{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_54165/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_54165","id":"gutenberg_54165","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54165","summary":null,"tags":["Ariosto, Lodovico, 1474-1533","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Corneille, Pierre, 1606-1684","Shakespeare, William, 1564-1616 -- Criticism and interpretation"],"text":"ARIOSTO, SHAKESPEARE AND CORNEILLE\n\nBY\n\nBENEDETTO CROCE\n\n\nTRANSLATED BY\n\nDOUGLAS AINSLIE\n\n\nRUSKIN HOUSE, 40 MUSEUM STREET, W.C.I\nLONDON: GEORGE ALLEN & UNWIN, LTD.\n\n1920\n\n\n\n\nTRANSLATOR'S PREFACE\n\n\nEvviva L'Italia! Italy, Britain's ancient friend and loyal ally, has\nbeen an important factor both in winning the war and in bringing it to\nan earlier conclusion. The War! That greatest practical effort that\nthe world has ever made is now over and we must all work to make it a\nbetter place for all to live in.\n\nNow at the hands of her philosopher-critic, Italy offers us a first\neffort at reconstruction of our world-view with this masterly treatise\non the greatest poet of the English-speaking world, so original and so\nprofound that it will serve as guide to generations yet unborn. And it\nwill not be only the critics of Shakespeare who should benefit by this\ntreatise, but all critics and lovers of poetry--including prose--who\ngo beyond the passive stage of mere admiration. The essays on Ariosto\nand Corneille are also unique and the three together should inaugurate\neverywhere a new era in literary criticism.\n\nThese are the first of Benedetto Croce's literary criticisms to see the\nlight in English.\n\nThey are profound and suggestive, because based upon theory, the\n_Theory of Aesthetic,_ with which some readers will be acquainted in\nthe original, others in the version by the present translator. These\nwill not need to be told that Croce's theory of the independence and\nautonomy of the aesthetic fact, which is intuition-expression, and of\nthe essentially lyrical character of all art, is the only one that\ncompletely and satisfactorily explains the problem of poetry and the\nfine arts.\n\nBut this is not the place for philosophical discussion, although\nit is important to stress the point, that all criticism is based\nupon philosophy, and that therefore if the philosophy upon which it\nis based is unsound, the criticism suffers accordingly. Croce has\nelsewhere shown that the shortcomings of such critics as Sainte-Beuve,\nTaine, Lema\u00eetre and Bruneti\u00e8re are due to incorrect or insufficient\nphilosophical knowledge and a similar criterion can be applied at home\nwith equal truth.\n\nThe translator will be satisfied if the present version receives equal\npraise from the author with that accorded to the four translations of\nthe Philosophy into English, which Croce has often declared to come\nmore near to his spirit than those in any other language--and he has\nbeen translated into all the great European languages--the _Aesthetic_\neven into Japanese. The object adhered to in this translation has been\nas close a cleaving as possible to the original, while preserving a\ncompletely idiomatic style and remaining free from all pedantry.\n\nA translation should not in any case be taken as a pouring from the\ngolden into the silver vessel, as used to be erroneously supposed, for\nCroce has proved that in so far as the translator rethinks the original\nhe is himself a creator. This explains why so many writers have been\naddicted to translation--in English we have Pope, Fitzgerald, Rossetti,\nto name but three of many--and the author of the Philosophy of the\nSpirit, Croce himself, has published a splendid Italian version of\nHegel's _Encyclopaedia of the Philosophic Sciences._\n\nDOUGLAS AINSLIE.\n\n    The Athenaeum,\n    Pall Mall, London,\n    October, 1920.\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\nPART I\n\nLUDOVICO ARIOSTO\n\n       I   A CRITICAL PROBLEM\n      II   THE LIFE OF THE AFFECTIONS IN ARIOSTO, AND THE HEART OF HIS HEART\n     III   THE HIGHEST LOVE: HARMONY\n      IV   THE MATERIAL FOR THE HARMONY\n       V   THE REALISATION OF HARMONY\n      VI   HISTORICAL DISASSOCIATIONS\n\nPART II\n\nWILLIAM SHAKESPEARE\n\n     VII   THE PRACTICAL PERSONALITY AND THE POETICAL PERSONALITY\n    VIII   SHAKESPEAREAN SENTIMENT\n      IX   MOTIVES AND DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE'S POETRY\n       X   THE ART OF SHAKESPEARE\n      XI   SHAKESPEAREAN CRITICISM\n     XII   SHAKESPEARE AND OURSELVES\n\nPART III\n\nPIERRE CORNEILLE\n\n    XIII   CRITICISM OF THE CRITICISM\n     XIV   THE IDEAL OF CORNEILLE\n      XV   THE MECHANISM OF THE CORNELIAN TRAGEDY\n     XVI   THE POETRY OF CORNEILLE\n\nINDEX\n\n\n\n\nPART I\n\nLUDOVICO ARIOSTO\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nA CRITICAL PROBLEM[1]\n\n\nThe fortune of the _Orlando Furioso_ may be compared to that of a\ngraceful, smiling woman, whom all look upon with pleasure, without\nexperiencing any intellectual embarrassment or perplexity, since it\nsuffices to have eyes and to direct them to the pleasing object, in\norder to admire. Crystal clear as is the poem, polished in every\nparticular, easily to be understood by whomsoever possesses general\nculture, it has never presented serious difficulties of interpretation,\nand for that reason has not needed the industry of the commentators,\nand has not been injured by their quarrelsome subtleties; nor has it\nbeen subject, more than to a very slight extent, to the intermittences\nfrom which other notable poetical works have suffered, owing to the\nvarying conditions of culture at different times. Great men and\nordinary readers have been in as complete agreement about it, as, for\ninstance, about the beauty, let us say, of a Madame R\u00e9camier; and\nthe list of great men, who have experienced its fascination, goes\nfrom Machiavelli and the Galilei, to Voltaire and to Goethe, without\nmentioning names more near to our own time.\n\nYet, however unanimous, simple and unrestrainable be the aesthetic\napprobation accorded to the poem of Ariosto, the critical judgments\ndelivered upon it are just as discordant, complicated and laboured;\nand indeed this is one of those cases where the difference of the two\nspiritual moments, intuitive or aesthetic, the apprehension or tasting\nof the work of art, and intellective, the critical and historical\njudgment,--a difference wrongly disputed from one point of view by\nsensationalists and from another by intellectualists,--stands out so\nclearly as to seem to be almost spatially divided, so that one can\ntouch it with one's hand. Anyone can easily read and live again the\noctaves of Ariosto, caressing them with voice and imagination, as\nthough passionately in love; but to say whence comes that particular\nform of enchantment, to determine that is to say, the character of\nthe inspiration that moved Ariosto, his dominant poetical motive,\nthe peculiar effect which became poetry in him, is a very different\nundertaking and one of no small difficulty.\n\nThe question has tormented the critics from the time when literary\nand historical criticism acquired individual prominence and energy,\nthat is to say at the origin of romantic aestheticism, when works of\nart were no longer examined in parts separated from the whole, or in\ntheir external outline, but in the spirit that animated them. Yet we\nmust not think that earlier times were without all suspicion of this,\nfor an uncertain suggestion of it is to be found even in the eccentric\nenquiries, as to whether the _Furioso_ be a moral poem or not, or\nwhether it should be looked upon as serious or playful. But intellects\nsuch as Schiller and Goethe, Humboldt and Schelling, Hegel, Ranke,\nGioberti, Quinet and De Sanctis, treated or touched upon it in the last\ncentury, and very many others during and after their times, and the\ntheme has again been taken up with renewed keenness, in dissertations,\nmemoirs and articles, some of them foreign, but mostly Italian.\n\nMany of the problems or formulas of problems, which one at one time\ncritically discussed have been allowed to disappear, like cast-off\nclothes as the results of the new conception of art: that is to say,\nnot only those we have mentioned, as to whether the _Furioso_ were or\nwere not an epic, whether it were serious or comic, but also a throng\nof other problems, such as whether it possessed unity of action, a\nprotagonist or hero, whether its episodes were linked to the action,\nwhether it maintained the dignity of history, whether it afforded\nan allegory, and if so, of what sort, whether it obeyed the laws of\nmodesty and morality, or followed good examples, whether it could be\ncredited with invention, and if so in what measure, whether it were\nfiner than the _Gerusalemme_ or less fine, and as to what it was finer\nor less fine; and so on. All these problems have become obsolete,\nbecause they have been solved in the only suitable way, that is to\nsay, they have been shown to be fallacious in their theoretical terms;\nand to say that they are obsolete does not mean that there have not\nbeen some, both in the nineteenth century and at the present time,\nwho have set to work to solve them, and have arrived at unfortunate\nconclusions in different ways. The unity of action of the _Furioso_\nhas also been investigated and determined (by Panizzi, for example,\nand by Carducci); its immorality has also been blamed (by Cant\u00f9, for\ninstance); the book of the debts of Ariosto to his predecessors has\nbeen re-opened and charged with so very many figures on the debit side\nthat the final balance-sheet of credit and debit presents an enormous\ndeficit (Rajna); the comparison with examples from prototypes under\nthe name of _\"Evolutionary History of Romantic Chivalry,\"_ in which\nthe _Furioso,_ according to some, does not represent the summit, but\nrather a deviation and decadence from the ideal prototype (Rajna\nagain); according to others, the _Furioso_ gave final and perfect form\nto \"The French Epic of Germanic Heroes\" (Morf); allegory, contained in\na moral judgment as to Italian life at the time of the Renaissance,\nlost in its pursuit of love, like the Christian and Saracen knights in\ntheir pursuit of Angelica (Canello). But whether in their primitive or\nin their more modern forms these problems are obsolete, for us who\nare aware of the mistakes and errors in aesthetic, from which they\narise; and others of more recent date must also be held obsolete with\nthese, such theories as these for instance (to quote one of them) which\nundertake to study the _Furioso_ in its \"formation,\" understanding by\nformation the literary presuppositions of its various parts, beginning\nwith the title. Decorated with the name of _Scientific Study,_ this is\nmere inconclusive or ill-conclusive philology.\n\nThe work of modern criticism does not restrict itself to the clearing\naway of these idle and unnecessary enquiries, but also includes a\nvaried and thorough investigation into the poetry of Ariosto, whose\nevery aspect we may claim to have illuminated in turn, and to have\ngiven all the solutions as to the true character of the problem that\ncan be suggested. And it almost seems now that anyone who wishes\nto form an idea upon the subject needs but select from the various\nexisting solutions, that one which shows itself to be clearly superior\nto all others, owing to its being supported by the most valid\narguments, after he has possessed himself of the critical literature\nrelating to Ariosto. It seems impossible to suggest a new solution,\nand as though the argument were one of those of which it may be said\nthat \"there is no hope of finding anything new in connection with it.\"\n\nAnd this is very nearly true, but only very nearly, for a\nnon-superficial examination of those various solutions leads to\nthe result that none of them is valid in the way it is presented,\nthat is to say, with the arguments that support it. It is therefore\nadvisable to indicate some of these arguments, which have already been\ngiven, and to deduce from them other consequences, though we may not\nsucceed in framing others which shall shine with amazing novelty. But\nupon consideration, this will be nothing less than providing a new\nsolution, just because the problem has been differently presented and\ndifferently argued: a novelty of that serious sort which is a step\nforward upon what has already been observed and acquired, not that sort\nof extravagant novelty agreeable to false originality and to sterile\nsubtlety.\n\nThere are two fundamental types of reply to the question as to the\ncharacter of Ariosto's poetry; of these the more important is the\nfirst, either because, as will be seen, really here near to the truth,\nor because supported with the supreme authority of De Sanctis. Prior\nto De Sanctis, it is only to be vaguely discerned as suggested by the\neighteenth century writer, Sulzer, and more clearly in the German\naesthetic writer, Vischer; it was afterwards repeated, prevailed and\nwas accepted, among others by Carducci. According to De Sanctis and\nto his precursors and followers, in the _Furioso_ Ariosto has no\nsubjective content to express, no sentimental or passionate motive,\nno idea become sentiment or passion, but pursues the sole end of art,\nsinging for singing's sake, representing for representation's sake,\nelaborating pure form, and satisfying the one end of realising his own\ndreams.\n\nThis affirmation is not to be taken in a general sense, the words in\nwhich it is formulated must not be construed literally, for in that\ncase it would be easy to raise the reasonable objection, that not only\nAriosto, but every artist, just because he is an artist, never has any\nend but that of art, of singing for singing's sake, representing for\nrepresentation's sake, of elaborating pure form, and of satisfying\nthe need that he feels to realise his own dreams: woe to the artist,\nwho has an eye to any other ends, and tries to teach, to persuade,\nto shock, to move, to make a hit or an effect, or anything else\nextraneous to art. The theory of art for art, opposed by many, is\nincontestable from this point of view, it is indeed indubitable and\naltogether obvious. The critics who attribute that end as a character\nof Ariosto's poetry, mean rather to affirm, that the author of the\n_Furioso_ proceeded in his own individual proper manner with respect\nto other poets; and they then proceed to determine their thoughts upon\nthe subject in two ways, differing somewhat from one another. Both of\nthese are to be found mingled and confused in the pages of De Sanctis.\nAriosto is held to have allowed to pass in defile within him the chain\nof romantic figures of knights and ladies and the stories of their arms\nand audacious undertakings, of their loves and their love-making, with\nthe one object of _delighting the imagination._ Ariosto is held to have\ndepicted that various human world without interposing anything between\nhimself and things, without reflecting himself in things, without\nsinking them in himself or in his own feelings. He is held to have\nbeen solely an _objective observer._ Now, taking the first case, that\nis to say, if the work of Ariosto be really resolved into a plaything\nof the imagination, although he might have pleased himself by doing\nsomething agreeable to himself and to others, yet he would not have\nbeen a poet, \"the divine Ariosto,\" because the pleasure of the fancy\nbelongs to the order of practical acts, to what are called games or\ndiversion. And in the second case, when he has been praised for being\nperfectly objective, this is not only at variance with the actual\ncreation of the poet, but is also in contradiction to it--and indeed\nin contradiction to every form of spiritual production. As though\nthings existed outside the spirit and it were possible to take them up\nin their supposed objectivity and to externalise them by putting them\non paper or canvas. The theory of art for art, when taken as a theory\nof merely fanciful pleasure or of indifferent objective reproduction\nof things, should be firmly rejected, because it is at variance with\nand contradicts the nature of art and of the universal spirit. At the\nmost, these two paradigms,--art as mere fancy and art as extrinsic\nobjectivity,--might be of avail as designating two artistic forms of\ndeficiency and ugliness, _futile_ art and _material_ art, that is to\nsay, in both cases, non-art; and in like manner the theory of art for\nart's sake would in those cases be the definition of one or more forms\nof artistic perversion.\n\nOwing to the impossibility of denying to Ariosto any content, and\nat the same time of enjoying him and of acclaiming him a poet,--an\nimpossibility more or less obscurely felt by some, although without\ndiscovering and demonstrating it as has been done above,--it has\ncome about that not only other critics, but those very critics who,\nlike De Sanctis, had described him as a poet of pure fancy or pure\nobjectivity, have been led to recognise in him a content, and sometimes\nseveral contents, one upon the top of the other, in a heap. One of\nsuch contents, perhaps that most generally admitted, is without doubt\nthe _dissolution of the world of chivalry,_ brought about by Ariosto\nthrough irony: a historical position conferred upon him by Hegel, and\namply illustrated by De Sanctis. But what do they mean by saying that\nAriosto expresses the dissolution of the world of chivalry? Certainly\nnot simply that in his poem are to be found documents concerning\nthe passing of the ideals of chivalry, because whether this be true\nor not, it does not concern the concrete artistic form, but its\nabstract material, considered and treated as a source of historical\ndocumentation. Nor can it mean that he was inspired with aversion to\nthe ideals of chivalry and in favour of new ideals, because polemic\nand criticism, negation and affirmation, are not art. So what was\nreally meant was (although those who maintain this interpretation often\nunderstand it in one or other of those meanings, which are external to\nart), that Ariosto was animated with a true and real feeling toward\nthe ideals of the life of chivalry, and that this feeling supplied\nthe lyrical motive for his poem. This motive has been disputed in\nits details in various ways, some holding it to have been aversion,\nothers a mixture of aversion and of love, others of admiration and of\npleasure; but before we engage in further investigation, we must first\nascertain if there exist, that is to say, if Ariosto really endowed\nwith his own feeling--whatever it be, prevailing aversion or prevailing\ninclination or a prevalent alternation of the two,--the material of\nchivalry, rendering it serious and emotional, through the seriousness\nand emotion of his own feeling. And this does not exist at all, for\nwhat all feel and see as chivalry in Ariosto's mode of treatment, is\non the contrary a sort of aloofness and superiority, owing to which\nhe never engages himself up to the hilt in admiration or in scorn or\nin passionate disagreement with one or the other; and this impression\nwhich his narratives of sieges and combats, of duels and feats of\narms produce upon us, has afforded the ground for the above-mentioned\nopposed theories as to his objective attitude and as to his cultivation\nof a mere pastime of the imagination. Had Ariosto really aimed, as is\nsaid, at an exaltation or a semi-exaltation or at an ironisation of\nchivalry, he would clearly have missed the mark, and this failure would\nhave been the failure of his art.\n\nWhat has been remarked concerning the content of chivalry is to be\nrepeated for all the other contents which have been proposed in turn,\neach one or all of them together as the true and proper leading\nmotive; and of these (leaving out the least likely, because we are\nnot here concerned with collecting curious trifles of Ariostesque\ncriticism, but are resuming the essential lines of this criticism\nwith the intention of cutting into it more deeply and with greater\ncertainty), the next thing to mention, immediately after chivalrous\nideality or anti-ideality, is the philosophy of life, the _wisdom,_\nwhich Ariosto is supposed to have administered and counselled. This\nwisdom is supposed to have embraced love, friendship, politics,\nreligion, public and private life, and to have been directed with\ngreat moderation and good sense, noble without fanaticism, courageous\nand patient, dignified and modest. We admit that these things are to\nbe found in the _Furioso,_ just as chivalrous things are to be found\nthere also; but they are there in almost the same way, that is to\nsay, with the not doubtful accent of aloofness and remoteness, which\nat once places a great chasm between Ariosto and the true poets of\nwisdom, such as were for instance, Manzoni and Goethe. The latter of\nthese, in the fine verses (of the _Tasso)_ in praise of Ariosto,--who\nis held to have there draped in the garb of fable all that can render\nman dear and honoured, to have exhibited experience, intelligence,\ngood taste, the pure sense of good, as living persons, crowned with\nroses and surrounded with a magic winged presence of Amorini,--somewhat\ntransfigured the subject of his eulogy, by approaching him to himself:\nalthough, as we perceive from the images that he employed, it did not\nescape him that in the case of the lovable singer of the _Furioso,_\nthe wisdom was covered, and as it were smothered beneath a cloud\nof many coloured flowers. Thus the two principal solutions hitherto\ngiven of the critical problem presented by Ariosto, the only two which\nappear thinkable,--that the _Furioso_ has no content; that it has this\nor that content,--each finds countenance in the other and arguments\nin its favour. This means that they confute one another in turn. And\nsince it is impossible that there should be no content in Ariosto,\nand on the other hand, since all those to which attention was first\ndirected (admiration or contempt of chivalry, wisdom of life) turn out\nto be without existence, it is clear that there is no way out of the\ndifficulty, save that of seeking another content, and such an one as\nshall show how the truth has been improperly symbolised in the formulas\nof \"mere imagination,\" of \"indifferent objectivity\" and of \"art for\nart's sake.