all the details of the character and destiny of the personages.
Macbeth, when once fallen, sustains himself only by the
intoxicating influence of the blood into which he plunges deeper
and deeper; and he reaches his term, fatigued by a movement so
alien to his nature, disabused with regard to the possessions
which have cost him so dear, and deriving from the natural
elevation of his character alone the force to defend that which
he hardly desires any longer to preserve. Richard, as inferior to
Macbeth for depth of feeling as he is superior to him in strength
of mind, has sought in crime itself the pleasure of exercising
his stifled faculties, and of making others feel a superiority
which they had ignored or disdained. He deceives, that he may at
once succeed and deceive--that he may subject men to himself, and
give himself the pleasure of despising them. He laughs both at
his dupes and at the means which he has employed to dupe them;
and to the satisfaction which he feels at having conquered them
is added that of having acquired a proof of their weakness. His
discoveries, however, are not yet sufficient to satisfy the
tyranny of his will; baseness never goes quite so far as he
intended, and as he found it necessary to suppose. Compelled
afterward to sacrifice the means which he had first corrupted, he
is incessantly obliged to seduce new agents in order to ruin new
victims.
{338}
But at length the moment arrives when his means of seduction are
no longer sufficient to surmount the difficulties which he has
created, and when the bait which he can offer to the passions of
men is no longer strong enough to overcome the terror with which
he has inspired them regarding their most pressing interests; and
then those whom he had divided, in order to make them fall by
means of one another, unite against himself. He once felt himself
too strong for each of them; he is now alone against them all,
and he has ceased to hope for himself; he does himself justice,
but without abandoning his own cause, and goes to wreck upon the
obstacle which he is indignant at being no longer able to
overcome.
The portraiture of such a personage, and of the passions which he
can bring into play in order to make them subserve his interests,
presents a spectacle which is all the more striking because we
clearly see that Richard's hypocrisy acts only upon those whose
interest it is to allow themselves to be blinded by it. The
people remain mute to the cowardly appeals by which they are
invited to unite with the men in power, who are about to give
their voice in favor of injustice; or, if a few inferior voices
be raised, it is to express a general feeling of alienation and
disquietude, and to disclose the existence of a discontented
nation, side by side with a servile court. The expectations which
result from this state of things, the pathos of several scenes,
the sombre energy of Margaret's character, and the restless
curiosity connected with projects so threatening in their nature
and so animated in their conduct, unite to impart to this work an
interest which fully explains the constancy of its success.
The style of "Richard III." is tolerably simple, and, with the
exception of one or two dialogues, it is marked by few of those
subtleties which sometimes fatigue us even in Shakspeare's finest
dramas. In the part of Richard, one of the wittiest of the tragic
portion of the play, the wit is almost entirely exempt from
refinement.
{339}
This drama comprises a space of fourteen years, from 1471 until
1485. It appears to have been performed in 1597; but before its
production several other plays had been written on the same
subject.
{340}
[Transcriber's note: Guizot presents a history of Henry VIII
in "A Popular History of England, From the Earliest
Times to the Reign of Queen Victoria", Volume II, Chapter XVI.
https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/61828/pg61828-images.html#Page_154.
See also https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/English_monarchs.]
King Henry VIII.
(1601.)
Although Johnson places "Henry VIII." in the second rank of
Shakspeare's historical dramas, with "Richard III.," "Richard
II," and "King John," this work is far from approaching in merit
the least of those with which the critic compares it. A desire to
please Queen Elizabeth, or perhaps a command from that princess
that he should compose a drama of which her birth should in some
sort constitute the subject, could not supply the place of that
liberty which is the soul of genius. The attempt to introduce
Henry VIII. upon the stage in presence of his daughter, and of a
daughter whose mother he had put to death, presented a
complication of difficulties which the poet did not endeavor to
surmount. The character of Henry is completely insignificant; but
it is somewhat extraordinary to notice the interest with which
the poet of Elizabeth has invested Catharine of Aragon. In the
part of Wolsey, especially at the moment of his downfall, we may
discern the touch of the great master; but it appears that, in
the opinion of the English, the great merit of the work consists
in its pomps and splendor, which have led to its being frequently
reproduced upon the stage on occasions of great solemnity. "Henry
VIII." has for us a literary interest, on account of its style,
which the poet has certainly been careful to bring into
conformity with the language of the court, as spoken in his own
time, or a few years previously.
