a decided
stand either with the detractors of Shakspeare or with his
enthusiastic admirers--this neutrality was rather owing, as we
have already explained, to the unsettled state of its ideas and
doctrines than to the fear lest they should be compromised--but
because the impression which the piece made, in its general
effect and in its details, appeared to us to involve a true
judgment, an unconscious, not a premeditated judgment, which
could only be read on the countenances of the audience, a
judgment which did not always square (far from it) with those
ideas which the most accredited critics endeavor to give us on
the English work, but which was more original, and, in our
judgment, more worthy of respect than theirs.
The drama in question is divided into two nearly equal parts; in
the first part, which comprises the first two acts and some
scenes of the third, the comic element is most conspicuous; the
tragic, or to speak more exactly, the dignified, the serious,
element only appears once for a brief space; in the second part,
on the contrary, the tragic element predominates, the comic only
appears in transient flashes.
This distinction is made with such precision in the original,
that, in general, the comic part is written in prose, while the
tragic part is written almost uniformly in verse; a kind of
mixture which Shakspeare ordinarily used with most marvelous
dexterity, but which the French translator has not ventured to
introduce upon our stage.
The comic part appeared to be long and rather overdrawn; the
general effect which it produced was a feeling of disapprobation
and impatience.
{268}
To what is this to be attributed? Was it merely the effect of the
admixture of comedy and tragedy? a feeling of the incompatibility
of these equally simultaneous impressions? Doubtless the majority
of the audience would thus have interpreted what they felt. But
suppose the comic part had been of a different character--that it
had been better managed, disposed more judiciously, distributed
according to a juster proportion--would the same effect have been
produced? There was nothing to indicate that it would; and the
favor with which some salient points were received, and the
universal laughter which they excited, may even induce a contrary
opinion.
The idea of allotting an equal, or nearly an equal share of
attention to two opposite elements, appears to us a violation of
due proportions, and to rest upon a false principle. We are not
usually sticklers for the unities; still, however, we believe
that a certain fundamental unity is, in every case, a condition
under which the beautiful is manifested here below. The effect,
the legitimate effect of the beautiful, whatever it may be, is to
raise the soul above itself, to transport it, by a kind of magic
enchantment, into a sphere where all its transitory interests
disappear, and to abolish for a time the sentiment of its
individuality. Now the soul of man, as it is at present
constituted, can not entirely abandon itself; it can not forget
itself, and lose itself, either in simultaneous, or in two
successive impressions of a precisely opposite character and of
equal force. To attempt this is to do violence to its
constitution.
If the subject of "Othello" had been perfectly unknown to the
public, if the public could have freely allowed itself to be
carried unresistingly along with the constant mysteriousness that
is connected with Roderigo, the surprise and the wrath of
Brabantio, the drunkenness of Cassio, and the ill-natured jokes
of the buffoon, uttered in a strain of mere pleasantry, it would
from the first have ascended to the proper elevation of gladness
and hilarity; but the shock could not but be unpleasant to them
when they were so soon to pass abruptly from this gay and playful
disposition to the terrible pathos of the gigantic scenes of
jealousy which terminate the third act.
{269}
But as they, on the contrary, had entered the theatre with their
expectations directed entirely to those scenes of jealousy, and
to other scenes not less terrible, which were to grow out of
these, as they were anxiously looking forward to the catastrophe,
two or more acts full of sarcasms, facetiæ, and jokes appeared to
the public a severe trial, a somewhat grim preparation; they saw
in it something not merely contrary, but opposed and shocking to
their tastes, something which overshot the mark, whatever that
mark may be.
Were they wrong? Was this mere prejudice? We, for our part, can
hardly think so.
The mixture of comedy and tragedy is not, or certainly ought not
to be, a purely arbitrary thing. The two are not brought together
merely for the sake of the union. Opposition, antithesis, in
works of art, is not in itself a merit, has no intrinsic value.
They are brought together when a certain kind of beauty results
naturally from their juxtaposition; they are united because, in
the vicinity of those events which change and reverse an entire
life, there are the world, society, and the crowd of indifferent
egotists who move on without caring for these events, whose
movements are neither disturbed nor disarranged by them, who
pursue their individual interests, ruled by their habits,
abandoned to selfishness; and because the contrast between
situations of such an opposite character, and sentiments so
unlike to one another, after it has compelled us to smile, opens
to us a point of view from which human life is seen shaded with a
fanciful and melancholy tinge.