\"\n\n\n[Footnote 1: In the preparation of this essay, I believe that I have\nexamined all, or almost all, the literature of erudition and criticism,\nold and new, in connection with Ariosto; this will not escape the\nexpert reader, although particular discussions and quotation of\ntitles and pages of books have seemed to me to be superfluous on this\noccasion. But in judging this work, the reader should have present\nin his mind above all the chapter of De Sanctis on the _Furioso_\n(illustrated with fragments from his lectures at Zurich upon the poetry\nof chivalry), which forms the point of departure for these later\ninvestigations and conclusions.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nTHE LIFE OF THE AFFECTIONS IN ARIOSTO,\n\nAND THE HEART OF HIS HEART\n\n\nAriosto had ordinary emotional experiences in life, and this has\nbeen shown to be true, not so much through the biographies of his\ncontemporaries and documents which have later come to light, as\nthrough his own words, because he took great pleasure, if not exactly\nin confessing himself, at any rate in giving vent to his feelings.\nIt is well known that he was without profound intellectual passions,\nreligious or political, free from longing for riches and honours,\nsimple and frugal in his mode of life, seeking above all things peace\nand tranquillity and freedom to follow his own imagination, to give\nhimself over to the studies that he loved. Rarely or only for brief\nspaces of time was it given to him to live in his own way, owing to\nthe necessity, always on his shoulders, for providing for his younger\nbrothers and sisters and for his mother, and also the necessity\nof obtaining bread for himself. All these circumstances together\nconstrained him to undertake the hard work and the annoyances of a\ncourt life. He was admirable in the fulfilment of family duties,\nperfectly honest and reliable on every occasion, full of good, just and\ngenerous sentiments, and therefore the recipient of universal esteem\nand confidence. Owing to reasons connected with his office, he was\nobliged to associate with greedy, violent, unscrupulous men, but he\ndid not allow himself to be stained by their contact, preserving the\nattitude of an honest employee towards his patrons, attentive to the\nformal duties with which he was charged. He is discreet, but pure and\ndignified, refraining from taking part whatever in the secret plots and\nmachinations of those whose orders he obeys. He was thus enabled to\ncarry out the instructions of his superiors, whom he regarded solely\nas filling a certain lofty rank, idealising them in conformity with\ntheir rank, praising them, that is to say, for their attainments,\ntheir ability and their noble undertakings, either because they really\npossessed them and really accomplished the things for which he praised\nthem, or because they should have possessed them and accomplished the\nfeats in question, as attributes inherent to their social station.\n\nAmong these duties and labours one single passion ran like an ever warm\nstream through his brain: love, or rather the need of woman's society,\nto have with him a beloved woman, to enjoy her beauty, her laughter,\nher speech: and although he frequently alludes to this passion, it\nis as one ashamed of a weakness, but aware that he can by no means\ndispense with the sweetness that it procures for him and which is a\nvital element of his being. But even his love for woman, however strong\nit may have been, found its correct framework in his idyllic ideal and\nin his reflective and temperate spirit: it contained nothing of the\nfantastic, the adventurous, the Donjuanesque; and after the customary\nevil and evanescent adventures of youth, he took refuge in her \"for\nwhom he trembled with amorous zeal\" and (as his friend Hercules\nBentivoglio tells us in verse): in that Alexandra, who was his friend\nfor twenty years, and finally his more or less legal wife. United to\nhis desire for quietude, there was thus a potent stimulus not to remove\nhimself at all, or if at all, then as little as possible, from her\nwho was warmth and comfort for him, and to whom he clung like a child\nto the bosom of its mother. His latter years, in which, recalled from\nhis severe sojourn at Garfagnana, he occupied himself with correcting\nhis poems at Ferrara, with the woman he loved at his side, were perhaps\nthe happiest he knew; and he passed away in that peace for which he had\nsighed, ere attaining to old age.\n\nSuch tendencies of soul and the life which resulted from them, have\nsometimes been admired and envied, as for instance by the sixteenth\ncentury English translator of the _Furioso,_ Harrington. After having\ndescribed them, and having disclaimed certain sins, indeed as he said,\nthe single _pecadillo of love,_ he concludes with a sigh: \"_Sic me\ncontingat vivere, Sicque mori._\" Sometimes too they have been looked\nupon from above and almost with compassion, as by De Sanctis and\nothers, who have insisted upon the negative aspects of the character\nof Ariosto. These negative aspects are however nothing but the\nlimits, which are found in everyone, for we are not all capable of\neverything; and really Italian critics, especially in the period of the\nRisorgimento, were often wrong in laying down as a single measure for\neveryone, civil, political, patriotic, religious, excellence, forgetful\nthat judgment of an individual's character should depend upon his\nnatural disposition, his temperament. Certainly, the life of Ariosto\nwas not rich and intense, nor does it present important problems in\nrespect of social and moral history; and the industry of the learned,\nalthough it has been able to increase its collections and conjectures\nas to his economic and family conditions, as to his official duties\nas courtier, as ambassador and administrator for the Duke of Ferrara,\nas to his loves and as to the names and persons of the women whom he\nloved, as to the house which he built and inhabited, and other similar\nparticulars, anecdotes and curiosities concerning him (the collection\nof which shows with how much religion or superstition a great man is\nsurrounded, and also sometimes the futility of the searcher), has not\nadded anything substantial to what the poet tells us himself, far less\nhas been able to furnish materials for a really new biography, which\nshould be at once profound and dramatic.\n\nNevertheless, such as it was, the life of a good and of a poor man,\nof one tenaciously devoted to love and poetry, it found literary\nexpression in the minor works of the author: in the Latin songs, in the\nItalian verses, and in the satires.\n\nIn saying this, we shall set aside the comedies, which seem to be the\nmost important of those minor works and are notwithstanding the least\nsignificant, so that they might be almost excluded from the history\nof his poetical development, connected rather with his doings as a\ncourtier, as an arranger of spectacles and plays, for which purpose he\ndecided to imitate the Latin comedy, for he did not believe there was\nanything new to be done in that field, since the Latins had already\nimitated the Greeks. No doubt Ariosto's comedies stand for an important\ndate in the history of the Italian theatre and of the Latin imitation\nwhich prevailed there, that is to say, the history of culture, but not\nin that of poetry. There they are mute. They are works of adaptation\nand combination, and therefore executed with effort; there is nothing\nnew, even about their form, and a proof of this is that Ariosto, after\nhe had made a first attempt to write them in prose, finally put them\ninto monotonous and tiresome ante-penultimate hendecasyllabics, which\nhave never pleased anyone's ear, because they were not born, but\nconstructed according to design, with evident artifice and with a view\nto giving to Italy the metre of comedy, analogous to the Roman iambic.\nWhoever (to cite an instance from the same period and \"style\") calls\nto memory the _Mandragola_ of Machiavelli, instinct with the energetic\nspirit, the bitter disdain of the great thinker, or even the sketches\nthrown upon paper anyhow by the ne'er-do-well Pietro Aretino, is at\nonce sensible of the difference between dead ability and living force,\nor at any rate careless vigour. Nor does the dead material come alive,\nas some easily contented critics maintain, from the fact that Ariosto\nintroduced, especially into the later of those comedies, allusions to\npersons, places and customs of Ferrara, or satirical gibes at the vices\nof the time; all these things are light as straws and quite indifferent\nwhen original inspiration lacks, as in the present case.\n\nOn the other hand, there are many pure and spontaneous parts in the\nminor works: even the imitations of Horace, of Catullus, of Tibullus\nin the Latin poems, do not produce a sense of coldness, because we\nfeel that they are inspired with devotion of the humanists for the\nLatins, for \"my Latins,\" as he affectionately called them; and the\nheart of the poet often beats with theirs, whether he be lamenting\nthe death of a friend and companion, or drawing the portrait of some\nfair lady, or describing the delights of the country, or inveighing\nagainst some treacherous and venal woman. In like manner, we observe\nsome fine traits of lofty emotion among the Italian poems, such as the\ntwo songs for Philiberta of Savoy; and the true accents of his love\nfind their way to utterance among the Petrarchan, the madrigalesque and\nthe courtly qualities of others. Such is the song celebrating their\nfirst meeting, in which he records the Florentine _festa,_ where he\nsaw her who was to become his mistress, and who immediately occupied a\nplace above all other women in his eyes, her whose fair, dense hair,\nas it shaded her cheeks and neck and fell upon her shoulders, whose\nrich silken robe adorned with scarlet and gold, became part of his\nsoul; and the elegy which is an outburst of joy upon having attained\nthe desired felicity; and that other which records the lovers' meeting\nat night; then too the chapter upon the visit to Florence, where all\nthe attractions of the sweet city failed to secure fer him a moment's\nrespite, eager as he was to return to the longed-for presence of\nthe loved one, whom he describes poetically in her absence as a fair\nmagician:\n\n    \"Oltra acque, monti, a ripa l'onda vaga\n    Del re de' fiumi, in bianca e pura stola,\n    Cantando ferma il sol la bella maga,\n    Che con sua vista pu\u00f2 sanarmi sola.\"\n\nand in the sonnet which ends:\n\n    \"Ma benigne accoglienze, ma complessi\n    Licenziosi, ma parole sciolte\n    D'ogni freno, ma risi, vezzi e giuochi.\"\n\nThey are often echoes of the erotic Latin poets, refreshed by the true\ncondition of his own spirit which, in the passion of love, never went\nbeyond a tender and somewhat slight degree of sensuality. It would be\nvain to seek in him what he does not possess--that suave imagining,\nthose cosmical analogies, those moral finesses and lofty thoughts,\nwhich are to be found in other poets of love.\n\nFor this reason, reflections upon himself and upon the society in\nwhich it was his fate to live, confidences about his own various ways\nof feeling and the recital of his adventures, follow and accompany\nthe brief lyrical effusions of this eroticism. When Ariosto limits\nhimself to the thoughts and happenings of his daily life, it is\nrather a question of narrating than creating, and the culmination\nof the minor works are known as the _Satires,_ which must not be\nlimited to the seven which bear this title in the printed editions,\nbut should be extended to include other compositions of like tone and\ncontent, to be found among the elegies and the capitals, and even\namong the odes, such as the elegy _De diversis amoribus._ In all of\nthese, Ariosto is writing his autobiography in fragments, or rather\nas a series of confidential letters to his friends, such as he did\nnot write in prose, at least none are to be found among those of his\nthat remain. These are all connected with business, dry, summary,\nand written in haste, only here and there revealing the personality\nof the writer; whereas, when he expressed himself in verse, he made\nhis own soul the subject, paying attention to the vivacity of the\nrepresentation and the precise accuracy of what he said. This is a\nmost pleasing versified correspondence, where we hear him lamenting,\nlosing patience, telling us what he wants, forming projects, refusing,\nbegging a favour, candidly laying bare for us his true disposition, his\nlack of docility, his volubility and his caprices, discussing life\nand the world, smiling at others and at himself; we converse with an\nAriosto in his dressing-gown, who experiences great pleasure and has\nno compunction about showing us himself as he is, and we know how he\nabhorred any sort of restraint. But these letters in verse, although\nperfect in quality, vivacious and eloquent as only the writings of a\nman who speaks of things that concern himself can be, yet are letters,\nconfessions, autobiography: they are not pure poetry; their metrical\nform is to them something of a delicate pleasing whim, in harmony\nwith such a definition of the soul. In saying this, we do not wish\nto detract in any way from their value, which is great, but only to\nprevent their true character from escaping us.\n\nIt is no marvel then if a connection, such as prevails between hills\nand valleys, seems to run between these lesser works, the odes, the\nverses of the satires, and the _Furioso._ It is sufficient to read\nan octave or two of the poem to discover at once the difference in\naltitude separating it from the most delicious of the love-songs, from\nthe most nimble and picturesque of the satires, which express the\nfeelings of the author far more directly than does the _Furioso._\nIt is further to be noted that Ariosto never wished to publish, and\ncertainly never would have had published a great number of them, with\nthe exception of the comedies, even after his death, except perhaps the\nsatires; but since the minor works are nevertheless the expression of\nhis feelings in real and ordinary life, it follows that if we wish to\ndiscover the inspiration of the _Furioso,_ the passion which informed\nand gave to it its proper content, we must seek for this beyond his\nordinary life, not in the heart which we know as that of a son, a\nbrother, a poor man, a lover: it is something hidden yet more deeply\nwithin him, the heart of his heart.\n\nThat there really was a hidden affection; that Ariosto really had a\nheart of his heart shut up within himself; that beyond and above the\nbeloved woman he worshipped another woman or goddess, with whom he\ndaily held religious converse, is apparent from his whole habit of\nlife. Why had he so lofty a disdain for practical ambitions, why was\nlife at court and business so wearisome to him, why did he renounce so\nmuch, sigh so often and so often pray for leisure and rest and freedom,\nsave to celebrate that cult, to give himself over to that converse,\nto work upon the _Furioso,_ which was its altar, or the statue which\nhe had sculptured for it and was perfecting with his chisel? What was\nthe origin of his well-known \"distraction,\" that mind of his so aloof\nfrom his surroundings, ever dwelling upon something else, which his\ncontemporaries observe and about which curious anecdotes are preserved?\nHis need of love and of feminine caresses did not present itself to him\nas a supreme end, as with people desirous of ease and pleasure, but\nseemed to him to be rather a means to an end: as though it were the\nsurrounding of serene joy, of tumult appeased, which he prepared for\nhimself and for that other more lofty love. Carducci has successfully\ndefined this psychological situation in his sonnet on the portrait of\nAriosto, where he says that the only longed for and accepted \"prize\nfor his poems\" was for the great dreamer \"a lovely mouth--which should\nappease the burning of his Apollonian brow--with kisses ...\"\n\nThe proof of the scrupulous attention which he devoted to the\n_Furioso,_ is to be found in the twelve years, during which he worked\nupon it in the flower of his age, \"with long vigils and labours,\" as he\nwrote to the Doge of Venice, when requesting the privilege of printing\nthe first edition of 1516; and in his having always returned to it,\nto chisel smooth and to soften it in innumerable delicate details,\nor to amplify it, or in the throwing away of five cantos, which he\nhad written by way of amplification, but which did not go well with\nthe general design, and finally failed to content him. For these he\nsubstituted as many more, and personally superintended the edition of\n1532, which also failed to content him altogether, so that he began\nto work upon it again during the few months which separated him from\ndeath. His son Virginio attests that he \"was never satisfied with\nhis verses, that he kept changing them again and again, and for this\nreason never remembered any of them ...\"; and contemporaries never\ncease marvelling at his diligence as a corrector and a maker of perfect\nthings: Giraldi Cinzio, to mention but one witness, says that after\nthe first edition, \"not a single day passed,\" during sixteen years,\n\"that he was not occupied upon it with pen and with thought,\" and that\nhe was also desirous of obtaining the opinions and impressions of the\ngreatest men of letters and humanists in Italy as to every part of it,\nmen such as Bembo, Molza, Navagero; and as Apelles with his paintings,\nAriosto kept his work for two years \"in the hall of his house, leaving\nit there that it might be criticised by everyone\"; and he particularly\nsaid that he wished his critics merely to mark with a stroke of the pen\nthose parts which did not please them, without giving any reason for so\ndoing, that he might find it out for himself, and then discuss it with\nthem, and so arrive at a decision and a solution in his own way. He\npushed his minute delicacy of taste so far as to be preoccupied about\nthe choice of modes of spelling, refusing, for instance, to remove the\n\"h\" from those words which possessed it by tradition, thus opposing the\nsuggestion of Tolomei and the new fashion of the illiterate crowd, by\njocosely replying that \"He who removes the _h_ from _Huomo,_ does not\nknow _Huomo_ (man), and he who removes it from _Honore,_ is not worthy\nof honour.\"\n\nWhat then was the passion which he thus expressed, who was the goddess,\nfor whom, since he could not raise a temple and a marble statue in the\nlittle house which he longed for and built in the Via Mirasole, he\nconstructed the architecture, the forms and the poetical adornments of\nthe _Furioso? _ He never uttered her name, because none of the other\ngreat Italian poets was so little a theorist or critic as Ariosto. He\nnever discussed his art or art in general, limiting himself to saying\nvery simply, and indeed very inadequately, that what he meant by art\nwas \"A work containing pleasing and delightful things\"; nor, as we have\nseen, have the critics told us who she was, since they have at the most\nindicated vaguely and indirectly in their illogical formula that \"his\nGoddess was Art.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nTHE HIGHEST LOVE: HARMONY\n\n\nBut we on the other hand shall name her, and we shall call her Harmony,\nand we shall prove that those who assign a simple aim to Ariosto in the\n_Furioso,_ Art or Pure Form, were gazing at her and seeing her as it\nwere through a veil of clouds. In doing this, we shall at the same time\ndefine the concept of Harmony. We cannot avoid entering upon certain\ntheoretical explanations in relation to this matter; but it would be\nwrong to look upon them as digressions, since it is only by their means\nthat the way can be cleared to the understanding of the spirit which\nanimates the _Furioso._ There is something comic or at least ironic in\nthis necessity in which we find ourselves, of weighting with philosophy\na discourse relating to so transparent a poet as Ariosto; but we have\nalready warned the reader at the beginning that it is one thing to read\nand let sing to him the verses of a poet, and another to understand\nhim, and that what is easy to learn may sometimes be very difficult to\nunderstand.