{341}
In no other of his works is the style so elliptical; the habits
of conversation seem to introduce into the construction of its
sentences that economy and abbreviation which, in English
pronunciation, deprive words of nearly half their syllables.
Moreover, we find in it scarcely any play upon words, and,
excepting only in a few passages, very little poetry.
"Henry VIII." was performed, it is believed, in 1601, at the end
of the reign of Elizabeth, and revived, as it would appear, after
her death, in 1613. There is reason to believe that the panegyric
on James I., which is inserted at the end of the prediction
concerning Elizabeth, was added at this period, either by
Shakspeare himself, or by Ben Jonson, to whom the prologue and
epilogue are pretty generally attributed. It was, it is believed,
at this revival, in 1613, that the cannon discharged on the
arrival of the king at Wolsey's palace set fire to the Globe
Theatre, which was burned to the ground.
The play comprises a period of twelve years, from 1521 until
1533. Before the composition of Shakspeare's drama, we are not
aware of the existence of any play on the same subject.
---------------
One common character is manifested in all Shakspeare's historical
dramas, and that is, the profoundly national and popular feeling
which animates the poet. Upon the events and personages which he
represents, he thinks and feels like his audience, like the
simplest and most ignorant of his audience; he cares neither for
truth nor for justice; he has not the slightest pretension to
redress errors or to reprehend public passions; he abandons
himself without reserve to these feelings, for he shares in them,
and reckons upon them for his success.
{342}
The profound and sensible moralist, the man who possesses so
accurate a knowledge of the human heart, the truthful delineator
of the most varied characters, is at the same time the blindest
and most passionate of English patriots. He has penetrated, by
turns, with admirable intelligence and independence, into the
souls of Hamlet, of Romeo, of Macbeth, and of Othello; but as
soon as he approaches the history of his own country in relation
to that of other lands, all independence and impartiality of mind
abandon him; in all things and regarding all persons, he thinks
and judges absolutely like John Bull.
{343}
The Merchant Of Venice.
(1598.)
The substance of the adventure which constitutes the subject of
"The Merchant of Venice" will be found in the chronicles or
literature of almost every country, sometimes entire, and
sometimes unaccompanied by the very piquant episode of the loves
of Bassanio and Portia. A judgment similar to that of Portia has
been attributed to Pope Sixtus V., who, with greater severity,
condemned, it is said, both the contractors of the engagement to
a heavy fine, as a punishment for the immorality of their
contract. On this occasion, the subject of dispute was a bet, and
the Jew was the loser. A collection of French novels, entitled
"Roger Bontemps en belle Humeur," relates the same story, but it
is to the advantage of the Christian, and Sultan Saladin is the
judge. In a Persian manuscript which narrates the same adventure,
a rich Jew makes this bargain with a poor Syrian Mussulman, in
order to obtain the means of ruining him, and thereby succeeding
in gaining possession of his wife, with whom he is violently in
love: this case is decided by a Cadi of Emesa. But the whole
story is related, with a few slight differences, in a very old
work written in Latin, and entitled "Gesta Romanorum;" as well as
in the "Pecorone" of Ser Giovanni, a collection of novels
composed before the end of the fourteenth century, and therefore
long anterior to Sixtus V., which renders the anecdote told about
this Pope by Gregorio Leti extremely improbable.
{344}
In the novel of Ser Giovanni, the lady of Belmont is not a young
girl forced to subject her choice to the condition prescribed by
the singular will of her father, but a young widow who, of her
own accord, imposes a much more singular condition upon those
whom chance or choice may bring into her port. Compelled to share
the bed of the lady, if they can succeed in profiting by the
advantages afforded them by such a position, they will obtain
possession of the widow's person and property. But if they fail,
they lose their vessel and its cargo, and are sent off at once
with a horse and a sufficient sum of money to defray their
expenses homeward. Undeterred by this test, many tried the
adventure, but all failed; for no sooner had they entered the bed
than they fell into a sound sleep, from which they only awoke on
the following morning to learn that the lady had already unloaded
the ship, and prepared the horse which was intended to convey the
unlucky aspirant home again. No one attempted to renew so costly
an enterprise, the ill success of which discouraged even the
boldest of adventurers. Gianetto alone (such is the name of the
young Venetian in the novel) persevered, and after two failures
determined to risk a third adventure. His godfather Ansaldo,
notwithstanding the loss of the first two vessels, of which he
had received no account, equips for him a third, with which
Gianetto promises amply to repair their losses. But, exhausted by
his previous undertakings, Ansaldo is obliged, for the third
venture, to borrow the sum of ten thousand ducats from a Jew, on
the same conditions as those which Shylock imposes upon Antonio.