{270}
Comedy and tragedy are blended, because a flash of unpremeditated
gayety sometimes crosses the minds of those who are corroded by
remorse or stricken by despair, and restores them for an instant
to a state which is lost to them--irremediably and hopelessly
lost--leaving them immediately afterward, as a ray of light which
only glittered for a moment to exhibit more clearly the depth of
the abyss:
Nessun maggior dolore
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria.
The two are blended, because the same fact often presents varying
aspects, and the waning light, which exhibits the one, brings the
other into bolder relief. Lastly, they are blended, because an
accidental link is often found to connect a terrible misfortune
with a fantastic incident--some singular relation which
involuntarily and unexpectedly takes hold upon us, and which our
spirit not unwillingly grasps as if to find some kind of
unbending to regain its equilibrium and recover breath.
Never should the contrast be allowed unless under the condition
that the dominant impression, which is chiefly to be regarded,
should be developed and not destroyed, should not be lost sight
of, but rendered more lasting and profound. No one knew this
better than Shakspeare, no one has illustrated it by more
numerous and beautiful examples. But we confess we can not find
them in "Othello." In this play the comic element is purely
arbitrary; it is, in some sort, appended to the tragic, while
there is no intimate relation between the one and the other, no
common aim, no alliance to be ratified by the deep experiences of
the soul.
{271}
Let Roderigo be eliminated from the piece--a genuine melodramatic
simpleton, who only appears that he may serve as a butt to Iago,
to be beduped and befooled by him; you can do so; what Roderigo
does might be done quite as well by any one else; no one, Iago
excepted, would know or care for his absence. Let Brabantio, the
firm and prudent senator, full of ability and self-possession,
dignified and respected, be true to his proper character; let him
not be transformed, during the two whole scenes, merely to suit
the whim of the author, into a Géronte or a Sganarelle. Let
Cassio fall into disgrace with his general from some more worthy
motive than that supplied by taking a glass of wine at an
unseasonable time, which would also be much more in keeping both
with his good qualities, and with the defects which are
attributed to him. Lastly, erase entirely the part of the clown,
a part so false that the French imitator, though he has in
general adhered most conscientiously to the original, did not
think himself bound to preserve it; all that is comic in the
piece will have disappeared, it will have disappeared without
being observed at all by any of the essential characters, without
producing any chasms in the representation of the principal
positions; it may be detached, as two objects are separated which
have nothing in common but the circumstance of their both being
in the same vessel. This is assuredly quite sufficient to explain
the impression produced upon the spectators; they might, without
any injustice, have shown a greater degree of severity, and
doubtless they would have done so if they had had to express
themselves upon the work as one entirely unknown to them. But
they were placed, as we have already said, in a more rational
point of view than that occupied by the French translator; they
had come, not to behold a marvel, but to study, with a true and
living sympathy, an ancient and renowned work.
{272}
They were unpleasantly surprised at first, but they showed
patience, and gave due credit. One circumstance, we think, proves
most convincingly the freedom of their minds and the docility of
their attention, the fact that this deluge of tiresome
pleasantries did not at all injure the effect of the three
beautiful scenes in the first act--the scene in which Othello
calmly meets the violent passion of Desdemona's father; that in
which he explains to the Senate how he managed to conquer the
young girl's heart; and that in which Desdemona herself appears,
and demands to be permitted to follow the Moor, as her lord and
master, to Cyprus.
The effect of Othello's narration was irresistible. This portion
of the play is translated into all languages--its beauty is
perfectly entrancing, its originality is unequaled. Even La Harpe
could not refuse to it the tribute of his admiration. But perhaps
the scene which precedes and that which follows are even still
more adapted to exhibit Shakspeare in all his greatness. How
wonderful a painter of human nature was this man! How true is it
that he has received from on high something of that creative
power which, by breathing on a little dust, can transform it into
a creature of life and immortality!
In the interview with Brabantio, Othello only utters some fifteen
lines; before the Senate, Desdemona only about thirty; and yet
already both Othello and Desdemona stand before us as complete
characters: there they both are, showing themselves without any
constraint, in all the gracefulness and singularity of their
characters, in all their native and imperishable individuality.
Suppress the rest of the piece, you can never efface Desdemona
and Othello from your memory; place them, if you please, in
another order of circumstances, use your utmost, but do not think
you can obliterate them; we know them, and we know beforehand
what they must do and say.
{273}
And yet what complexities, what contrasts, what delicate shades,
belong to these characters!