\n\nIt is therefore without doubt contradictory to state that an artist has\nfor his special and particular end or content, art itself, art which\nis the general end of every artist: as contradictory as to say that an\nindividual has for his concrete and proper end, not this or that work\nand profession, but life. And there is also no doubt that since every\nerror contains in it an element of truth, those erroneous theories\naimed at something effectively existing: a particular content, which\nthey were not able to define, and which could never be in any case art\nfor art. Two sorts of judgments of that formula have nevertheless been\nexpressed in relation to two different groups of works of art: those\nrelating to works which seemed to be inspired by a particular form of\nart, and those which seem to be inspired by the idea of Art itself, by\nArt in universal; and for this reason our rapid investigation must be\ndivided and directed first to the one and then to the other case.\n\nThe first case includes the poetry which may be called \"humanistic\"\nor \"classicistic\": not the classicism and humanism of pedants without\ntalent or taste, but that lively humanism and classicism which we\nare wont to admire and enjoy in several poets of our Renaissance in\nthe Latin language, such as Sannazaro, Politian and Pontano, and also\nin later times those extremely lettered writers in Italian, of whom\nMonti, in his best work, may be said to be the greatest representative\nand we might add to him Canova, although he has not poetised in verse.\nWhat is there that pleases us in them, in their imitations, their\nre-writing, their cantos of classical phrases and measures? And what\nwas it that warmed and carried them away, so that they were able to\ntransmit their emotion to us and obtain our delighted sympathy? It\nhas been answered that this was due to their remaining faithful to\nthe already sacred traditions of beautiful form, handed down by the\nschool; but this answer is not satisfactory, because pedants also can\nbe mechanically faithful in repeating; we have alluded to these and\nshown that on the contrary they weary and annoy us. The truth is that\nthe former hold to those forms of art, because they are the suitable\nsymbol, the satisfactory expression of their feeling, which is one\nof affection for the _past,_ as being venerable, glorious, decorous,\nnational or super-national and cultural; and their content is not\nliterary form by itself, but love for that past, love for some one or\nother _historical_ age of art. And if this be true, we must place those\nromantic archaisers in the same class of art with the humanists or\nclassicists, when considering the substantial nature of things. For the\nformer nourish the same feeling and employ the same procedure, not in\nrelation to the Greek and Roman past, but in relation to the Christian\nand medieval past, particularly in Germany, where they let us hear\nagain the rude accent of the medieval epic, and represent the ingenuous\nforms of pious legends and sacred dramatic representations, and make\nthemselves the echo of ancient popular songs: this re-writing has often\nsomething in it of the pastiche (as the humanists and classicists also\nhave something of the pastiche, which with them is pedantry), yet\nsometimes produce passages of delicate art, which if not profound, were\ncertainly agreeable to the heart that remembers, to the eternal heart\nof childhood which is in us.\n\nAriosto was also a more or less successful humanist in certain of his\nminor works, as we have said, but in the _Furioso,_ although he took\nmany schemes and details from Latin poets, he stands essentially\noutside their line of inspiration, for instead of directing his spirit\ntowards the past, he always draws the past towards his spirit, and\nthere is no observable trace in it of Latin-Augustan archaism, or of\nthe archaism of medieval chivalry. For this reason, the view that he\nhad Art itself as his content must be taken as applicable without doubt\nin the other sense to him and to certain other artists: as devotion to\nArt as universal, to Art in its Idea, a devotion which is bodied forth\nin his narratives, his figures and his verse.\n\nNow it must be remembered that Art in its Idea is nothing but\nexpression or--representation of the real,--of the real which is\nconflict and strife, but a conflict and a strife that are always being\nsettled; that it is multiplicity and diversity, but at the same time\nunity, dialectic and development, and also and through that, cosmos and\nHarmony. And since Art cannot be the content of Art, that is to say,\nit is impossible to represent representation (as it is impossible to\nthink thought, so that if thought is made the object of thought, it is\nalways itself and the other, that is to say, the whole), by eliding\nthe term which is superfluous and has been unduly retained, we obtain\nthe result that when it is stated of Ariosto or of other artists\nthat they have for content pure Art or pure Form, it is really to be\nunderstood that they have for content devotion to the pure rhythm of\nthe universe, for the dialectic which is unity, for the development\nwhich is _Harmony._ Thus, if humanistic or otherwise archaistic artists\ndo not as is generally believed love beautiful forms, but rather the\npast and history, it may be said of those others that they do not love\npure Art, but the _pure and universal content_ of Art, not this or that\nparticular strife and Harmony (erotic, political, moral, religious, and\nso on), but strife and _Harmony_ in idea and eternal.\n\nThe concept of cosmic Harmony, which has also been called pure\nBeauty or absolute Beauty, and indeed God, has been much employed in\nold philosophy, and notably in the old aesthetic (old always being\nunderstood in its logical-historical sense, which is still tenacious of\nlife and reappears in our own day, where it might be least expected),\nand has made an elaboration of the new theory, which conceives of art\nas lyrical intuition or expression, very laborious. For many reasons\nthat it would occupy too much time and be out of place to detail\nhere, Harmony or Beauty came to be considered as the true essence of\nArt; hence the impossibility of accounting, not only for many works\nof art, but for art in general, and the artificial attempts made by\nthe upholders of this doctrine and by criticism to pervert facts in\nsupport of a partial and incorrect principle. For the reasons given\nabove, it is easy for us to discern the origin of the error, which\nlay in transferring one of the classes of particular contents which\nArt is able to elaborate, to serve as the end and essence of Art. And\nthe one selected was precisely that which owing to its religious and\nphilosophical dignity, appeared to have the power to absorb Art into\nitself together with everything else and to dissolve the whole in a\nsort of mysticism. This is confirmed by the historical course of the\ndoctrine, the first conspicuous form of which was Neoplatonism, which\nreappeared on several occasions in the Middle Ages, at the time of the\nRenaissance and during the Romantic period. De Sanctis himself, owing\nto the romantic origins of his thought, was never altogether free from\nit; and his judgment upon Ariosto bears traces of the transcendental\nconception of Art as an actualisation of pure Beauty.\n\nSimilar traces are to be found in another& doctrine to which De\nSanctis held and formulated as the distinction and opposition between\nthe _poet_ and the _artist:_ a doctrine which it is desirable to make\nclear, not only with a view of strengthening the concept to which\nwe have had recourse, but also because Ariosto himself is numbered\namong the poets to whom the distinction has been chiefly applied, as\nhe has been held to be distinct and opposed, along with Politian and\nPetrarch, and perhaps others, as artists, to Dante or to Shakespeare,\nas poets. The doctrine appears to be endorsed by facts, and therefore\nlooks plausible and is readily accepted and continually reproduced,\nas on several occasions in the history of aesthetic ideas. It was\nnot altogether unknown in the days of Ariosto himself, if Giraldo\nCinzio can be held to have suggested it, when in his description of an\nallegorical picture, in which were to be seen the two great Tuscans\n\"in a green and flowery meadow upon a hill of Helicon,\" Dante, with\nhis robe fastened at the knees, \"manipulated the circular scythe,\ncutting all the grass that his scythe met with,\" while Petrarch,\n\"robed in senatorial robe, lay there selecting among the noble\nherbs and the delicate flowers.\" In spite of this, it is altogether\nunsustainable as an exact theory, because it introduces an unjustified\nand unjustifiable dualism, which it is altogether impossible to\nmediate, since each of the two distinct terms contains in itself the\nother and nothing else, thus demonstrating their identity: the poet\nis poet because he is an artist, that is to say, he gives artistic\nform to feeling, and the artist would not be an artist, if he were\nnot a poet, that is to say, if he had not a feeling to elaborate. The\napparent confirmation of this theory by facts arises from this, that\nthere are as we know, artists who have a devotion for cosmic Harmony\nas their chief content, and others who have other devotions: and this\nproves that it is advisable to make a very moderate and restrained\nuse of the distinction between poets and artists, between those who\nrepresent the beautiful and those who represent the real, as is the\ncase with all empirical distinctions. Sometimes the same distinction,\ntaken from the bosom of poetry or of some other special art, has been\nthrown into the midst of the series of the so-called arts, severing\nthose arts which have cosmic Harmony, absolute Beauty, ideal Beauty,\nthe rhythm of the Universe for their object, from others which have\nfor their object individual feelings and life. Among the former were\nnumbered (as in the school of Winckelmann) the art of sculpture and\ncertain sorts of painting at least, and among the latter, poetry; or\n(according to Schelling and Schopenhauer) bestowing upon music alone\nthe whole of the first field. Music would thus be opposed to the other\narts and would possess the value of an unconscious Metaphysic, in so\nfar as it directly portrayed the rhythm of the Universe itself. A\nclumsy doctrine, which we only mention here, because Ariosto would\nfurnish the best example of all among the poets, against the exclusion\nof poetry from among the arts which alone were able to portray the\nrhythm of the Universe or Harmony: Ariosto, who, if he had seemed to\nan Italian philologist to be nothing less than \"a poet who was an\nexcellent observer and reasoner,\" has yet appeared to Humboldt, whose\near was more sensitive to the especially \"musical\" _musikalisch,_ and\nto Vischer more especially as one who developed his fables of chivalry\n41 in a melodious labyrinth of images, which produced in its sensual\nserenity the same enjoyment as the rocking and dying of the Italian\n\"canzone,\" thus giving the reader \"the pure pleasure of moving without\nmatter.\" When empirical classifications are not handled with caution\nand with a consciousness of their limits, not only do they deprive the\nprinciples of science of their rigour and vigour, but also carry with\nthem the unfortunate result of making it seem possible to distinguish\nconcretely what has been roughly divided for the purpose of aiding\nthe creation of images. The double class of poets and of artists, the\none moved by particular affections, the other by universal Harmony,\ndoes not hold as a logical duality, because the love of Harmony is\nitself one of many particular affections, and forms part of the\nseries comprising the comic, tragic, humorous, melancholy, jocose,\npessimistic, passionate, realistic, classicistic poets, and so on. But\neven when it has been reduced to the level of the others, there is no\nnecessity, either in its case or in that of the others, to fall into\nthe illusion that there really exist poets who are only tragic or only\ncomic, only realistic or only classicistic, singers only of Harmony,\nwithout the other passions, or solely passionate without the passion\nfor Harmony. The love of traditional forms, for example, which we have\nseen to be the base of classicism, exists in a certain measure in every\npoet, for the reason that every poet employs, re-lives and renews the\nwords of a given language, which has been historically formed, and is\ntherefore charged with a literary tradition and full of historical\nmeaning. And the love of Harmony exists also in every poet worthy of\nthe name, since he cannot represent his drama of the affections, save\nas a particular mode of drama and of the dramatic or dialectic cosmic\nHarmony, which is therefore contained and dwells in it as the universal\nin the particular.\n\nAre we ourselves overthrowing our own distinctions, immediately after\nasserting them? We are not overthrowing the principles which we had\nestablished in connection with the nature of Art, and with the nature\nof Harmony and Beauty in the super-aesthetic and cosmical sense; but\nit was necessary clearly to state and to overthrow the definition of\nAriosto as poet of Harmony, because in doing so, we cease to preserve\nit in its abstractness, but make use of it as a living principle. In\nother words, by thus defining him, we have attained the first object\nof our quest, which was no longer to leave him hidden beneath the\nnebulous description of a poet of art for art's sake, nor beneath\nthat other equally fallacious description of him as a satirical and\nironical poet, or as a poet of prudence and wisdom, and so on; and\nwe have pointed out _where the principal accent of his art falls._\nPassing now to other determinations, in order to show in what matter\nand in what way or tone that accent is realised, maintained and\ndeveloped, even when it happens that we can do this in the best\npossible manner, we shall not allow ourselves to be ensnared by the\nfatuous belief, in vogue with certain critics of the day, that we\nhave supplied an equivalent to Ariosto's poetry with our aesthetic\nformulas: such an equivalent would not only be an arrogance, but it\nwould also be useless, because Ariosto's poetry is there, and anyone\ncan see it for himself. The new determinations must however also be\nasserted and refuted, only the new results being preserved, analogous\nto those already obtained, by means of which we shall dispose of other\nfalse ideas circulated by the critics concerning Ariosto and point\nout the salient characteristics of the material which he selected for\ntreatment, together with the mode and the tone of his poem. The poetry\nof the _Furioso,_ as for that matter all poetry, is an _individuum\nineffabile,_ and Ariosto, the poet of Harmony, limited in this\ndirection and that, never at any time exactly coincides with Ariosto,\nthe Ariostesque poet, the poet of Harmony, and not only of Harmony as\ndenned in the way we have defined it, but also in other ways understood\nor indefinable. We do not propose to exhaust or to take the place of\nthe concrete living Ariosto; he is indeed present to the imagination\nof our readers as to our own and forms the perpetual criterion of\nour critical explanations, which without this criterion would be\nunintelligible.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nTHE MATERIAL FOR THE HARMONY\n\n\nHad Ariosto been a philosopher or a poet-philosopher, he would have\ngiven us a hymn to Harmony, similar to a good many others which are to\nbe found in the history of literature, celebrating that lofty Idea,\nwhich enabled him to understand the discordant concord of things and\nwhile satisfying his intellect, filled his soul with peace and joy. But\nAriosto was the opposite of a philosopher, and certainly, were he able\nto read what we are now investigating and discovering in him, first he\nwould be astonished, then he would smile and finally he would comment\nupon our work with some good-natured jest.\n\nHis love for Harmony never took the form of a concept, it was not\nlove of the concept and of the intelligence, that is to say of things\nanswering to a need which he did not experience: it was love for\nHarmony directly and ingenuously perceived, for sensible Harmony: a\nharmony, therefore, which did not arise from a loss of his humanity and\nan abandonment of all particular sentiments, a religious mounting up\nto the world of the ideas, but existed for him rather as a sentiment\namong sentiments, a dominant sentiment, surrounding all the others and\nassigning to each its place. In this respect, he really belonged to one\nof the chief spiritual currents of the period of the Renaissance, or\nmore accurately, of the early Cinquecento: to the period, that is to\nsay, when Leonardo, Raphael, Fra Bartolommeo, Andrea del Sarto, with\ntheir beautiful, harmonious decorum and majestic forms, had succeeded\nto Ghirlandaio, to Botticelli, to Lippi, when it seemed (in the words\nof W\u00f6lfflin, a historian of art) \"as though new bodies had suddenly\ngrown up in Italy,\" a new and magnificent population, resplendent\nin painting and sculpture, which was indeed the reflection of a new\npsychical attitude, of a different direction and of a new centre of\ninterest.\n\nNow if we undertake to consider the sentiments which form part of the\n_Furioso,_ if we disassociate them from the connection established\namong them by the harmonising sentiment of Harmony, and therefore in\ntheir particularity, disaggregation and materiality, we shall have\nbefore us the _material_ of the _Furioso._ For the \"material\" of Art\nis nothing but this, when ideally distinguished from the _content,_ in\nwhich the sentiments themselves are fused in the dominant sentiment,\nwhether it be called the leading motive or the lyrical motive: a\ncontent which in its turn can be only ideally distinguished from the\n_form,_ in which it expresses itself or is possessed and present\nin the spirit. Philological criticism, deprived of philosophical\nenlightenment, philology in its bad sense or philologism, means rather\nby \"material\" or \"sources,\" as they are also called, external things,\nsuch as the books which the poet had read or the stories that he had\nheard told, and on the pretext of supplying in this way the genesis of\na work of art _ab ovo,_ it penetrates to the sources of the sources,\nlet us say to the origins of warrior women, of the ogress and the\nhippogryph of Ariosto. Their procedure suggests that of one who when\nasked what language a poet found in circulation in his time, should\nopen for that purpose an etymological dictionary of the Italian\nlanguage, or of the romance languages, or of Indo-European languages,\nwhich expound formative ideological processes, either forgotten or\nthrown into the background of the speaker's consciousness when engaged\nin speaking. But even if we do not lose our way in such learned and\ninterminable dissertations, if we escape the error referred to above,\nof forming judgments as to merit upon them, philologistic search\nfor sources and for material becomes capricious and ends by being\nimpossible; because it takes as sources only certain literary lumber\nscattered here and there, and were we to unite this with the whole\nof the rest of literature, with the figurative and musical arts, and\nwith other external things which actually surround the poet, public\nand private events, scientific teachings and disputes, beliefs,\ncustoms, and so on, we should find ourselves involved in all endless\nand infinite enumeration, convincing proof of the illogical nature\nof such an inquiry. Nor do we make any progress in the determination\nof the material by limiting it to more modest terms, that is to say,\nonly to certain things which the poet had before him (even if they be\ndocuments and information, not without use for certain ends), because\nthe true _material_ of art, as has been said, is not _things_ but\nthe _sentiments_ of the poet, which determine and explain one another,\nwhy and for what reason he turns to certain things and not to others, to\nthese things rather than to those. Since we have already described\nAriosto's character and shown its reflection in his minor works, now\nthat we are examining the material of the _Furioso,_ we shall find the\nsame character, that is to say, the same complex of sentiments which\nit will be desirable to illustrate and to distinguish in a somewhat\ndifferent manner, with an eye no longer directed to the psychology of\nthe man or to the minor works, but just to the _Furioso._\n\nAnd we shall find above all _an amorous_ Ariosto, Ariosto perpetually\nin love, whom we already know: an Ariosto for whom love and woman are\nan important affair, a great pleasure which he is not able to renounce,\na great torment from which he cannot set himself free. That love is\nalways altogether sensual, love for a beautiful bodily form, shining\nforth in the luminous eyes, seductive, charming; virtuous too, but\nrelatively virtuous, just as much as avails to prevent too much poison\nentering into the delicate linked tenderness of love; and for this\nreason, all ethical or speculative idealisation, in the new or Platonic\nstyle, is excluded \"Not love of a lady of theology ...