{345}
Gianetto arrives at Belmont, and, being warned by a servant not
to drink the wine which will be offered him before going to bed,
at last surprises the lady, who, though at first greatly
disconcerted at finding him awake, nevertheless resigns herself
to her fate, and thinks herself happy to proclaim him her husband
on the following day. Gianetto, intoxicated with his happiness,
forgets poor Ansaldo until the fatal day when the bond becomes
due. He then recollects the circumstance by chance, hastens to
Venice, and the rest of the story occurs as Shakspeare has
related it.
It is easy to perceive the reason and necessity of the various
changes which he has introduced into this adventure. It was not,
however, so impossible of representation upon the stage, in his
time, as not to authorize us to suppose that he was induced to
make these changes by a desire to impart greater morality to his
personages, and greater interest to the action. Thus the position
of the generous Antonio, and the delineation of his character, at
once so devoted, courageous, and melancholy, are not the only
source of the charm which reigns so powerfully throughout the
work. The gaps which this position leaves are, at ail events, so
happily filled up that we can perceive no void, so pleasantly is
the soul occupied with the feelings which naturally arise from
it. It seems as though Shakspeare were desirous here to describe
the first delightful days of a happy marriage beneath their
different points of view. The speech of Portia to Bassanio, at
the moment when fate has just decided in his favor, and when she
already regards herself as his happy spouse, is full of such pure
abandonment, and of conjugal submission at once so touching and
so noble, that her character derives from it an inexpressible
charm; and Bassanio, assuming from that instant the superior rank
which befits him, no longer has to fear that he will be degraded
by the spirit and courage of his wife, although the part which
she takes the moment afterward is so decided.
{346}
We know that now the moment of necessity is past, every thing
falls into its proper order, and that the high qualities which
she will subject to her duty as a wife will only add to the
happiness of her husband.
In a subordinate class, Lorenzo and Jessica afford a pleasing
exhibition of the tender jocoseness of two young married people,
who are so filled with their happiness that they diffuse it over
objects most foreign to themselves, and enjoy the most
indifferent thoughts and actions as if they were so many portions
of an existence entirely pervaded by happiness. The conversation
between Lorenzo and Jessica, the garden, the moonlight, the music
which welcomes the return of Portia and Bassanio, and the arrival
of Antonio, dispose the soul to all the sweet impressions which
will be occasioned by the image of complete felicity, in the
union of Portia and Bassanio in the midst of all the friends who
are about to enjoy their cares and benefactions. Shakspeare is
almost the only dramatic poet who has not feared to dwell upon
the picture of happiness; but he felt he had the means of filling
it.
The invention of the three coffers, the original of which also
occurs in many places, is to be found, in almost the same shape
as that which Shakspeare has used, in another adventure of the
"Gesta Romanorum," excepting only that the person subjected to
the trial is the daughter of a king of Apulia, who, from the
wisdom of her choice, is deemed worthy to espouse the son of the
Emperor of Rome. It will be seen from that circumstance that
these "Gesta Romanorum" do not precisely extend so far back as
the ages of historical antiquity.
{347}
The character of the Jew, Shylock, is justly celebrated in
England.
This drama was performed before the year 1598; but we possess no
certain information regarding its date. Several plays on the same
subject had previously been brought on the stage; and it had also
formed the substance of a number of ballads.
In 1701, Mr. Granville, afterward Marquis of Lansdowne, restored
"The Merchant of Venice" to the stage, with numerous alterations,
under the title of "The Jew of Venice." It was performed for a
long time under this new form.
{348}
The Merry Wives Of Windsor.