In Othello there are two individualities: in the first place,
there is the savage, who has for a long time remained alone; who
has for a long time lived the life of a brute, and who abandons
himself, without even the smallest indication of an internal
struggle, to the first effervescence of passion which crosses his
soul; a man who is yet furnished with that interior goodness,
that native generosity which the instinct of our poetic fictions
has been pleased to attribute to the lion, the monarch of the
deserts. In the second place, there is the civilized man, who has
become such by war, and by war alone, by the greatness of his
courage, by that self-possession which is educated and
disciplined by constant, habitual, and regular familiarity with
danger. In the amenities of a peaceful life the civilized man is
naturally and spontaneously uppermost; Othello is calm, confident
in the superiority of his character, in the haughtiness of his
spirit, in the magnitude of his services; but he obeys the first
signal, he marches at the first word of command--his discipline
is that of the soldier, his moderation is that of the tamed
animal. He has captivated Desdemona's young heart by an
unexpected turn of fortune, the very possibility of which belongs
solely to the region of poetry, the reality of which is
inconceivable by vulgar minds: as Iago says, "What delight shall
she have to look on the devil?" But this stroke of fortune
appeared quite simple to him, an unreflecting and unsuspicious
being; it has not cost him one step, not one moment of
disquietude: he has not stopped to think of his age, his
appearance, or the rudeness of his manners.
{274}
He possesses Desdemona as his property, as he possesses his good
sword, not imagining that his claims to her can be disputed in
any other way than by brute force. He is, therefore, at rest. If,
however, he gives himself up to love; love is yet only an
accident of his existence; war is his life, his element, the
stage on which his character really acts; love can only thwart
his true destiny; meanwhile, he neither knows how to rule it, nor
how thoroughly to receive its influence.
Desdemona, on the other hand, is the most perfect ideal, the
purest type of woman--of woman as she is in herself, a being
inferior and yet divine, subordinate by the order of human life,
free before her choice is made, but the slave of her choice when
once she has made it. She is composed of modesty, tenderness, and
submission. Her modesty is unsullied, her tenderness is
unbounded, her submission is unlimited and absolute. That which
distinguishes her among all other women is that she does not so
much possess these qualities as they possess and absorb her. In
her soul there is no place for any thing else, whether it be
indifferent, or bad, or even good; there is no room for other
inclinations, other feelings, or even other duties. She has given
herself up entirely, body and soul, thought and will, hope and
memory. Nothing remains in her nature which she can appropriate
to any thing else whatever. She forsakes her father, she deceives
him, she braves him, as far as she can brave any thing--his
exasperated feelings, his exterior harshness--but without any
exhibition of either hesitation or repentance.
{275}
The very appearance of the object of her choice may convince us
how chaste are her thoughts. There is not the least allusion,
either as to the kind of life that awaits her, nor as to the
possible price which she may one day pay for such affection; from
the first she is resigned--resigned to all--certain of what was
to be her lot in the world--certain that, whatever may arrive,
she will never cast back one look of regret--that she will never
have to hesitate between two courses.
And, in order that we may be put in possession of all this, what
was required from Shakspeare? Four strokes of his pen complete
the work. See, for example, how he concludes the scene.
The Moor has been dragged from the very steps of the altar by
Brabantio; since the moment of their union he has hardly been
able to exchange two words with the object of his best love. The
simple and pathetic recital of their passion has disarmed all
hearts and drawn tears from every eye. Desdemona has just
resisted the authority of her father with mildness and
moderation, but with invincible firmness. The duke confirms their
happiness--the father delivers his daughter up to the Moor; all
the senators surround them and wish them joy; Desdemona is
allowed to rejoin her husband at Cyprus as soon as he shall be
settled there. The duke then says to the old soldier,
"The affair cries--haste!
And speed must answer it. You must hence to-night."
The only words which escape Desdemona are
"To-night, my lord?"
Othello's answer is,
"With all my heart."
He has heard the sound of the trumpet, and all other thoughts are
already far away. Desdemona, the tender, loving girl, so resolute
when in the presence of her father--Desdemona, who has scarcely
entered into the bonds of wedlock, casts down her eyes, and
follows timidly after her husband, without uttering one word,
without directing to him one significant look, without framing
any reproach in her heart.
{276}
Othello's narrative has been rapturously applauded--as was most
natural; but the united impression of the three scenes must
obtain, we think, an admiration of an entirely different kind.