\": here too,\nCarducci saw clearly and spoke well. Absent too or extraneous are the\nconsecration and purification of love in \"matrimony\"; the choice of a\nwife, the treatment of a wife, are for Ariosto, things differing but\nslightly from the choice and the breaking in of a horse, and matrimony\nin its noble ethical sense belongs at the most to his intellect, and\nto his intellect in so far as it is passive: in the _Furioso_ are\nto be found the politics and not the poetry of matrimony, and among\ninnumerable ties of free love, the chaste sighing of Bradamante alone\naims at \"the conjugal tie\" with Ruggiero. But the love of Ariosto is\nhealthy and natural in its warm sensuality; it is not sophisticated\nwith luxurious images, it is conscious of its own limits; nor does it\nsuffer from mad or inextinguishable desires, but only from that which\nwas known in the language of the time as the \"cruelty\" of woman, her\nrefusal or her coldness; but it tortures itself yet more with jealousy\nand the anxious working of the imagination. The Ferrarese Garofalo,\na contemporary biographer, bears witness to the very lively jealousy\nof Ariosto, saying that since he loved \"with a great vehemence,\" he\nwas \"above measure jealous,\" and \"always carried on his love affairs\nin secret and with great solicitude, accompanied with much modesty\";\nbut this is evident in the matter of the poem itself, being exhibited\nin many of his personages, descriptions and situations, and finding\ncomplete expression in the verse which closes on so pathetic a note:\n\"believe one who has had experience of it.\" Cruelty on the one side and\njealousy on the other, although they torture, do not make him sad or\ncause him to give vent to desperate utterances, because, since he had\nnot too lofty nor too madly an intransigent idea of love, although it\ngreatly delighted him, he is not apt to expect too much from it, and\nknowing the infidelity and the fragility of man, a sort of sense of\njustice forbids him from bringing his hand down too heavily upon the\ninfidelity and the fragility of woman. Hence comes, not forgiveness,\nbut resignation and indulgence. \"My lady is a lady, and every lady\nis weak\"; remarks Rinaldo wisely. Ariosto's is an indulgence without\nmoral elevation, but also without cynicism and inspired with a certain\nelement of goodness and humanity. Reciprocal deception and illusion\nare inherent to love affairs; but how can they be done away with,\nwithout also doing away at the same time with the charm of that bitter\nbut amiable sport? The lover takes care to preserve the illusion by\nhis very passion, which blinds him to what is visible and makes the\ninvisible visible, leading him to believe what he desires, to believe\nthe person who fascinates him, as does Brandimarte with his Fiordiligi,\nwandering about the world and returning to him uncontaminated: \"To\nfair Fiordiligi, of whom I had believed greater things.\" Thus the\nimagination of Ariosto, as these various equal and conflicting\nsentiments wove their own images, became quite filled with marvellous\nseductive beauties, perfect of limb, and with voluptuous forms and\nscenes (Alcina and her arts, Angelica in the arms of Ruggiero who had\nset her free, Fiordispina); of others which oscillate between the\npassionate and the comic (Gicondo and Fiametta, the knight who tests\nthe wife he loves too much, the judge Anselmo and his Argia): of others\nwhose love was unworthy or criminal (Origille, whom Griffone strives\nto save from the punishment that she deserves, notwithstanding her\nwickedness proved on several occasions and her known treachery; the\nsons of King Marganorre; Gabrina, who did receive punishment, perhaps\nbecause her depraved old age was so repulsive); and above all of the\nwoman who symbolises Woman, for whom the bravest knights sustain every\nsort of labour and danger, and because of whom a big strong man loses\ncontrol of himself, and who, herself slave of a love which owns no\nlaw outside itself, ends by bestowing her hand upon a \"poor servant\"\n(Angelica, Orlando and Medoro). These are but a few instances of the\nmany places in the _Furioso,_ bearing upon love in its various modes\nof presentation, in addition to the introductions to the cantos and\nthe digressions into which Ariosto pours his whole store of feeling\nor sets forth his reflections. And the love matter is of so great a\nvolume as to dominate all the rest, possibly in extent, certainly in\nrelief and intensity; so much so, that it is a marvel that among the\nmany attempts to establish the true motive and argument of the poem, by\nabstracting it from its subject matter, and to determine its design and\nunity in the same way, no one has yet insisted upon considering it, or\nhas been able to consider it as \"the poem of love,\" of the casuistry\nof love, to which knightly and warlike life should but provide the\ndecorative background. This theory would certainly seem to be less\nunlikely than the other, which assigns to it as its end and unity the\nwar between Carlo and Agramante. In any case, this motive is placed\nsecond in the protasis to the _Furioso,_ where the first word is not by\nchance \"women,\" and the first verse ends with \"loves\" (and in the first\nedition we even read: \"The ancient loves of ladies and of knights\");\nand the scene with which the poem opens is the flight of Angelica, who\nis immediately met by Sacripante and Rinaldo who are in love with her,\nand that with which it concludes is the marriage feast of Ruggiero and\nBradamante, disturbed yet heightened in its solemnity of celebration by\nthe incident of the duel with Rodomonte.\n\nLove matter dominates in the _Furioso,_ because it dominated in the\nheart of Ariosto, where it easily passed over into more noble feelings,\ninto piety that goes beyond the tomb, into justice rendered to\ncalumniated innocence, into kindness ill-recompensed, into admiration\nfor the sacred tie of friendship. Hence, in marked contrast to the\nbeautiful Doralice, so crudely sensual, that when her lover's body is\nstill warm, she is capable of looking with desire upon his slayer, the\nvaliant Ruggiero, Isabella deliberately decides upon putting herself\nto death that she may keep faith with her dead lover; and Fiordiligi,\nwhose pretty little face, upon which still flitters something of the\nimpudence attributed to her by Boiardo, becomes furrowed with anguish\nand sublime with sorrow, when she apprehends the loss of Brandimarte.\nAnd Olympia stands by the side of Ginevra, trapped and drawn to the\nbrink of ruin by a wicked man, and is rescued by Rinaldo, the righter\nof wrongs, Olympia whom Orlando twice saves, the second time not only\nfrom death, but from desperation at the desertion of her most thankless\nhusband. Zerbino, brother of Ginevra and lover of Isabella, is a flower\nof nobility among the knights. He alone understands and pities the\naffectionate deed of Medoro, careless of his own life and absorbed in\nthe anxiety to obtain burial for the body of his lord. When his former\nfriend who has shown himself to be a most infamous traitor, is dragged\nbefore him in chains, he cannot find it in him to inflict upon him the\ndeath he deserves, for he remembers their long and close friendship.\nDevoted to the greatness of Orlando and in gratitude for what he had\ndone in saving and taking care of Isabella, he collects the arms of\nthe Paladin, scattered at the outbreak of his madness, and sustains a\ncombat with Mandricardo for these arms, dying rather for sorrow at\nnot having been able to defend them than from his wound. Cloridano\nand Medoro, Orlando and Brandimarte, are other idealisations of a\nfriendship which lasts beyond the tomb; and anyone searching the poem\nfor motives of commiseration and indignation for oppressed virtue,\nfor unhappy peoples trodden beneath the heel of the tyrant, robbed,\ntortured and allowed to perish like cattle and goats, would find other\ninstances of the goodness and generosity which burned in the mild\nAriosto.\n\nGoodness and generosity were also the substance of his political\nsentiment, which was that of the honest man of all times, who laments\nthe misfortunes of his country, loathes the domination of foreigners,\njudges the oppression of the nobles with severity, is scandalised by\nthe corruption and hypocrisy of the priests and of the Church, regrets\nthat the united arms of Europe cannot prevail against the Turks, that\nbarbarian \"of ill omen\"; but it does not go beyond this superficial\nimpressionability, and ends by accepting his own times and respecting\nthe powerful personages who have finally prevailed. For this reason\nthere is but slight interest in noting (and it can be noted in the\n_Furioso_ itself) the variety of the political ideas of Ariosto,\nfirst hostile to the Spaniards, as we see from several references to\nthem, and from certain attributes given to the Spaniard Ferra\u00f9, and\nfinally to the French, who had lost the game in Italy, and we find him\nextolling the Spanish-Imperial Carlo V., and those who maintain his\ncause in Italy, whether they were Andrea Doria or the Avalos. But on\nthe other hand, as Ave have already said, it is unjust to reprove him\nfor not having been a champion of italianity and of rebellion against\ntyrants and foreigners,--such existed in those days, although they were\nrare--or a passionate political thinker and prophet, like Machiavelli.\nThe famous invective against firearms suffices to indicate the quality\nof Ariosto's politics: for him politics were morality, private\nmorality, a morality but little combative and very idyllic, although\nnot vulgar, disdainful indeed of the vulgar of all sorts, however\nfortunate and highly placed. Thus it was not such as to create figures\nand scenes in the poem, like love and human piety; suffice that if it\ninsinuated itself here and there among the reflective, exclamatory and\nhortatory octaves.\n\nHis feeling towards his own sovereign lords, the Estes, has not, as\nwe have suggested, either in his soul or in the _Furioso,_ anything\nin it of the specifically political, although he admired them for the\nsplendour of art and letters, which they and their predecessors had\nconferred upon the country, and for the strength of their rule. And\nhe praised them with words and comparisons, which he introduced into\nhis poem on a large scale, and into the general scheme itself. These\nhave at times been held to be base adulation or a subtle form of irony\nalmost amounting to sarcasm; they were however neither, being serious\ncelebrations of glorious military enterprises and of magnanimous acts\n(it does not matter whether they really were so or seemed so and were\nbound to seem so to him); and for the rest, and especially as far as\nconcerned Cardinal Hippolyto, they resemble the madrigals addressed\nto ladies or their attendants, which always contain a vein of mockery\nmingled with the hyperbole of their compliments. In fact he treated\nthis material as an imaginative theme, now decorous and grave, now\nelegant and polished as by a courtier; and he would have been still\nmore inclined to treat the Estes in this way, had they in return for\nhis words and \"works of ink\" dispensed him from the duties of his\npost, and particularly from those which obliged him to run hither and\nthither, to behave like a \"teamster.\" Like many peaceful individuals,\nwho have no taste for finding themselves in the midst of battles, or\nfor changing the place of their abode, or for travelling to see foreign\nraces, or for voyages, or for rapid ups and downs and adventures, or\nfor anything of an upsetting and extraordinary nature that happens\nunexpectedly, he was quite ready to accept all these things in his\nimagination, where he preserved, caressed and made idols of them. His\ninclination imaginatively to decorate the Estes, the nobles of Italy,\ngreat ladies, artists, good or bad men of letters of any sort, to make\nradiant statues of them, had the same root as his inclination for\nstories of knightly romance.\n\nThese stories were the favourite reading, the \"pleasant literature\" of\ngood society, especially in Ferrara, where the Estes possessed a fine\ncollection in their library, whence had come the majority of Italian\npoets, who had versified them during the previous century, setting them\nfree from plebeian prose and verse. Ariosto must have read very many\nof these in his youth, and must have delighted in them, and we know\nthat he himself translated some from French and Spanish. Here were to\nbe found terrible and tremendous battles, duels of hard knocks and of\nmasterly blows, combats with giants and monsters, tragical situations,\nmagnanimous deeds, proofs of steadfast faith, a vying together of\nloyalty and courtesy, persecutions and favours and aid afforded by\nprodigious beings, by fairies and magicians, travels in distant lands,\nby sea or by flight, enchanted gardens and palaces, knights of immense\nstrength, Christian and Saracen, warlike women and women who were\nwomen, royally: all this gave him the desirable and agreeable pleasure\nof one who looks on at a variously coloured exhibition of fireworks,\nand owing to this pleasure they gave, he incorporated a great number\nof them in the _Furioso._ It is superfluous to inquire whether the\nmaterial of chivalry appeared to him to be serious or burlesque, when\nwe have understood the feeling which led him in that direction: it\nwas beyond all judgment of that sort, because we do not judge rockets\nor fireworks morally or economically, with approval or reproof. It\ncan of course be remarked that knightly tales had henceforth been\nreduced to such an extent in Italy and in the spirit of Ariosto that\nthey were not only without the religious and national feeling of the\nancient epic, but even without what is still to be found in certain\npopular Italian compilations, such as the _Monarchs of France;_ but\nthis observation, though correct and important enough in the history of\nculture, has no meaning whatever as regards Ariosto's poetry. The fact\nthat Ariosto was sometimes entranced and carried away as it were by the\nspectacles which his fancy presented to him, and sometimes kept aloof\nfrom them, with a smile for commentary, or turned away towards the real\nworld that surrounded him, goes without saying, and does not appear to\ndemand the discussions and the intellectual efforts which have been\ndevoted to it.\n\nHis was on the other hand a distinctly jesting outlook upon religious\nbeliefs, God, Christ, Paradise, angels and saints; and Charlemagne's\nprayer to God, the vision of the angel Michael upon earth and the\nvoyage of Astolfo to the world of the Moon, his conversations with John\nthe Evangelist, the deeds and words of the hermit with whom Angelica\nand Isabella find themselves, and finally those of the saintly hermit\nwho baptises Ruggiero, accord with this laughing and almost mocking\nspirit. Here we do not find even the seriousness of the game and in\nthe game, with which he treats of knightly doings; nor could there be,\nbecause relation towards religion admits only of complete reverence\nor complete irreverence. And Ariosto was irreverent, or what comes\nto the same thing, indifferent; his spirit was as areligious as it\nwas aphilosophical, untormented with doubts, not concerned with human\ndestiny, incurious as to the meaning and value of this world, which he\nsaw and touched, and in which he loved and suffered. He was altogether\noutside the philosophy of the Renaissance, whether Ficino's or\nPomponazzi's, as he was outside every sort of philosophy. This limits\nand as it were deprives of importance his mockeries and to salute him\nas some have done \"the Voltaire of the Renaissance\" or as a precursor\nof Voltaire, and Voltaire himself who so much enjoyed Ariosto's\nprofanations of sacred things, maliciously underlining the witticism\nthat escapes from the lips of St. John about \"my much-praised Christ\"\n(after having said that writers turn the true into the false, and\nthe false into the true, and that he also had been a \"writer\" in the\nworld), has given Ariosto a place which does not belong to him at all.\nVoltaire was not areligious or indifferent, and was only irreligious in\nso far as he attacked all historical religions with a religion of his\nown, which was deism or the religion of the reason; and for this reason\nhis satires and his lampoons possess a polemical value, which is not to\nbe found in the jests of Ariosto.\n\nPresented in its outstanding features, and to the extent which suits\nour purpose, such is the complex of sentiments which flowed together\nto form the _Furioso_ and to produce the images of which it consists.\nThey produced them all the same, where he seems to have taken them from\nother poems or books, from Virgil or from Ovid, from French or Spanish\nromances, because in the taking and with the taking of them, he made\nthem images of his own sentiment, that is to say, he breathed into\nthem a new life and poetically created them in so doing. But although\nthis material of the poem may seem to us who have considered it to be\nanterior and external to the poem itself and owing to our analysis,\ndisaggregated, it must not be supposed that those sentiments ever\nexisted in the spirit of Ariosto as mere matter or in an amorphous\ncondition, because there is nothing in the spirit without some form\nand without its own form. Indeed, we have seen a great part of it\ntake form in the minor works, while some dwelt in his mind, expressed\nand realised in their own way, even if unfulfilled or if we lack\nwritten record of their existence. But they possessed a different\naspect in this anterior form, differing therefore from that which\nthey assumed in the poem. In the lyrics and satires, words of love\nand nostalgia, of friendship and complaint, of anger and indignation\nagainst princes who take little interest in poets, of impatience and\ncontempt for the ambitious throng, and the like, are more lively and\ndirect; and it would be easy to find parallels for identical thoughts\nappearing with different intonations in the two different places. Had\nAriosto always accorded artistic treatment to those sentiments at the\nmoment of experiencing them, he would have continued to write songs,\nsonnets, epistles and satires, and would not have set to work upon\nthe _Furioso._ An examination of the poem upon Obizzo D'Este as to\nthe material of chivalry, or if we like the sound of it better, as to\nfeats of arms and of daring, will at least yield us a glimpse of what\nit would have become, had it received immediate treatment, whether this\npoem belongs to the early years of Ariosto, prior to the composition\nof the _Furioso,_ or whether (as is more probable), it be later than\nthe composition of the poem and the appearance of the first edition.\nThe fragment is notable for its great limpidity and narrative fluency,\nbut one sees that if the poet had continued in this direction, the poem\nwould have been nothing but an elegant book of songs; Ariosto did not\nwish to be a song-writer, so he ceased the work which had been begun.\nHad he versified his mockeries of sacred things, he would have become a\nwit, a collector of burlesque surprises, capable of arousing laughter\nabout friars and saints; but Ariosto disdained such a trade, Ariosto\nwhose many grandiose distractions are on record, but no witticisms\nor smart sayings: he was too much of a dreamer, too fine an artist\nto take pleasure in such things. His sentiment for Harmony aided him\nto turn the pleasant stories of chivalry and capricious jesting into\npoetry, and lesser erotic or narrative and argumentative poetry into\nmore complex poetry, to accomplish the passage and ascent from the\nminor works to that which is truly great, to mediate the immediate, by\ntransforming his various sentiments in the manner that we are about to\nconsider.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nTHE REALISATION OF HARMONY\n\n\nThe first change to manifest itself in them so soon as they were\ntouched by the Harmony which sang at the bottom of the poet's heart,\nwas their loss of autonomy, their submission to a single lord, their\ndescent from being the whole to becoming a part, their becoming\noccasions rather than motives, instruments rather than ends, their\ncommon death for the benefit of the new life.\n\nThe magical power which accomplished this prodigy was the _tone_ of the\nexpression, that self-possessed, lightness of tone, capable of adopting\na thousand forms and remaining ever graceful, known to the old school\nof critics as \"the confidential air,\" and remembered among the other\n\"properties\" of the \"style\" of Ariosto. But not only does his whole\nstyle consist of this, but since style is nothing but the expression\nof the poet and of his soul, this was all Ariosto himself and his\nharmonious singing.\n\nThis work of disvaluation and destruction is to be detected in the\nexpressive tone in the proems to the separate cantos, in the digressive\nargumentations, in the observations interjected, in the repetitions, in\nthe use of vocables, in the phrasing and the arrangement of periods,\nand above all in the frequent comparisons that form pictures which\nrather than intensifying the emotion, cause it to take a different\npath, in the interruptions to the narrative, sometimes occurring at\ntheir most dramatic point, in the nimble passage to other narratives of\na different and often opposite nature. Yet the palpable part of this\nwhole, what it is possible to segregate and to analyse as elements of\nstyle, forms but a small part of the impalpable whole, which flows\nalong like a tenuous fluid, and since it is soul, we feel it with our\nsoul, though we cannot touch it with our hands, even though they be\narmed with scholastic pincers.