(1601.)
According to a generally received tradition, the comedy of "The
Merry Wives of Windsor" was composed by order of Queen Elizabeth,
who, having been greatly delighted with Falstaff, desired to see
him once again on the stage. Shakspeare had promised that
Falstaff should die in "Henry V.," [Footnote 36] but doubtless,
after having introduced him once again, feeling embarrassed by
the difficulty of establishing new relations between Falstaff and
Henry when the latter had become king, he satisfied himself with
announcing, at the opening of the piece, the sickness and death
of Falstaff, without presenting him afresh to the eyes of the
public.
[Footnote 36: See the Epilogue of the Second Part of "Henry
IV."]
Elizabeth was of opinion that this was a breach of faith, and
required a new description of the life of the fat knight. It
therefore appears that "The Merry Wives of Windsor" was composed
after "Henry V.," although in historical order it ought to take
precedence. Some commentators have even held, in opposition to
Johnson's opinion, that this drama should be placed between the
two parts of "Henry IV.;" but there appears to be in favor of
Johnson's opinion, which places it between "Henry IV." and "Henry
V.," one conclusive reason, and that is, that according to the
other supposition, the unity, if not of character, at least of
impression and effect, would be entirely destroyed.
{349}
The two parts of "Henry IV." were composed at a single effort,
or, at least, without wandering from the same train of ideas; not
only is the Falstaff of the Second Part precisely the same man as
the Falstaff of the First Part, but he is presented under the
same aspect; and if, in this Second Part, Falstaff is not quite
so amusing, because he has made his fortune, and because his wit
is no longer employed in incessantly extricating him from the
ridiculous embarrassments into which he is thrown by the
assertion of pretensions so utterly at variance with his tastes
and habits, he is, nevertheless, brought upon the stage with the
same class of tastes and habits. He brings his influence with
Henry to bear upon Justice Shallow, just as he used to boast,
among his confidants, of the freedom with which he treated the
prince; and the public affront which serves as his punishment at
the end of the Second Part of "Henry IV." is only the consequence
and complement of the private affronts which Henry V., when
Prince of Wales, had amused himself by putting upon him during
the course of the two plays. In a word, the action which is begun
between Falstaff and the prince, in the First Part, is followed
up without interruption in the Second Part, and then terminated
as it necessarily was destined to finish, and as he had announced
that it would finish.
"The Merry Wives of Windsor" presents a different action, and
exhibits Falstaff in another position, and under another point of
view. He is, indeed, the same man; it would be impossible to
mistake him; but he has grown older, and plunged deeper into his
material tastes, and is solely occupied in satisfying the wants
of his gluttony.
{350}
Doll Tear-Sheet, at least, still abused his imagination, for
with her he thought himself a libertine; but here he has
no such thought; he is anxious to make the insolence of
his gallantries serve to supply him with money; and his
vanity still deceives him with regard to the means of
obtaining this money. Elizabeth, it is said, had desired
Shakspeare to describe Falstaff in love; but Shakspeare,
who was better acquainted with the personages of his own
conception, felt that this kind of ridiculousness was not
suited to such a character, and that it was necessary to
punish Falstaff in a more sensitive point. Even his vanity
would not be sufficient for this purpose; for Falstaff could
derive advantage from every disgrace in which he was
involved; and he had now reached such a point as no longer even
to seek to dissemble his shame. The liveliness with which he
describes to Mr. Brook his sufferings in the basket of dirty
linen is no longer the vivacity of Falstaff relating his exploits
against the robbers of Gadshill, and afterward getting out of the
scrape so pleasantly when his falsehood is brought home to him.
The necessity for boasting of himself is no longer one of his
chief necessities; he wants money, money above all things, and he
will be suitably chastised only by inconveniences as real as the
advantages which he promises himself. Thus the buck-basket and
the blows of Mr. Ford are perfectly adapted to the kind of
pretensions which draw upon Falstaff such a correction; but
although such an adventure may, without any difficulty, be
adapted to the Falstaff of "Henry IV.," it applies to him in
another part of his life and character; and if it were introduced
between the two parts of the action which is continued in the two
parts of "Henry IV.," it would chill the imagination of the
spectator to such a degree as entirely to destroy the effect of
the second part.