Imagine a man who has lived for a long time in rooms lighted only
by wax-candles, chandeliers, or colored glasses--who has only
breathed in the faint, suffocating atmosphere of drawing-rooms,
who has seen only the cascades at the opera, calico mountains,
and garlands of artificial flowers: imagine such a man suddenly
transported, one magnificent July morning, to a region where he
could breathe the purest air, under the tranquil and graceful
chestnut-trees which fringe the waters of Interlachen, and within
view of the majestic glaciers of the Oberland, and you will have
a pretty accurate idea of the moral position of one accustomed to
the dramatic representations which formerly occupied our stage,
when he unexpectedly finds himself witnessing these so simple,
grand, and natural beauties.
A second point with respect to which the involuntary feeling of
the French public has found itself at issue with Shakspeare's
admirers is the character of Iago. This character, which is the
concealed agent producing the catastrophe of the piece, is
greatly celebrated in England and elsewhere; all the critics,
without exception, English, German, or French, are unwearying in
their eulogies upon it. When acted, it appeared to us that this
character was generally disapproved, and that in a very marked
way, which kept on increasing with every act: so much so that,
had it not been played with great firmness and determination, it
would certainly have received some decided rebuff. Why was this?
{277}
It was rather curious, at the end of every act, to hear each
spectator give the reason of his repugnance, the cause of his
aversion. One thought Iago too immoral; another, on the contrary,
thought he was not a sufficiently accomplished hypocrite; he
should not boast so offensively of his wickedness, said a third
censor; while a fourth was revolted at seeing him perpetrate his
crimes with so much pleasantry. And so on.
In our judgment, the part was disapproved because it is in itself
bad; because it is, we do not say inconsistent, (for what is more
natural to man than inconsistency?), but incoherent; because the
parts of which it is composed do not naturally associate; and
because, in regard to it, we are uncertain which idea to adopt.
Such, at least, is our mode of viewing it. Let Shakspeare's
devotees anathematize us, if they feel disposed.
What really is Iago? Is he the Evil Spirit, or at least his
representative on earth? Is Othello right when he looks down to
his feet to see whether they are not cloven? Is he a being who
can do evil from the mere love of it, and who deliberately
breathes a poisonous atmosphere into the union of Othello and
Desdemona solely because Desdemona is a being of angelic purity,
and Othello is a loyal, brave, and generous man.
If so, why ascribe to Iago any human and interested motives? Why
are we pointed to his low cupidity, the resentment which he feels
for an injury done to his honor, his envy of a position more
elevated than his own? Why must we see him plundering poor
Roderigo, as Scapin or Sbrigani jiggle the purse out of the
pocket of some imbecile?
{278}
The introduction of these passions destroy every thing that is
fantastic in the part. The devil has neither humor nor honor; he
has neither rancor, nor rage, nor covetousness; he is a
disinterested person; he does evil because it is evil, and
because he is the Evil One.
Iago, on the other hand, is, as he himself boasts, the type of an
egotist--a man who is perfected in the art of self-love--a being
who can arrange his desires in hierarchical subordination,
according to the degree of their importance, and then so plan his
actions as that they shall invariably turn out to his infinite
satisfaction, whatever may be the consequences to other people,
without scrupulosity, without remorse, and also without allowing
himself to be diverted from his aim by any temptation of an
inferior order.
Why, then, does he pursue, at the same time, three or four
different ends, which are to him of very unequal importance? Why
does he undertake successively twenty different projects which he
abandons one after the other? Why especially does he, on every
occasion, lavish his villainy with a hundred times greater
prodigality than is called for by the circumstances? Jonathan
Wild the Great, notorious in the lists of rascality, was much
more expert when he said, "Be chary with your crimes; they are
far too good things to be squandered away in pure waste."
Moreover, how are we to reconcile the different ideas which are
given us of this character? He is first represented to us as an
intrepid, intelligent soldier, worthy of all the confidence of
Othello and the Senate, who might judiciously have been promoted
to a high rank; and then he is exhibited before us as a sharper
of the first quality, and as a miserable ruffian.
{279}
He has a profound contempt for the human race, and, in the human
race, he has a profound contempt for women; he shrugs his
shoulders at the bare suggestion of the possibility of female
honor. His own wife, especially, is an insupportable burden to
him. His only aim in the world is fortune--his enjoyments are
palpable and material--and yet we are required to see, in the
mere suspicion of an old intrigue between his wife and Othello, a
force powerfully acting upon and moving his soul!
He is presented as the most artful villain that ever existed, and
yet all his projects are so ill-contrived, so clumsy, so
destitute of foresight, that not one of them succeeds--neither
was it possible that they could be successful.