\n\nAnd this tone is the often noted and named, but never clearly defined\n_irony_ of Ariosto; it has not been well-defined, because described as\na kind of jesting or mockery, similar or coincident with what Ariosto\nsometimes employed in his descriptions of knightly personages and their\nadventures. It has thus been both restricted and materialised, but\nwhat we must not lose sight of is that the irony is not restricted\nto one order of sentiments, as for instance those of knighthood or\nreligion, and so spares the rest, but encompasses them all, and thus is\nno futile jesting, but something far more lofty, more purely artistic\nand poetical, the victory of the dominant sentiment over all the others.\n\nAll the sentiments, sublime and mirthful, tender and strong, the\neffusions of the heart and the workings of the intellect, from the\npleadings of love to the laudatory lists of names, from representations\nof battles to witticisms, are alike levelled by the irony and find\nthemselves uplifted in it. The marvellous Ariostesque octave rises\nabove them all as they fall before it, the octave which has a life of\nits own. To describe the octave as smiling, would be an insufficient\nqualification unless the smile be understood in the ideal sense, as\na manifestation of free and harmonious life, poised and energetic,\nthrobbing in veins rich with good blood and satisfied in this incessant\nthrobbing. The octaves sometimes have the quality of radiant maidens,\nsometimes of shapely youths, with limbs lithe from exercise of the\nmuscles, careless of exhibiting their prowess, because it is revealed\nin their every gesture and attitude.--Olympia comes ashore with her\nlover on a desolate and deserted island, after many misfortunes, and a\nlong, tempestuous sea voyage:\n\n    Il travaglio del mare e la paura,\n    che tenuta alcun di l'aveano desta;\n    Il ritrovarsi al lito ora sicura,\n    lontana da rumor, nella foresta:\n    e che nessun pensier, nessuna cura,\n    poi che'l suo amante ha seco, la molesta;\n    f\u00fbr cagion ch'ebbe Olimpia si gran sonno\n    che gli orsi e i ghiri aver maggior nol ponno.[1]\n\nHere we have the complete analysis of the reasons why Olympia fell\ninto the deep sleep, expressed with precision; but all this is clearly\nsecondary to the intimate sentiment expressed by the octave, which\nseems to enjoy itself, and certainly does so in describing a motion,\na becoming, which attain completion.--Bradamante and Marfisa vainly\npursue King Agramante, to put him to death:\n\n    Come due belle e generose parde\n    che fuor del lascio sien di pari uscite,\n    poscia ch' i cervi o le capre gagliarde\n    indarno aver si veggano seguite,\n    vergognandosi quasi che f\u00fbr tarde,\n    sdegnose se ne tornano e pentite;\n    cos\u00ec torn\u00e2r le due donzelle, quando\n    videro il Pagan salvo, sospirando.[2]\n\nHere we find a like process and a like result, but we observe a like\nprocess and result where there appears to be nothing whatever of\nintrinsic interest in the subject, that is to say, where the thought\nis merely conventional, a complimentary expression of courtly homage\nor an expression of friendship and esteem. To say of a fair lady: \"She\nseemed in every act of hers to be a Goddess descended from heaven,\" is\nnot a subtle figure, but it is so turned and so inspired with rhythm by\nAriosto that we assist at the manifestation of the Goddess as she moves\nmajestically along, witnessing the astonishment of those present and\nseeing them kneel devoutly down, as the little drama unrolls itself:\n\n\n\n    Julia Gonzaga, che dovunque il piede\n    volge e dovunque i sereni occhi gira,\n    non pur ogn' altra di belt\u00e0 le cede,\n    ma, come scesa dal ciel Dea, l'ammira.[3] ...\n\nTo rattle off a list of mere names with a view to affording honourable\nmention, and without varying any of them beyond the addition of\nsome slight word-play, is an exercise even less subtle; but Ariosto\narranges the names of contemporary painters as though upon a Parnassus,\naccording to the greatest among them the most lofty place, in such a\nmanner that those bare names each of them resound (owing to the mastery\nof the many stresses in the verse), so as to seem alive and endowed\nwith sensation:\n\n    E quei che f\u00f9ro a' nostri di, o sono ora,\n    Leonardo, Andrea Mantegna, Gian Bellino,\n    duo Dossi, e quel ch' a par sculpe e colora,\n    Michel, pi\u00f9 che mortale, Angel divino ...[4]\n\nThe \"reflections\" of Ariosto, which were held to be \"commonplaces\" by\nDe Sanctis, \"not profound and original observations,\" have by others\nbeen described as \"banal\" and \"contradictory.\" But they are reflections\nof Ariosto, which should not be meditated upon but sung:\n\n    Oh gran contrasto in giovanil pensiero,\n    desir di laude, ed impeto d' Amore!\n    N\u00e8, chi pi\u00f9 vaglia, ancor si trova il vero,\n    che resta or questo or quello superiore....[5]\n\nIt could be said of the irony of Ariosto, that it is like the eye of\nGod, who looks upon the movement of creation, of all creation, loving\nall things equally, good and evil, the very great and the very small\nin man and in the grain of sand, because he has made it all, and finds\nin it nought but motion itself, eternal dialectic, rhythm and harmony.\nFrom the ordinary meaning of the word \"irony\" has been accomplished the\npassage to the metaphysical meaning assumed by it among Fichtians and\nRomantics. We should be ready to apply their theory to the inspiration\nof Ariosto, save that these critics and thinkers confused with irony\nwhat is called humour, strangeness and extravagance, that is to say,\nextra-aesthetic facts, which contaminate and dissolve art. Our theory\non the contrary is less pretentious and exaggerated, confining itself\nrigorously within the bounds of art, as Ariosto confined himself within\nthe bounds of art, never diverging into the clumsy or humouristic,\nwhich is a sign of weakness: his irony was the irony of an artist, sure\nof his own strength. This perhaps is the reason or one of the reasons\nwhy Ariosto did not suit the taste of the dishevelled Romantics, who\nwere inclined to prefer Rabelais to him and even Carlo Gozzi.\n\nTo weaken all orders of sentiment, to render them all equal in their\nabasement, to deprive beings of their autonomy, to remove from them\ntheir own particular soul, amounts to converting the world of spirit\ninto the world of _nature:_ an unreal world, which has no existence\nsave when we perform upon it this act of conversion, and in certain\nrespects, the whole world becomes nature for Ariosto, a surface\ndrawn and coloured, shining, but without substance. Hence his seeing\nof objects in their every detail, as a naturalist making minute\nobservations, his description that is not satisfied with a single\ntrait which suffices as inspiration for other artists, hence his lack\nof passionate impatience with its inherent objections to certain\nmaterial. It may seem that the figure of St. John is drawn in the way\nit is, as a jest:\n\n    Nel lucente vestibulo di quella\n    felice casa un Vecchio al Duca occorre,\n    Che'l manto ha rosso e bianca la gonnella,\n    che l'un pi\u00f9 al latte, l'altro al minio opporre;\n    i crini ha bianchi e bianca la mascella\n    di folta barba ch'al petto discorre ...[6]\n\nBut the beauty of Olympia is portrayed in a like manner, forgetful of\nthe chastity of the lady, which might have seemed to ask a different\nsort of description or rather veiling:\n\n    Le bellezze d' Olimpia eran di quelle\n    che son pi\u00f9 rare; e non la fronte sola,\n    gli occhi e le guancie, e le chiome avea belle,\n    la bocca, il naso, gli omeri e la gola....[7]\n\nFinally, Medoro is described in the same way, Medoro whose brave and\ndevoted heart and youthful heroism might seem to ask in its turn a\nless attentive observation of its fresh youthfulness:\n\n    Medoro avea la guancia colorita,\n    e bianca e grata ne la et\u00e0 novella.[8] ...\n\nThe very numerous similes between the personages and the situations in\nwhich they find themselves and the spectacles afforded by the life of\nanimals or the phenomena of nature, also form an almost prehensible\nand palpable part of this conversion of the human world into the world\nof nature. We shall not give details of it, for this has already been\ndone in an irritatingly patient manner by a German philologist, whose\ncumbrous compilation effectually precludes one from desiring to dwell\neven for a moment upon Ariosto's similes, comparisons and metaphors.\n\nThis apparent naturalism, this objectivism, of which we have\ndemonstrated the profoundly subjective character, has led to the\nerroneous statement, already met with, as to Ariosto's form consisting\nof indifference and chilly observation, directed to the external\nworld. He has been coupled with his contemporary Machiavelli in this\nrespect. Machiavelli examined history and politics with a sagacious\neye, describing--as they say--their mode of procedure and formulating\ntheir laws, to which he gave expression in his prose with analogously\ninexorable objectivity and scientific coldness. It is true that both\ndid in a certain but in a very remote sense, destroy a prior spiritual\ncontent and naturalised in different fields and with different ends\n(Machiavelli destroyed the mediaeval religious conception of history\nand politics). But this judgment of Machiavelli amounts to nothing more\nthan a brilliant or principal remark, for Machiavelli, as a thinker,\ndeveloped and explained facts with his new vigorous thought, and as a\nwriter gave an apparently cold form to his severe passion. Ariosto's\nnaturalistic and objective tendency is also to be regarded as nothing\nmore than a metaphor, because Ariosto reduced his material to nature,\nin order to spiritualise it in a new way, by creating spiritual forms\nof Harmony.\n\nFrom the opposite point of view and arising out of what we have just\nsaid, we must refrain from praising Ariosto for his \"epicity,\" for\nthe epic nobility and decorum which Galilei praised so much in him,\nor for the force and coherence of his personages, so much admired by\nthe old as well as by new and even recent critics. How could there be\nepicity in the _Furioso,_ when the author not only lacked the ethical\nsentiments of the epos and when even that small amount, which he might\nbe said to have inherited, was dissolved with all the rest in harmony\nand irony? And how could there be true and proper characters in the\npoem, if characters and personages in art are nothing but the notes of\nthe soul of the poet themselves, in their diversity and opposition?\nThese become embodied in beings who certainly seem to live their own\nproper and particular lives, but really live, all of them, the same\nlife variously distributed and are sparks of the same central power.\nOne of the worst of critical prejudices is to suppose that characters\nlive on their own account and can almost continue living outside the\nworks of art of which they form a part and in which they in no wise\ndiffer nor can be disassociated from the strophes, the verses and the\nwords. Since there is no free energy of passionate sentiments in the\n_Furioso,_ we do not find there characters, but figures, drawn and\npainted certainly, but without relief or density, portrayed rather as\ngeneral or typical than individual beings. The knights resemble and\nmingle with one another, though differentiated by their goodness or\nwickedness, their greater polish or greater rudeness, or by means of\nexternal and accidental attributes, often by their names alone; in\nlike manner the women are either amorous or perfidious, virtuous and\ncontent with one love, or dissolute and perverse, often distinguished\nmerely by their different adventures or the names that adorn them. The\nsame is to be said of the narratives and descriptions (typical and\nnon-individual, or but little individual, is the madness of Orlando,\nto compare which with Lear's is a rhetorician's fancy), and of natural\nobjects, landscapes, palaces, gardens, and all else. Reserves have been\nand can with justice even be made as to the coherence of the characters\ntaken as a whole and forming part of a general scheme, for Ariosto's\npersonages take many liberties with themselves, according to the course\nof the events with which they find themselves connected, or rather\naccording to the services which the author asks of them.\n\nSuch warnings as these are indispensable, because, if some readers\nrealise their expectation of finding objectively described and\ncoherent characters in Ariosto and consequently praise him for creating\nthem, others with like expectations equally unfounded are disappointed\nand consequently blame him. Thus for De Sanctis Ariosto's feminine\ncharacters have seemed to be inferior to those of Dante, of Shakespeare\nand of Goethe: but this is an impossible comparison, because Angelica,\nOlympia, and Isabella, although they certainly lack the passionate\nintensity of Francesca, Desdemona and Margaret, yet the latter for\ntheir part lack the harmonious octaves in which the first trio lives\nand has its being, consisting of just these octaves. And what is more,\nneither trio suffers from the imperfections, which are imperfections\nonly in the light of imperfect critical knowledge and consequent\nprejudice, but not real imperfections and poetical contradictions in\nthemselves. De Sanctis also blamed Ariosto for his lack of sentiment\nfor nature, as though it were a defect; but what is called sentiment\nfor nature (as for that matter the great master De Sanctis himself\ntaught) does not depend upon nature, but rather upon the attitude of\nthe human spirit, upon the feelings of comfort, of melancholy or of\nreligious terror, with which man invests nature and finds them where\nhe has placed them; but this attitude was foreign to the fundamental\nattitude of Ariosto, and were there to be by chance some reference to\nit in the poem, were some note of sentiment to sound there, we should\nimmediately be sensible of the discord and impropriety. To Lessing,\nanother objective critic, the portrayal of the beauties of Alcina\nseemed to be a mistake and to exceed the limit of poetry, to which\nDe Sanctis replied that this materiality which Lessing blamed was\nthe secret of the poetry, because the beauty of the magician Alcina\nrequired a material description, since it was fictitious in its nature.\nThis blame was unjust, and although the answer to it was ingenious,\nyet it was perhaps not perfectly correct, for we have already seen\nthat Ariosto always described thus both true and imaginary beauties,\nOlympias and Alcinas. The true answer seems to be the one already\ngiven, that it would be useless to seek for features of energy in\nAriosto, lively portraits dashed off in a couple of brush strokes, for\nthese things presuppose a mode of feeling that he lacked altogether or,\nat any rate suppressed. Those \"laughing fleeting\" eyes, which are all\nSylvia, \"le doux sourire amoureux et souffrant,\" which are the whole\nof the spiritual sister-soul of the _Maison du Berger,_ do not belong\nto Ariosto, but to Leopardi and to De Vigny.\n\nThere are two ways in which the _Furioso_ should not be read: the\nfirst is the way in which one reads a work of rhythmic and lofty\nmoral inspiration, like the _Promessi Sposi,_ tracing, that is to\nsay, the development of a serious human affection, which circulates\nin and determines every part alike, even to the smallest detail; the\nsecond is that suitable for such works as _Faust,_ where the general\ncomposition, which is more or less guided by mental concepts, does not\nat all coincide with the poetical inspiration of the separate parts.\nHere the poetical should be separated from the unpoetical parts,\nand the poetically endowed reader will neglect the one to enjoy the\nother. In the _Furioso,_ this inequality of work is absent or only\npresent to a very slight extent (that is to say, to the extent that\nimperfection must ever be present in the most perfect work of man)\nand it is as equally harmonious as the _Promessi Sposi;_ but it lacks\nthat particular form of passionate seriousness, to be found throughout\nManzoni's work and in stray passages of Goethe's. The _Furioso_\nshould therefore be read in a third manner, namely by following a\ncontent which is ever the same, yet ever expressed in new forms,\nwhose attraction consists in the magic of this ever-identical yet\ninexhaustible variety of appearances, without paying attention to the\nmaterial element of the narratives and descriptions.\n\nAs we see, this too amounts to accepting with a rectification a common\njudgment on the _Furioso,_ which may be said to have accompanied the\npoem from the moment of its first appearance: namely, that it is a\nwork devoid of seriousness, being of a light, burlesque, pleasing\nand frivolous sort. It was described as \"_ludicro more_\" by Cardinal\nSadoleto, when according the license for printing the edition of 1516\nin the name of Leo X, although he added to this, perhaps translating\nthe declaration of the poet himself, \"_longo tamen studio et\ncogitatione, multisque vigiliis confectum.\"_ Bernardo Tasso, Trissino\nand Speroni, and other suchlike grave pedantic personages, did not\nfail to blame Ariosto for having dedicated his poem to the sole end\nof pleasing. Boileau looked upon it simply as a collection of _fables\ncomiques,_ and Sulzer called it a \"poem with the sole end of pleasing,\nnot directed by the reason\"; and even to-day are to be found its merits\nand defects noted down to credit and debit account in many a scholastic\nmanual; on the credit side stand the perfection of the octave, the\nvivacity of the narrative, the graceful style, to the debit account\nlack of profound sentiment, light which shines but does not warm and\nfailure to touch the heart. We accept and rectify this judgment with\nthe simple observation that those who regard the poem thus see clearly\nenough everything that is on a level with their own eyes, but do not\nraise them to regard what is above their heads and is the principal\nquality of the _Furioso,_ owing to which the frivolity of Ariosto\nreveals itself as profound seriousness of rare quality, profound\nemotion of the heart, but of a noble and exquisite heart, equally\nremote from the emotions of what is generally looked upon as life and\nreality.\n\nApart, but not separated from, nor alien to, nor indifferent: and in\nrespect to this we must resume and develop the analysis already begun\nby setting readers on their guard against the easy misunderstanding\nof the \"destruction,\" which we have already spoken of as brought\nabout by the tone and the irony of Ariosto. This must not be looked\nupon as total destruction and annihilation, but as destruction in\nthe philosophic sense of the word, which is also conservation. Were\nthis otherwise, what could be the function of the varied material or\nemotional content, which we have examined in the poem? Are the stars\nstuck into the sky like pin-heads in a pin-cushion (Don Ferrante would\nsarcastically enquire)? The eloquence of other's but not Ariosto's\npoetry, arises from a total indifference of sentiment and an absence\nof content: theirs is the rouge on the corpse, not the rosy cloud\nthat enfolds and adorns the living. Such eloquence produces soft and\nsuperficially musical versification of the _Adone,_ not the octave of\nthe _Furioso;_ and to quote Giraldi Cinzio once more, the lover of\nAriosto (who gave the advice to readers not to confuse the \"facility\"\nof the _Furioso_ with verses \"of sweet sound but no feeling\"), the\neight hundred \"stanzas,\" by one of the composers of that time, which\nGiraldi once had to read, \"which seemed to be collections made among\nthe flowery gardens of poetry, so full were they of beauty from stanza\nto stanza, but put together, were vain things, seeming, so far as sense\nis concerned, to have been born of the soil of childishness,\" because\ntheir author was \"intent only upon the pleasure that comes from the\nsplendour and choice of words, and had altogether neglected the dignity\nand assistance afforded by sensibility.