{351}
Although this reason may appear sufficient, we might adduce many
others in justification of Johnson's opinion. They must not,
however, be sought for in chronology. It would be an
impracticable work to endeavor to harmonize the different
chronological data which Shakspeare is pleased to establish,
often in the same piece; and it is as impossible to find,
chronologically, the place of "The Merry Wives of Windsor"
between "Henry IV." and "Henry V.," as between the two parts of
"Henry IV." But, adopting this last supposition, the interview
between Shallow and Falstaff in the Second Part of "Henry IV.,"
the pleasure which Shallow feels at seeing Falstaff again, after
so long a separation, and the respect which he professes for him,
and which he carries so far as to lend him a thousand pounds,
become shocking improbabilities; for, after the comedy of "The
Merry Wives of Windsor," Shallow can not be caught by Falstaff.
Nym, whom we find in "Henry V." is not numbered among
Shakspeare's followers in the Second Part of "Henry IV." With
either supposition, it would be somewhat difficult to account for
the personage Quickly, if we did not suppose that it referred to
another Quickly--a name which Shakspeare found it convenient to
render common to all procuresses. The Quickly of "Henry IV." is
married, and her name is therefore not that of a girl; but the
Quickly of "The Merry Wives of Windsor" is not married.
After all, it would be superfluous to seek to establish in a very
accurate manner the historical order of these three dramas;
Shakspeare himself did not bestow a thought upon the matter. We
may, however, believe that, from the uncertainty in which he has
left the whole affair, he was at least desirous that it should
not be altogether impossible to make "The Merry Wives of Windsor"
the continuation of "Henry IV."
{352}
Hurried, as it would appear, by the orders of Elizabeth, he at
first produced only a kind of sketch of this comedy, which was
nevertheless acted for a considerable period, as we find it
printed in the first editions of his works; and it was not until
several years afterward that he arranged it in the form in which
we now possess it. In this early play, Falstaff, at the moment
when he is in the forest, alarmed by the noises which he hears on
every side, inquires if it is not "the mad Prince of Wales
stealing his father's deer." This supposition is suppressed in
the revised copy of the comedy, in which the poet apparently
wished to endeavor to indicate a rather more probable order of
facts. In the piece as we now possess it, Page reproaches Fenton
with "having been of the company" of the Prince of Wales and of
Poins. At all events, he no longer belongs to it; and we may
suppose that the name of "wild prince" was still retained to show
what the Prince of Wales had been, and what Henry V. no longer
was. However this may be, although "The Merry Wives of Windsor"
may present a less exalted kind of comicality than the First Part
of "Henry IV.," it is, nevertheless, one of the most diverting
productions of that gayety of mind which Shakspeare has displayed
in several of his comedies.
A number of novels may contest the honor of having furnished
Shakspeare with the substance of the adventure upon which he has
based the plot of the "Merry Wives of Windsor." It was probably
from the same sources that Molière borrowed the idea of his
"Ecole des Femmes." Shakspeare's own invention consists in having
made the same intrigue serve to punish both the jealous husband
and the insolent lover. He has thus imparted to the drama, with
the exception of the license of a few expressions, a much more
moral tone than that of the novels from which he may have derived
his subject, and in which the husband always ends by being duped,
while the lover is made happy.
This comedy appears to have been composed in 1601.
{353}
{354}
The Tempest.
(1611.)
"Whether this be or be not, I'll not swear," says old Gonzalo, at
the conclusion of the "Tempest," when utterly confounded by the
marvels which have surrounded him ever since his arrival on the
island. It seems as though, through the mouth of the honest man
of the drama, Shakspeare desired to express the general effect of
this charming and singular work. As brilliant, light, and
transparent as the aerial beings with which it is filled, it
scarcely allows itself to be apprehended by reflection; and
hardly, through its changeful and diaphanous features, can we
feel certain that we perceive a subject, a dramatic contexture,
and real adventures, feelings, and personages. Nevertheless, it
contains all these, and all these are revealed in it; and, in
rapid succession, each object in its turn moves the imagination,
occupies the attention, and disappears, leaving no trace behind
but a confused emotion of pleasure and an impression of truth, to
which we dare not either refuse or grant our belief.