\"\n\nHad Ariosto while in the act of composition not been keenly stirred\nin the various ways described, by the varied material employed in his\npoem, he would have lacked the impetus, the vivacity, the thought,\nthe intonation, which were afterwards reduced and tempered by the\nharmonious disposition of his soul. He would have been a cold writer of\npoetry, and no one ever succeeded in writing poetry coldly. This was\nthe case, as it seems to me, with the _Cinque Canti,_ which he excluded\nfrom the _Furioso_ and for which he substituted others. In them the\ncunning of Ariosto's hand is everywhere to be found in the descriptive\npassages and transitions, as are also all the elements of the every-day\nworld, stories of war, knightly adventures, tales of love (the love\nof Penticone for the wife of Otto and that of Astolfo for the wife of\nGismondo), satirical tales (the foundation of the city of Medea, with\nthe sexual law which she imposed upon it), astonishing fancies (such\nas the knights imprisoned in the body of the whale, where they have\ntheir beds, their kitchen and their tub), copious moral and political\nreflections (on jealousy, ambition, wicked men, mercenary soldiers);\nyet we feel nevertheless that Ariosto wrote them in an unhappy moment,\nwhen Minerva was reluctant or averse: the poet did not take sufficient\ninterest and lacked the necessary heat. And is there no part of\nthe _Furioso_ itself that languishes? It would seem so, not indeed\nin the forty cantos of the first edition, which originated in his\ntwelve-year-old poetical springtime, but in the parts which were added\nlater, all of them (as could be shown) more or less intellectualiste\nof origin, and therefore (save the episode of Olympia) not among the\nmost read and most popular. The most intellectualistic of all is the\nlong delay introduced toward the end of the poem, the double betrothal\nof Bradamante and the contest in courtesy between Leone and Ruggiero,\nwhere the tone becomes here and there altogether pedestrian. It is true\nthat philologists who have given themselves to art have discovered\nprogress in Ariosto in just these languid parts, and above all in the\n_Cinque Canti,_ where he has lost his bearings and is out of tune. Here\nthey suppose him to have become \"serious,\" to join hands with no less\na personage than Torquato Tasso.\n\nThe process of \"destruction\" effected upon the material may possibly be\nrendered clear to those who do not appreciate philosophical formulas\nor find them too difficult, by means of the comparison with what in\nthe technique of painting is called \"concealing a colour,\" which does\nnot mean its cancellation, but its toning down. In such an equally\ndistributed toning down, all the sentiments which go to form the web of\nthe poem, not only preserve their own physiognomy, but their reciprocal\nproportions and connections; so that although they certainly appear in\nthe \"transparent polished glasses\" and in the \"smooth shining waters\"\nof the octaves, pale as \"pearls on a white forehead\" to the sight, yet\nthey retain their distinctness and are more or less strong according\nto the greater or less strength which they possessed in the soul of\nthe poet. The comic, at once lowered and raised, nevertheless remains\ncomical, the sublime remains sublime, the voluptuous voluptuous, the\nreflective reflective, and so on. And sometimes it happens that Ariosto\nreaches the boundary, which if he were to pass, he would abandon his\nown tone, but he never does abandon it, because he always refrains\nfrom passing the boundary. Everyone remembers the most emotional\nwords and passages of the _Furioso_: Medoro, who, when surrounded and\nsurprised by his enemies, makes a sort of tower of himself, using the\ntrees as a shield, and never abandoning the body of his lord, Zerbino,\nwho feels penetrated with pity and stays his hand as he looks on his\nbeautiful countenance, when on the point of slaying him; Zerbino, who\nwhen about to die, is desperate at leaving his Isabella alone, the prey\nof unknown men, while she bursts into tears and speaks sweet words\nof eternal faithfulness; Fiordiligi, who hears the news, or rather\ndivines the death of her husband ... We always catch our breath, and\nsomething--I know not what--comes into our eyes, as we repeat these\nand similar verses. Here is Fiordiligi, who shudders as she feels the\npresentiment:\n\n    E questa novit\u00e0 d' aver timore\n    le fa tremar di doppia tema il core.[9]\n\nThe fatal news comes to hand: Astolfo and Sansonetto, the two friends\nwho happen to be where she has remained, hide it from her for an\nhour or so, and then decide to betake themselves to her that they may\nprepare her for the misfortune that has befallen:\n\n    Tosto ch'entrano, e ch'ella loro il viso\n    Vide di gaudio in tal vittoria privo,\n    Senz' altro annunzio sa, senz' altro avviso,\n    Che Brandimarte suo non \u00e8 pi\u00f9 vivo....[10]\n\nAnother moment of the same narrative, where suffering appears to resume\nits strength and to grow upon itself, is that in which Orlando, who is\nawaited, enters the temple where the funeral of Brandimarte is being\ncelebrated: Orlando, the friend, the companion, the witness of his\ndeath:\n\n    Levossi, al ritornar del Paladino,\n    Maggiore il grido e raddoppiossi il pianto.[11]\n\nBefore such words and images as these, De Sanctis used to say to his\npupils, when explaining to them the _Furioso_: \"See how much heart\nAriosto had!\" But he always kept telling them this truth also:\nthat \"Ariosto never pushes situations to the point of painfulness,\"\nforbidden to him by the tone of his poetry; and he used to show them\nhow Ariosto used sometimes to make use of interruptions, sometimes of\ngraceful similitudes, or reflections, or devices of style, in order to\nrestrain the painfulness ready to break through. Those critics who for\ninstance are shocked by the octaves on the name of \"Isabella\" are too\nexigent, or ask too much, and what they ought not to ask (this name\nof Isabella was destined by God to adorn beautiful, noble, courteous,\nchaste and wise women from this time forth, and was originally intended\nas homage from Ariosto to the Marchesana of Mantua, Isabella of Este).\nWith these octaves he concludes the narrative of the sacrifice of\nher life made by Isabella to keep faith with Zerbino; they do not\nunderstand that those octaves and the _Proficiscere_ which precedes\nthem (\"Go thou in peace, thou blessed soul\") and the very account of\nthe drunken bestiality of Rodomonte, and prior to that, the semi-comic\nscene of the saintly hermit who presides over the virtue of Isabella,\n\"like a practised mariner and is quite prepared to offer her speedily\na sumptuous meal of spiritual food,\" the hermit whom Rodomonte seizes\nby the neck and throws three miles into the sea, are all words and\nrepresentations so accentuated as to produce the effect of allowing\nIsabella to die without plunging the _Furioso_ into tragedy with its\ncorrespondingly tragical catharsis; for the _Furioso_ has its own\ngeneral and perpetually harmonious catharsis, which we have now made\nsufficiently clear.\n\nIt is precisely owing to the action of this sentimental and passionate\nmaterial, in spite of and through its effectual surpassing, that the\nvaried colouring arising from it enters the poem and confers upon it\nthat character of humanity, which led us to declare at the outset of\nour analysis that when we define Ariosto as the _Poet of Harmony,_ we\nproposed only to indicate where the _accent_ of his work falls, but\nthat he is the poet of Harmony and also of something else, of harmony\ndeveloped in a particular world of sentiments, and in fact that the\nharmony to which Ariosto attains, is not harmony in general, but an\n_altogether Ariostesque Harmony._\n\n\n[Footnote 1: Tempestuous seas and haunting fear which had kept her\nwaking for days now gave place to a feeling of security: deep in the\nforest and removed from care and noise, Olympia clasped her lover to\nher breast and fell into sleep as deep as that of bears and dormice.]\n\n[Footnote 2: As two fair generous leopards issuing simultaneouly from\nthe slips return full of shame and repentance as though weighed down by\nthe disgrace of having vainly pursued the lusty goats or stags which\nhad tempted them to the chase: So returned the two damsels sighing when\nthey saw the Pagan was saved.]\n\n[Footnote 3: Wherever Julia Gonzaga sets her foot or turns her serene\ngaze, not only does she excel all in beauty but compels adoration like\na Goddess.]\n\n[Footnote 4: And the painters who lived in former days as well as those\nstill with us:--Leonardo, A. Mantegna, Gian Bellino, the two Dossi and\nMichael who sculptures and portrays with more than mortal skill.]\n\n[Footnote 5: Oh powerful contrast in the breast of youth aflame with\ndesire for valorous renown and the passion of love; nor can one say\nwhich is the more delectable, since each lays claim alternately to\nsuperiority.]\n\n[Footnote 6: An aged man goes to encounter the Duke along the bright\nvestibule of that fortunate house: the sage is clad in red cloak and\nwhite robe, the former white as milk, the latter vermilion, vivid as a\nrose. His hair is white and his chin snowy with the thick beard flowing\nover his chest.]\n\n[Footnote 7: Olympia's loveliness was of rarest excellence: not only\nwas she fair of face with forehead, eyes, cheeks glowing amidst the\nhair which waved over her shoulders: all else was perfection.]\n\n[Footnote 8: Medoro's cheek showed white and red in the fresh flourish\nof youth.]\n\n[Footnote 9: The novel feeling of fear caused her heart to tremble,\ndoubly terrified.]\n\n[Footnote 10: As she saw them enter without joyous exultation over so\ngreat a victory, with no announcement or any direct word of it, she was\naware her Brandimarte had been slain.]\n\n[Footnote 11: On the return of the Paladin, the cry arose more loudly\nand the wail redoubled.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nHISTORICAL DISASSOCIATIONS\n\n\nFrom these last words, there can be no difficulty in seeing what must\nbe our opinion as to the confrontations and comparative judgments\ninstituted between Ariosto and Pulci or Boiardo, and even Cieco da\nFerrara, and all the other Italian poets of chivalry. These have\nsometimes been extended so as to include poetical humourists, such\nas Folengo and Rabelais, or burlesque writers like Berni, Tassoni,\nForteguerri, or neo-epical poets, like Tasso and Camoens, and finally\nto Cervantes, that direct and fully conscious ironist of chivalry. This\nis as perfectly admissible as it is natural that classes of \"poems of\nchivalry\" or \"narrative poems\" or \"romances,\" should be formed, when\nonce rhetoricians and writers of treatises have invented the genus and\nthat these should be disposed in a series under such headings, thus\nforming a sort of artificial history, with no real foundation beyond\nthe accidents of certain abstract literary forms, which are really\nrepresentative of certain social tendencies and institutions. And it\nis equally, indeed more admissible, because relating to more nearly\nconnected problems, that these documents afforded by poems of chivalry\nshould be made use of among other documents in the investigation\nof the gradual dissolution of the ideal of chivalry in the first\nperiod of modern society. Salvemini has not neglected to do this in a\ntemperate manner, in his monograph relating to \"knightly dignity\" in\nthe commune of Florence. But the aesthetic judgment, which they strive\nto deduce from these comparisons, is inadmissible and illegitimate:\nwhen for instance they bestow the palm on this or that poet for having\nbetter observed than others the \"genus\" or a particular \"species\" and\n\"variety\" of the genus; or because chivalry or anti-chivalry has been\nbetter represented by one than by another. We can explain the fact that\nDe Sanctis was sometimes entangled in this sociological net, in spite\nof his exquisite sense of individuality and poetry, when we consider\nthe condition of studies in his time and his philosophical origins;\nbut it is none the less true that the judgments which he pronounced\nupon this matter, deviate from true and proper aesthetic criticism, and\ncarry with them the bad effects of every deviation.\n\nHaving ourselves refused to be among those whose feet are caught in\nthe insidious net of Caligorante, we shall have nothing further to say\nas to comparisons with Ariosto, because the poet of the _Furioso_ has\nalways come out of those maladroit confrontations and the arbitrary\njudgments of merit which result from them, crowned above all others\nwith the sign of victory, or at least unconquered by any other, and\nadmitting but a very few as his equals. The preference accorded by\nromantic German men of letters to Boiardo (recently revived to some\nextent in Italy, by Panzini) belongs rather to the domain of anecdote\nthan to the history of criticism: Boiardo is looked upon by them as\nthe poet of grand heroic dreams, while Ariosto is a mere citizen\npoet; or Boiardo again is lauded for having better represented the\nlogical form of the Italian poem of chivalry, prescribed according\nto a chemical combination drawn up in the philological laboratory of\nthe anti-Ariostesque Professor Rajna, who is in other respects a most\nworthy and well-deserving person. But there is no denying that the\npeculiar beauty of Ariosto has often injured Boiardo, Pulci, Tasso\nand other poets, who have been illegitimately compared with him; and\ntherefore, without talking of Tasso--who has now won his case, although\nhe numbered a Galilei among the ranks of those who under-estimated\nhim when making the above-mentioned confrontation,--it will not be\ninopportune to cast a rapid glance upon Pulci and Boiardo.\n\nLooking at Pulci in Pulci and not at Ariosto, since to place one\nphysiognomy on the top of another is not a good way of seeing, what\ndo we find? What is the _Morgante?_ It is above all a whimsicality,\none of those works, born of a caprice or a bet, to which the author\nneither devotes himself after the necessary previous meditations, nor\nworks at with the scrupulosity of the artist, who expends his powers\nand employs his utmost endeavour to do the best he can everywhere. But\nthe occasion or the inspiration is never the substance of a work, which\non the contrary always consists of what the author really brings to it\nin the course of his labour; and the mention of the occasional origin\nof the _Morgante_ only avails here to account for its ill-digested\nand undoubtedly chaotic nature. Nor is it to the purpose to recall\nwhat certainly seems to have been Pulci's intention, namely, to\nsatisfy in his own way a wish of the pious Lucrezia Tornabuoni, by\ncomposing or re-writing a Christian poem of chivalry, for this in its\nturn only explains certain superficialities and extrinsicalities,\nsuch as the general plan of the poem and the parts of it possessing\nreligious tone, which are successful to the extent that they could\nbe successful with such a brain as Pulci's. A commencement will have\nbeen made towards a proper understanding of the substance of the\n_Morgante,_ its proper and intrinsic inspiration, by referring it first\nto the curiosity with which educated Florentine citizens observed and\nreproduced the customs and the psychology of the people of the city and\nthe surrounding districts, productive of the poetry of Politian, of\nLorenzo and of Pulci himself, author of the _Beca di Dicomano,_ each\nwith its various popular appeal. That inspiration contains something\nboth of the sympathetic and of the ironical, as we observe in all\npoetry based upon popular themes and use of dialect, in the German\nromantic _Lieder_ and _Balladen_ and in the dialect literature of the\nItaly of to-day (one feels inclined to call the _Morgante_ \"dialect\"\nand not \"Italian\"): and in Pulci there vibrated a sympathetic-ironic\nchord, peculiar to himself and therefore naturally not exactly the\nsame as in Lorenzo, or still less in Politian. But it did not vibrate\npure and clear, being prevented from doing so, not so much owing to\ninitial eccentricity and to the intention above-mentioned, as to the\naccumulation of other inspirations, arising in the fertile spirit of\nPulci. For Pulci had in mind, in addition to the reconstruction of a\nsympathetic-ironic popular poem of the popular story-tellers, something\nthat might be called a \"Picaresque romance,\" understanding thereby\nnot only tales of the sort to be found in Spanish literature, but\nalso certain other tales of Boccaccio and a great part of Folengo's\n_Baldus._ Picaresque romance asked in its turn sympathy and irony, but\nof a different sort to the preceding, no longer sympathy for popular\ningenuity, but for cleverness, trickiness, for an irony, which should\nno longer be simply that of superior culture, but also of superior\nmorality; and this too was in some measure and in his own way in Pulci;\nbut he often spoilt this disposition of mind by inadvertently passing,\nlike a person lacking refinement of education, from Picaresque romance\nto Picaresque intonation, from the representation of a blackguard\nto the blackguard himself. And there is something else also in the\n_Morgante_: the imaginings and caprices of Pulci himself, his own\npersonal moral opinions, religious or philosophical; things that are\nsometimes thought about even by those who do not think much about them,\nand which, owing to this casual hasty thinking, become nevertheless\nopinions or semi-opinions. Finally the _Morgante_ is a skein formed\nof strands of different colour and make, some of them thicker or\nthinner than others: it is a poem that is not in tune with a single\ndominant inspiration, and if we take one of those elements that we\nhave described and transport it to the principal place, we immediately\nhave the feeling that we are depriving the complex nature of the work\nof its vigour. Nevertheless the _Morgante_ must be looked upon as one\nof the most richly endowed works of our literature, where we meet at\nevery step with delightful figures and traits of expression: Morgante,\nMargutte, Fiorinetta, Astarotte, Farfarello, Archbishop Turpin, certain\ntouches of character in Orlando, and especially in Rinaldo, and also in\nAntea, together with certain descriptions, anecdotes and acute remarks.\nMargutte, plunged deep in vice, but quite shameless and aware that he\ncannot be other than what nature made him, is also human, incapable\nof treachery, capable of affection for Morgante and of enduring his\nall-consuming voracity; so that when his companion dies, he never\nceases recalling him to mind, and talking about him even with Orlando:\n\n    E conta d'ogni sua piacevolezza,\n    E lacrimava ancor di tenerezza.[1]\n\nRinaldo, ardent and furious for revenge, seeks to slay Carlo Magno, who\nhas been hidden from him; but after a few days Orlando leads him to\nbelieve that the Emperor has died of desperation, and tells him that he\nhas appeared to him in vision, whereupon Rinaldo changes countenance\nand begins to wish him alive again, to feel pity for him, to repent him\nof his fury, so that in this way peace and reconciliation are effected.\nAfter a great battle, the conquered as they leave the field, recognise\ntheir dead ones where they lie, and we hear them lamenting a father, a\nbrother or a friend:\n\n    Eravi alcun che cavava l'elmetto\n    al suo figliolo, al suo cognato, o padre;\n    poi lo baciava con pietoso affetto,\n    E dicea: \"Lasso, fra le nostre squadre\n    non tornerai in Soria pi\u00f9, poveretto;\n    che dir\u00e9n no\u00ee alla tua afflitta madre,\n    o chi sar\u00e0 pi\u00f9 quel che la conforti?\n    Tu ti riman cogli altri al campo morti.\"[2]\n\nAnd this is an apology, by means of which Orlando explains to Rinaldo\nthat he has remarked his new affection, and that it is of no use that\nhe should try to deceive him with words:\n\n    Rispose Orlando:--Noi sarem que' frati\n    che mangiando il migliaccio, l'un si cosse;\n    l'altro gli vede gli occhi imbambolati,\n    e domando quel che la cagion fosse.\n    Colui rispose: \"Noi si\u00e1n due restati\n    a mensa, e gli altri sono or per le fosse,\n    ch\u00e9 trentatr\u00e9 fummo e tu lo sia:\n    Quand' io vi penso, io piango sempre mai.\"\n    Quell' altro, che vedea che lo 'ngannava,\n    finse di pianger, mostrando dolore;\n    e disse a quel che di ci\u00f2 domandava:\n    \"E anco io piango, anzi mi scoppia il core,\n    che noi si\u00e1n due restati\"; e sospirava,\n    \"Ed \u00e8 gi\u00e0 l'uno all' altro traditore.\"\n    Cosi mi par che faccian noi, Rinaldo:\n    \"che nol di tu che'l migliaccio era caldo?\"[3]\n\nAnd here is an octave in which Pulci makes it psychologically clear why\nKing Carlo allowed himself to be led astray and deceived by Gano:\n\n    Molte volte, anzi spesso, c'interviene\n    che tu t'arrecchi un amico e fratello,\n    e ci\u00f2 che fa ti par che facci bene,\n    dipinto e colorito col pennallo.\n    Questo primo legame tanto tiene,\n    che, s' altra volta ti dispiace quello,\n    e qualcha cosa ti par\u00e0 molesta,\n    sempre la prima impression pur resta.[4]\n\n\"These are not the octaves of Ariosto \": we have said as much.\nCertainly they are not, just as the octaves of Ariosto are not those of\nPulci, and Ariosto, whatever trouble he might have taken, could never\nhave attained to the inventions, the emotions, the clevernesses and\nthe accents of the _Morgante,_ which are just as inimitable in their\nway as are the graces of the _Furioso._ And it is really unjust and\nalmost odious that the reader, face to face with the treasures of fresh\nand original poetry, which Pulci throws without counting into his lap,\nshould pull a wry face and ungratefully remark that Pulci's poetry\nis not that other poetry which he is now thinking about, and that it\nshould be abolished, or made perfect by the other poetry!\n\nAlmost the same thing is to be repeated about the author of the\n_Innamorato,_ who has also been tormented, condemned and executed by\nmeans of a comparison with the author of the _Furioso,_ sometimes\nconducted with such a refinement of cruelty that the strophes of the\none are printed facing the strophes of the other, and selected as\nbearing upon similar situations, so that every word and syllable may\nbe weighed; as though the strophes of a poet are not to be considered\nsolely in themselves and in the poem of which they form part, and to\nbe condemned, if occasion arise for condemnation, within that circle\nto which are confined the real conditions of judgment. Boiardo, to one\nwho reads him without any sort of preconception and abandons himself\nto the simple impressions of reading, immediately shows himself to be\naltogether different from what some critics maintain, the pedantic\nsinger of chivalry taken seriously, who gives way now and then to\ninvoluntary laughter and to a harsh intonation which should be toned\ndown and softened by the skill of an Ariosto. He is quite other also\nthan the epic bard, which some people have imagined him to be; he could\nnot be epic, because he had no national sentiment, no feeling for\nclass or religion, and the marvellous in him is all fancy, a marvel\nof the fairies; nor was he a pedant, for he obviously follows his own\nspontaneous inclinations, without any secondary purpose. No, Boiardo\nwas on the contrary a soul passionately devoted to the primitive and\nthe energetic, his was the energy of the lance-thrust, of the brand\nwielded, but also the energy of a proud will, of ferocious courage,\nof intransigent honour, of marvellous devices. And it is owing just\nto this energy, which has a value of its own, that he lives to unite\npoetically the cycles of Charlemagne and of Arthur, the Carlovingian\nand the Breton traditions, arms and adventures and love, both of them\nprimitive cycles, the second being remarkable for the extraordinary\nnature of its adventures and the violence of its loves; whereas, if\nthat heroism had continued to be full and substantial, it would have\nbeen difficult to make it a theme for erotic treatment, representing a\ndifferent and opposed sentiment. To ask of him delicacy of treatment\nin the representation of his knights, or delicacy of thoughts and\nwords in his treatment of women and love, and in general, beauty\nof sentiment, is to ask of him what is external to his fundamental\nmotive. To be astonished that he sometimes laughs or smiles, is to\nbe astonished at what happens every day among the people (and there\nare traces of it in the ingenuous epic) when they are listening to\nthe recital of great deeds, which do not forbid an occasional comic\nremark. To lament his supposed neglect of art, his lack of polish of\nlanguage and versification, is to censure him as a grammarian who\nemploys pre-established models or dwells upon minute details to which\nhe attributes sovereign importance. How on the other hand can it be\nforgotten, when praise of his rich fancy and robust frankness of style\nand composition is opposed to censures or interlarded among them, that\nwe must explain whence came to him these merits, for they are not to\nbe snatched, but are born only of the soul. Whence came they, if not\nfrom true poetical inspiration and from his already mentioned passion\nfor the energetic and the primitive? Hence the admiration aroused by\nhis vast canvases, his vivid narratives:--Angelica, who by merely\nappearing at Carlo's banquet, makes everyone fall in love with her,\nand whom even the Emperor himself cannot refrain from admiring, though\nwith discretion, lest he should compromise his gravity, Angelica,\nwhom the greatest champions of Christianity and Paganism follow with\nadmiration, refusing herself to all and loving only him who alone\nabhors her;--the solemn council of war, held by Agramante previous\nto entering France, with the speeches of the kings who surround him,\ncourageous or prudent, the sudden appearance of the youthful Rodomonte,\nwho dominates all with his tremendous energy;--the joyful courage of\nAstolfo, never disconcerted by headlong mishaps, whom fortune succours\nby furnishing him with a lance, by means of which, to the astonishment\nof all, he accomplishes prodigies, while he himself remains\nunastonished;--Brunello, as to whose doings one would like to apply\nVico's phrase about \"heroic thieving,\" Brunello, who wanders about the\nearth, stealing the most carefully guarded objects, with an audacious\ndexterity and so comic an imagination, Brunello, revelling in his\njoyous virtuosity and vainly-pursued over the whole world by Marfisa of\nthe viper's eye, which spirts venom, Marfisa who wishes to put him to\ndeath; but he flies from her, turning from time to time in his flight\nto laugh in her face and make gestures of mockery;--Then again there\nare the colloquies of Orlando and Agricane, during the pauses in their\nbitter duel, which must end in the death of one of them; Rinaldo's\ncaustic reply to Orlando, who has reproved him for wishing to carry\naway the golden couch from the fairy's garden; and that other no less\ncaustic repartee of the courageous highway robber to Brandimarte; and\nmany and many another most beautiful passage?--Yet the _Innamorato,_\nnotwithstanding its poetical abundance, has never been numbered among\nreally classical works, so that after the vogue which for ephemeral\nreasons it enjoyed in its own day, it has not received and does not\nreceive the affection and homage of any but those who love what is\nlittle loved and prize what is pure, spontaneous and rude. The poem\ndoes not conclude in itself; it is not satisfied with itself: there is\na break somewhere in the circle: the representation of the energetic\nand primitive, which is a sort of formal epicity, has something in\nit of the monotonous and arid, and the pleasure derived from it has\nsomething of the solitary and sterile. Like the charger that sniffs the\nbattle, so says Boiardo:\n\n    Ad ogni atto degno e signorile,\n    Quai se raconti di cavalleria,\n    sempre se allegra l'animo gentile,\n    come nel fatto fusse tuttavia,\n    manifestando fuore il cor virile....[5]\n\nThat is well, but the manly heart is not slow to express a certain\nfeeling of delusion, when it recognises that the images in question\nare all body, without depth of soul, and without the guidance and\ninspiration of a superior spirit. He says somewhere else:\n\n    Gi\u00e0 molto tempo m'han tenuto a bada\n    Morgana, Alcina e le incantazioni,\n    N\u00e8 ve ho mostrato un bel colpo di spada,\n    E pieno il cel de lancie e de tronconi....[6]\n\nBut there are too many lances that meet and clash, too many limbs\nflying about without our ever seeing the cause, the meaning or the\njustification of all that fighting--even Boiardo himself becomes\nmelancholy, when he thinks of those blows exchanged in a spiritual\nvoid, exclaiming in one of those frequent purely spontaneous epigrams,\nwhich invest his noble person with sympathy:\n\n    Fama, seguace degli imperatori,\n    Ninfa, che e' gesti a' dolci versi canti,\n    che dopo morte ancor gli uomini onori,\n    e fai coloro eterni, che tu vanti,\n    ove sei giunta? a dir gli antichi amori,\n    e a narrar battaglie de' giganti;\n    merc\u00e8 del mondo, che al tuo tempo \u00e8 tale,\n    che pi\u00f9 di fama o di virt\u00f9 non cale.\n    Lascia a Parnaso quella verde pianta,\n    che da salvivi ormai perso \u00e8 il cammino,\n    e meco al basso questa istoria canta\n    del re Agramante, il forte Saracino....[7]\n\nPulci and Boiardo then, not to mention others, are to be placed neither\nabove nor below Ariosto, for they are not even related to him. Proof of\nthis is to be found in the fact that thought has gone to other artists,\nto Ovid for example, in the search for his parallel in literature\namong the Latins, to Petrarch and to Politian among Italians, or to\narchitects like Bramante and Leon Baptista Alberti, and yet more to\npainters, like Raphael, Correggio and Titian, comparisons having been\ninstituted with all of these and with others whom it is unnecessary to\nmention. Now as regards quality of artistic inspiration, affinity is\ncertainly more intrinsic than are relations established from the use\nof similar abstract material; yet it is itself abstract and extrinsic,\nbecause it always accepts one or certain aspects of inspiration, not\nthe full inspiration. Thus, for example, when a comparison is drawn\nbetween Ariosto and Ovid, who was a story-teller, lacking altogether\nin religious feeling for mythological fables and attracted to them\nsolely by their beauty and variety, we must immediately hasten to add\nthat with the exception of this side, which they share in common,\nAriosto is different and superior to the Latin poet in every other,\nfor Ovid had not a delicate taste in art, being merged altogether in\nhis pleasing and delightful themes. He improvised and overflowed,\nowing to his incapacity for firm design and lack of control: he would\nbe better described as the model of the luxurious Italian versifiers\nof the seventeenth century than as the model of Ariosto, whose art\nwas most chaste. If again he be superficially compared with Politian,\nthe comparison breaks up immediately, because the _Stanze_ are\ninspired by the voluptuousness of the sensible world, contemplated\nin all its fugitive brilliance and with that trembling accompaniment\nof anxiety and suffering, inseparable from it, while Ariosto soars\nabove the pathos of voluptuousness. To note affinities is of avail in\na work introductory to the general study of literature, and to draw\ncomparisons and point out contrasts and successive approximations may\nalso serve as a useful aid to the accurate description of an artist's\nspecial character. But we do not propose to supply here such a\ndidactic introduction, for the use of such a method is superfluous,\nas we have already described Ariosto's characteristics in the manner\nproposed. We shall not therefore form a group of artists, as related to\nhim in this or that respect, for such cannot be expected of us, nor has\nit for us any special attraction.\n\nObservations as to affinities have another use also, as providing a\nbasis for sparkling and resonant metaphors, as when it is observed of\nan artist that he is the \"Raphael of poetry,\" of another that he is\n\"the Dante of sculpture,\" or of a third that he is \"the Michael Angelo\nof sound,\" or as was said (by Torquato Tasso, perhaps as a witticism,\nand certainly with little truth), that Ariosto is \"the Ferrarese\nHomer.\" We already possess many pages of magnificent metaphors to the\nhonour and glory of the author of the _Furioso,_ nor do we intend to\ndepreciate their merit; but the present writer begs to be excused from\nthe labour of increasing their number, since he is in general little\ndisposed to oratory and has allowed what slight gift of the sort he\nmight have possessed to flow away and lose itself, while conversing\nwith so unrhetorical and so conversational a poet as was Ludovico\nAriosto.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: Saying how delightful he was and still weeping for tender\nrecollection.]\n\n[Footnote 2: Sometimes one would remove the helmet from his son, his\ncousin, or his father, kissing him with pious affection, and saying\n\"alas, poor fellow, never again will he return to our ranks in Soria;\nwhat shall we say to his afflicted mother, who among us can comfort\nher? But thou remainest with the others who lie dead on the field.\"]\n\n[Footnote 3: Orlando answered:--We shall be like the friars one of\nwhom burnt himself in eating his gruel; the other seeing his eyes\nwatering asked the reason. His neighbour replied: \"Here we are, two of\nus remained sitting at table, while the others are in the tomb; well\nthou knowest that we were thirty-three; it always makes me weep to\nthink of it.\" The other, who saw the deception, in his turn made belief\nto lament and grieve and when asked the reason: \"Yea, I also weep; my\nheart indeed is bursting to think that we two remain\"; then sighing he\ncontinued, \"And that one of us two is betraying the other. We seem to\nbe doing much the same thing, Rinaldo: why won't you confess that the\ngruel was hot?\"]\n\n[Footnote 4: It often happens that a friend becomes like a brother to\nyou, and whatever he does seems to be so well done as to deserve being\nmade a picture. This first bond holds so firmly that when he finally\ndoes something you do not like--injures you in some way--nevertheless\nthe first impression remains the same.]\n\n[Footnote 5: The gentle soul rejoices at every worthy, noble deed\nrecounted of knighthood, as it does when the deed was accomplished,\nwhich revealed the manly heart.]\n\n[Footnote 6: Morgana, Alcina and their incantations have long held me\nin their chains, so that I have been unable to show you aught of fine\nsword play, the sky full of lances and limbs....]\n\n[Footnote 7: Where art thou gone, O fame that followest emperors and\nsingest their brave deeds in gentle verse, thou that honorest men after\ndeath and conferrest eternity upon those thou vauntest? This is the\nfault of the world. Thou art gone to sing of ancient loves and to tell\nof the battles of the giants, thanks to this world of ours that cares\nno longer for courage or for fame. Leave upon Parnassus that growth\nof green, since none knows now the upward path that leadeth thither,\nand sing here below with me this history of King Agramante, the mighty\nSaracen....]\n\n\n\n\nPART II\n\n\nWILLIAM SHAKESPEARE\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nTHE PRACTICAL PERSONALITY AND THE POETICAL PERSONALITY\n\n\nTo state at the outset, that the practical personality of Shakespeare\nis not the object of study for the critic and historian of art, but his\npoetical personality; not the character and development of his life,\nbut the character and development of his art, will perhaps seem to be\nsuperfluous, but as a matter of fact it will aid us in proceeding more\nrapidly.\n\nWe do not aim at forbidding the natural curiosity, which leads to the\nenquiry as to what sort of men in practical life were those whom we\nadmire as poets, thinkers and scientists. This curiosity often leads\nto delusion, because there is nothing to be found behind the poet,\nthe philosopher, or the man of science, which can arouse interest,\nthough it is sometimes fruitful. It would certainly be agreeable to\nraise that sort of mysterious veil that surrounds Shakespeare. We\nshould like to know what sort of passions, what ethical, philosophical\nand mental experiences were his, and above all what he thought about\nhimself--whether, as appeared to those who rediscovered him a century\nor so later, he were really without feeling the greatness of his genius\nand of his own work. For what reason, too, if there were a special\nreason, did he not take the trouble to have his plays printed, but\nexposed them to the risk of being lost to posterity? Was it due to the\ningenuousness and innocence of the poet, or to proud indifference on\nthe part of a man, who disdains the world's applause and the mirage of\nglory, because he is completely satisfied with the greatness of his\nwork? Or was it due to simple indolence, or to a settled plan, or to\nthe web of events? Did he suppose, as has been suggested, that those\nplays, written for the theatre, would have continued ever to live in\nthe theatre, under the care of his companions in art, in accordance\nwith his intentions and in a manner suitable to their merit? But it\nis clear that these and such like questions concern the biography,\nrather than the artistic history of Shakespeare, which gives rise to an\naltogether different series of researches.\n\nWe do not however wish to assert that these two series of different\nquestions are without relation: even different things have some\nrelation to one another, which resides in their diversity itself\nand is connected above them. The critic and historian of art would\ncertainly find it advantageous for the studies that he was about to\nundertake, to know the chronology, the circumstances, the details, the\ncompositions, the recompositions, the recastings and the collaborations\nof the Shakespearean drama. He would thus avoid the obligation of\nvexing his mind as to certain interpretations, and of remaining more or\nless perplexed for a greater or lesser space of time, before certain\npeculiarities, discordances and inequalities, doubtful, that is to\nsay, as to whether they be errors in art, or art forms of which it is\ndifficult to seize the hidden connection. But he would gain nothing\nmore from this advantage (with the conjoined admonition, to beware of\nthe prejudices that such information is apt to cause). His judgment\nwould of necessity be founded, in final analysis, upon intrinsic\nreasons of an artistic nature, arising from an examination of the works\nbefore him. The chronology that he will succeed in fixing, will not be\na real or material chronology, but an ideal and an aesthetic one, for\nthese are two forms of chronology which only coincide approximately and\nsometimes altogether diverge from one another. Were the authenticity\nof the works all clearly settled, the critic would be preserved from\nproclaiming that certain works or parts of works are Shakespeare's,\nwhen they are really, say, Greene's or Marlowe's, which is an\ninexactitude of nomenclature, as also is the treating of Shakespeare's\nwork as being by someone else or anonymous. But this onomastic\ninexactitude is already corrected by the presumption that the critic\nhas his eye fixed, not on the biographical and practical personage\nof Shakespeare, but on the poetical personage. He is thus able to\nface with calmness the danger, which is not a danger and is extremely\nimprobable, of allowing to pass under the colours of Shakespeare a work\ndrawn from the same or a similar source of inspiration, which stands at\nan equal altitude with others, or of adding another work to those of\ninferior quality and declining value assigned to the same name, because\nhe is differentiating aesthetic values and not title-deeds to legal\nproperty.\n\nAs we have said, it has not seemed superfluous to repeat these\nstatements, because in the first place, the silent and tenacious,\nthough erroneous conviction, as to the unity and identity of the two\nhistories, the practical and the poetical, or at least the obscurity as\nto their true relation, is the hidden source of the vast and to a large\nextent useless labours, which form the great body of Shakespearean\nphilology. This in common with the philology of the nineteenth century\nin general, is unconsciously dominated by romantic ideas of mystical\nand naturalistic unity, whence it is not by accident that Emerson\nis found among the precursors of hybrid biographical aesthetic, and\nthe romanticizing Brandes among its most conspicuous supporters.\nThese labours are animated with the hope of obtaining knowledge\nof the poetry of Shakespeare in its full reality, by means of the\ndiscovery of the complete chronology, of biographical incidents, of\nallusions, and of the origin of his themes. The ranks of the seekers\nare also swollen by those who are animated with like hopes and wish\nto exhibit their cleverness in the solution of enigmas, or are urged\nby the professional necessity of producing dissertations and theses.\nUnfortunately, the documents and traditions relating to the life of\nShakespeare are very few. All or nearly all, relate to external and\ninsignificant details. We are without letters, confessions or memoirs\nby the author, and also without authentic and abundant collections of\nfacts relating to him. Although almost every year there appears some\nnew _Life of Shakespeare,_ it is now time to recognise with resignation\nand clearly to declare that it is not possible to write a biography of\nShakespeare. At the most, an arid and faulty biographical chronicle\ncan be composed, rather as proof of the devotion of posterity,\nlonging to possess even a shadow of that biography, than as genuinely\nsatisfying a desire for knowledge. Owing to this lack of documents, the\nabove-mentioned philological literature consists, almost altogether,\nof an enormous and ever increasing number of conjectures, of which\nthe one contests, impugns, or varies the other, and all are equally\nincapable of nourishing the mind. It suffices to glance through a\nfew pages of a Shakespearean annual or handbook, to hear of the\n\"Southampton theory,\" the \"Pembroke theory,\" and of other theories, in\nrelation to the _Sonnets;_ that is to say, whether the person concealed\nbeneath the initials W. H. in the printer's dedication, is the Earl\nof Southampton, or the Earl of Pembroke, or a musician of the name\nof Hughes, or even William Harvey, the third husband of Southampton's\nmother, or the retail bookseller, William Hell, or an invention of\nthe printer, or a joke of the poet, who should thus indicate himself\n(William Himself); and so on, with the \"Fitton theory,\" the \"Davenant\ntheory,\" and the like, that is to say, whether the \"dark lady,\"\ncelebrated in some of the sonnets, be a court lady of the name of Mary\nFitton, or the hostess by whom Shakespeare is said to have become\nthe father of the poet Davenant (and one of the critics has dared\nadmit that he spent fifteen years in research and meditation on this\npoint alone), or the French wife of the printer Field, or finally a\nconventional and imaginary personage of Elizabethan sonneteering, which\nwas based upon the manner of Petrarch. And in the same way as with the\n_Sonnets,_ there have been conjectures of the most varied sorts as to\nShakespeare's marriage, his relations with his wife, the incidents\nof his family and of his profession. Passing to the plays, there are\nand have been discussions without apparent end, as to whether _Titus\nAndronicus_ be an original work, or has been patched up by him; as to\nwhether _Henry VI_ be all of it his, or only a part, or revised and\nenlarged by him; as to which portions of _Henry VIII_ and of _Pericles_\nare his and which Fletcher's, or whether by other hands; as to whether\n_Timon_ be a sketch finished by others or a sketch by others finished\nby Shakespeare; whether and to what extent there persists in _Hamlet_ a\nprevious _Hamlet_ by Kyd or by another author; whether certain of the\nso-called \"apocryphas,\" such as _Arden of Feversham_ and _Edward III,_\nare on the contrary to be held to be authentic. In like manner, the\ndifficulties connected with the chronology are great and conjectures\nnumerous. The _Dream,_ for instance, is by some placed in the year\n1590, by others in 1595, _Julius Caesar_ now in 1606, now in 1599,\n_Cymbeline_ in 1605 and 1611, _Troilus and Cressida,_ by some in 1599,\nby others in 1603, by others still in 1609, by yet others resolved into\nthree parts or strata, form 1592 to 1606, and 1607, with additions by\nother hands. For the majority, the _Tempest_ belongs to the year 1611,\nbut is by others dated earlier, and as regards _Hamlet_ again, in\nits first form, there are some who believe that it was composed, not\nby any means in 1602, but between 1592 and 1594. And so on, without\nadvantage being taken of the few sure aids offered by stylistic or\nmetrical measurements, as one may prefer to call them. Now conjectures\nare of use as heuristic instruments, only in so far as it is hoped\nto convert them into certainties, by means of the documents of which\nthey aid in the search and the interpretation. But when this is not\npossible, they are altogether vain and vacuous, and consequently, were\nthey convertible into certainties, would not give the solution or the\ncriterion of solution of the critical problems relating to the poetry\nof Shakespeare. When they are not to be so converted and remain mere\nvague imagining, they do not even supply the practical and biographical\nhistory, which others delude themselves with the belief that they\ncan construct piecemeal by means of them. Hence it has happened that\ncareful writers, who have wished to give the character and life of\nShakespeare, as far as possible without hypotheses and fancies, have\nbeen obliged to retail a series of general assertions, in which all\nindividualisation is lost, even if Shakespeare be pronounced good,\nhonest, gentle, serviceable, prudent, laborious, frank, gay, and the\nlike.\n\nBut the majority convert the less probable conjectures into\ncertainties, and proceed from conjecture to conjecture and from\nassertion to assertion, finally producing, under the title, _Life of\nShakespeare,_ nothing but a romance, which, however, always turns\nout to be too colourless to be called artistic. A rapacious hand is\nstretched out to seize the poetical works themselves, with the view\nof writing this sort of fiction since (to quote the author of one of\nthese unamusing fictions, Brandes) it cannot be admitted that it is\nimpossible to know by deducing them from his writings, the life, the\nadventures, and the person of a man who has left about forty plays\nand poems. And it is certainly possible to deduce all these things\nfrom the poetical writings, but the life, and the poetical adventures\nand personages, not the practical and biographical; save in the case\n(which is not that of Shakespeare,) where definitely informative,\nautobiographical statements and excursions are to be found among the\npoems, that is to say, passages that are not poetical, but prosaic.\nIn every other instance, the poetical emotion does not lead to the\npractical, because the relation between the two is not _deterministic,_\nfrom effect to cause, but _creative,_ from material to form, and\ntherefore incommensurable. The moment it is raised to the sphere of\npoetry, a sentiment that has really been experienced is plucked from\nits practical and realistic soil, and made the motive of composition\nfor a world of dreams, one of the infinite possible worlds, in which it\nis as useless to seek any longer the reality of that sentiment, as it\nis vain to seek a drop of water poured into the ocean, and transformed\nfrom what it was previously by ocean's vast embrace. One feels almost\ninclined to repeat as warning that strophe from the _Sonnets,_ where\nthe poet said of his mistress to his friend:\n\n    \"Nay, if you read this line, remember not\n    The hand that writ it; for I love you so,\n    That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,\n    If thinking on me then should make you woe.\"\n\nFor this reason, when we read in Brandes's book (which we select for\nquotation here, because it has been widely circulated), such statements\nas that Richard III, the deformed dwarf, whom we feel to be superior\nin intellect, adumbrates Shakespeare himself, obliged to adopt the\ndespised profession of the actor, but full of the pride of genius,\nit is not a case of rejecting or accepting his statements, but of\nsimply looking upon them as so many conjectures founded upon air and\nas such, devoid of interest. This criterion can also be applied in the\nfollowing cases: that the pitiful death of the youthful Prince Arthur,\nin _King John,_ shows traces of the loss of one of his sons, sustained\nby the author at the moment when he was composing that drama; that\nthe riotous youth of Henry V is a symbol of the youth of Shakespeare\nduring his first years in London; that Brutus, in _Julius Caesar,_ has\nreference to the persons of Essex and Southampton, protectors of the\npoet and unsuccessful conspirators against the queen; that Coriolanus,\ndisdainful of praise, is Shakespeare in the attitude that it suited\nhim to take up towards the public and the critics; that the feeling of\nKing Lear, appalled with ingratitude, is that of the poet, appalled at\nthe ingratitude he experienced at the hands of his colleagues, of the\nimpresarii and of his pupils; and finally that Shakespeare must have\nwritten those terrible dramas in the nocturnal hours, although he most\nprobably worked as a rule in the early morning; together with many\nother fancies of a similar sort; it is not a case of accepting or of\nconfuting them, but of just taking them for what they are, conjectures\nbased upon air, and as such of no interest.\n\nThe like may be said of another volume, which has also been much\ndiscussed, that of Harris. Here, in a view based upon the inspection of\nhis lyrics and dramas, he is represented as sensual and neuropathic,\nalmost affected with erotic mania, weak of will, attracted and\ntyrannised over during almost the whole of his life, by a fascinating\nand faithless dark lady, named Mary Fitton. Hence the origin of his\nmost poignant tragedies, and the mystery that conceals his last years,\nwhen he withdrew to Stratford, by no means with the intention of\nthere enjoying the peace of the country as a _foenerator Appuis,_ but\nbecause, ruined in body and soul, he wished there to nurse his ills, or\nrather to die there, as soon afterwards he did.\n\nThe period of the great tragedies, especially, has been connected\nwith circumstances in the private life of the author and with events\nin English public life. This too may or may not be true: Shakespeare\nmay or may not have been extremely excitable, both in personal and\npractical matters; he may on the other hand have remained perfectly\ncalm and watched the tossing sea from the shore, with that tone\nof feeling proper to artists, described by psychologists as\n_Scheingef\u00fchle,_ a feeling of appearance and dream. No value also is\nto be attributed to conjectures as to the models that Shakespeare\nsometimes had before him: for Shylock in the shape of some adventurer\nof his time, or for Prospero in the person of the Emperor Rudolph II,\nwho was interested in science and magic, and the like, because the\nrelation between art and its model is incommensurable. In reading the\nworks of Shakespeare, one is sometimes inclined to think (as for that\nmatter in the case of other poets), that some affection or incident\nof the life of the author is to be found in the words of this or that\ncharacter, as for example in _Cymbeline,_ where Posthumus says,\n\n                       \"Could I find out\n    The woman's part in me! But there's no motion\n    That tends to vice in man, but I affirm\n    It is the woman's part!\"\n\nor in those others of _Troilus and Cressida_:\n\n    \"Lechery, lechery; still, wars and lechery; nothing\n    else holds fashions: a burning devil take them!\"\n\nin the same way as some have suspected a personal memory in the case\nof Dante, in the Francesca episode of the reading and inebriation.\nBut there is nothing to be done with this suspicion and the thought\nthat suggested it. Nor is there anything to be built upon in those rare\npassages, where it may seem that the poet breaks the coherence and\naesthetic level of his work, in order to lay stress upon some real or\npractical feeling of his own, by over-accentuation; because, even if we\nadmit that there are such passages in Shakespeare, it always remains\ndoubtful whether for him, as for other poets, the true motive for\nthis inopportune emphasis, is to be found in the eruption of his own\npowerful feelings, or rather in some other accidental motive.\n\nWe may also save ourselves from wonder and invective of the \"Baconian\nhypothesis,\" by means of this indifference of the poetical work towards\nbiography. This hypothesis maintains that the real author of the plays,\nwhich pass under the name of Shakespeare, was Francis Bacon. We are\nlikewise preserved from those others of more recent date and vogue,\nwhich maintain that the author was Roger, fifth Earl of Rutland, or\nthat Rutland collaborated with Southampton, or that there really\nexisted a society of dramatic authors, (Chettle, Heywood, Webster,\netc.) with the final revision entrusted to Bacon, or finally (the\nlatest discovery of the sort) that he was William Stanley, sixth Earl\n>of Derby. A thousand or more volumes, opuscules and articles have been\nprinted to deal with these conjectures, and although--to the severe eye\nof the trained philologist--they may justly seem to be extravagant,\nyet they retain the merit of being a sort of involuntarily _ironic\ntreatment_ of the purely philological method and of its abuse of\nconjecture.\n\nBut even if we grant the unlikely contention that in the not very\ngreat brain of the philosopher Bacon, there lodged the brain of a very\ngreat poet, from which proceeded the Shakespearean drama, nothing\nwould thereby have been discovered or proved, save a singular marvel,\na joke, a monstrosity of nature. The artistic problem would remain\nuntouched, because that drama remains always the same; Lear laments\nand imprecates in the same manner, Othello struggles furiously, Hamlet\nmeditates and wavers before the problem of humanity and the action that\nhe is called upon to take, and in the same manner, all are enwrapped in\nthe veil of Eternity, It is a good thing to shake off this weight of\nerroneous philology (another philology exists alongside of it, which\nis not erroneous, since it preserves the probably genuine text, and\ninterprets the vocabulary and the historical references with a genuine\nfeeling for art), not only because, whether or no it attain the end\nof biography, it distracts attention from the right and proper object\nof artistic criticism, but also because it employs the biography,\ntrue or false, for the purpose of clouding and changing the artistic\nvision. Confounding art and document, it transports into art whatever\nit has discovered or believes itself to have discovered by means of\nresearch, turning the serene compositions of the poet into a series\nof shudders, cries, restless motions, convulsions, ferocious springs,\nmanifestations, now of sentimental rapture, now of furious desire.\n\nWe know that it is necessary to make an effort of abstraction, to\nforget biographical details concerning the poets, in those cases where\nthey abound, if we wish to enjoy their art, in what it possesses of\nideality, which is truth. We know, too, that poets and artists have\nalways experienced dislike and contempt for those gossip-mongers, who\ninvestigate and record the private occurrences of their lives, in\norder to extract from them the elements of artistic judgment. This is\nthe reason why a poet's contemporaries and his fellow-countrymen and\nfellow-townsmen are said not to be good judges and that no one is a\npoet or prophet among his familiars and in the place of his birth.\n\nThe advantage of the lack of a bar to artistic contemplation, one of\nthe good consequences of this lack of biographical detail relating to\nShakespeare, is thrown away by these conjecturers, who, like the mule\nof Galeazzo Florimonte, bring stones to birth that they may stumble\nupon them.\n\nWe can observe the re-immersion of Shakespearean poetry in\npsychological materiality in the already mentioned book of Brandes (and\nalso to some extent in the more subtle and ingenious work of Frank\nHarris) and in the case of Brandes, the readjustment of values that is\nits consequence, as with _King Lear_ and _Timon,_ both documents of\nmisanthropy induced by ingratitude; and even the sinking of values into\nnon-values, when he fails to effect his psychological reduction, even\nby means of those extravagant methods, as in the case of _Macbeth,_\nwhere he declares that this play, which is one of the dramatic\nmasterpieces, appears to him to possess but \"slight interest,\" because\nhe does not feel \"the heart of Shakespeare beating there,\" that is to\nsay, of the Shakespeare endowed with certain practical objects and\ninterests by his imagination.\n\nThis error is also to be found in the so-called \"pictures of the\nsociety of the time,\" by means of which another group has striven to\ninterpret the art of Shakespeare. These are not less extrinsic and\ndisturbing than the others, assuming that they are composed with like\nhistorical ignorance. Taine, for instance, having got it into his head\nthat the English of the time of Elizabeth were \"_des b\u00eates sauvages_,\"\ndescribes the drama of the time as a reproduction \"_sans choix_\" of\nall \"_les laideurs, les bassesses, les horreurs, les d\u00e9tails crus,\nles m\u0153urs d\u00e9r\u00e9gl\u00e9es et f\u00e9roces_\" of that time, and the style of\nShakespeare as \"_un compos\u00e9 d'expressions forcen\u00e9es,_\" in such wise\nthat when one reads the famous _Histoire de la litt\u00e9rature anglaise,_\nit is difficult to say whether poets or assassins are passing across\nthe stage, whether these be artistic and harmonious contests, or\ndagger-thrust struggles. The opinion of Goethe is opposed to all these\ndeformations, to the Shakespeare who moans and shrieks on the wind of\nthe wild passions of his time, to that other Shakespeare who reveals\nthe wounds of his own sickly soul with bitter sarcasm and disgust. In\nthe conversations with Eckermann, he gives as his impression that the\nplays of Shakespeare were the work \"of a man in perfect health and\nstrength, both in body and spirit\"; he must indeed have been healthy\nand strong and free, when he created something so free, so healthy and\nso strong as his poetry.\n\nIn a calmer sphere of considerations, those who make the personages and\nthe action of the plays depend upon the political and social events\nof the time commit a similar deterministic error--upon the victory\nover the Armada, the conspiracy of Essex, the death of Elizabeth, the\naccession of James, the geographical discoveries and colonisation of\nthe day, the contests with the Puritans, and the like.\n\nOthers err in tracing the different forms of the poetry to the course\nof his reading, to the Chronicle of Holinshed, to Italian novels, to\nthe Lives of Plutarch, and especially to the _Essais_ of Montaigne\n(where Chasles and others of more recent date have placed the origin\nof the new great period of his poetical work); others again have found\nit in the circumstances of the English stage of the time, and in the\nvarious tastes of the \"reserved\" and \"pit\" seats, as in the so-called\n\"realistic\" criticism of R\u00fcmelin.\n\nThe poetry, then, should certainly be interpreted historically, but in\nthe proper sense, disconnected, that is to say from a history that is\nforeign to it and with which its only connection is that prevailing\nbetween a man and what he disregards, puts away from him and rejects,\nbecause it either injures him or is of no use, or, which comes to the\nsame thing, because he has already made sufficient use of it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nSHAKESPEAREAN SENTIMENT\n\n\nEveryone possesses at the bottom of his heart, as it were, a synthetic\nor compendious image of a poet like Shakespeare, who belongs to the\ncommon patrimony of culture, and in his memory the definitions of him\nthat have been given and have become current formulae. It is well\nto fix the mind upon that image, to remember these formulae, and to\nextract from them their principal meanings, with the view of obtaining,\nat least in a preliminary and provisory manner, the characteristic\nspiritual attitude of Shakespeare, his poetical sentiment.\n\nThe first observation leaps to the eye and is generally admitted:\nnamely, that no particular feeling or order of feelings prevails\nin him; it cannot be said of him that he is an amorous poet, like\nPetrarch, a desperately sad poet like Leopardi, or heroic, as Homer.\nHis name is adorned rather with such epithets as _universal_ poet,\nas perfectly _objective,_ entirely _impersonal,_ extraordinarily\n_impartial._ Sometimes even his _coldness_ has been remarked--a\ncoldness certainly sublime, \"that of a sovran spirit, which has\ndescribed the complete curve of human existence and has survived all\nsentiment\" (Schlegel).\n\nNor is he a poet of _ideals,_ as they are called, whether they be\nreligious, ethical, political, or social. This explains the antipathy\nfrequently manifested towards him by apostles of various sorts, of\nwhom the last was Tolstoi, and the unsatisfied desires that take fire\nin the minds of the right thinking, urging them always to ask of any\nvery great man for something more, for a supplement. They conclude\ntheir admiration with a sigh that there should really be something\nmissing in him--he is not to be numbered along those who strive for\nmore liberal political forms and for a more equable social balance,\nnor has he had bowels of compassion for the humble and the plebeian. A\ncertain school of German critics (Ulrici, Gervinus, Kreyssig, Vischer,\netc.), perhaps as an act of opposition to such apparent accusations\n(I would not recommend the reading of these authors, whom I have felt\nobliged to peruse owing to the nature of my task) began to represent\nShakespeare as a lofty master of morality, a casuist most acute and\nreliable, who never fails to solve an ethical problem in the correct\nway, a prudent and austere counsellor in politics, and above all, an\ninfallible judge of actions, a distributor of rewards and punishments,\ngraduated according to merit and demerit, paying special attention that\nnot even the slightest fault should go unpunished. Now setting aside\nthe fact that the ends attributed to him were not in accordance with\nhis character as a poet and bore evidence only to the lack of taste of\nthose critics; setting aside that the design of distributing rewards\nand punishments according to a moral scale, which they imagine to exist\nand praise in him, was altogether impossible of accomplishment by any\nman or even by any God, since rewards and punishments are thoughts\naltogether foreign to the moral consciousness and of a purely practical\nand judicial nature; setting aside these facts, which are generally\nconsidered unworthy of discussion and jeered at in the most recent\ncriticism, as the ridiculous survivals of a bygone age, even if we make\nthe attempt to translate these statements into a less illogical form,\nand assume that there really existed in Shakespeare an inclination for\nproblems of that sort, they shew themselves to be at variance with\nsimple reality. Shakespeare caressed no ideals of any sort and least\nof all political ideals; and although he magnificently represents\npolitical struggles also, he always went beyond their specific\ncharacter and object, attaining through them to the only thing that\nreally attracted him; life.\n\nThis _sense of life_ is also extolled in his work, which for that\nreason is held to be eminently _dramatic,_ that is to say, animated\nwith a sense of life considered in itself, in its eternal discord, its\neternal harshness, its bitter-sweet, in all its complexity.\n\nTo feel life potently, without the determination of a passion or an\nideal, implies feeling it unilluminated by faith, undisciplined by\nany law of goodness, not to be corrected by the human will, not to be\nreduced to the enjoyment of idyllic calm, or to the inebriation of\njoy; and Shakespeare has indeed been judged in turn not religious, not\nmoral, no assertor of the freedom of the will, and no optimist. But no\none has yet dared to judge him to be irreligious, immoral, a fatalist,\nor a pessimist, for these adjectives are seen not to suit him, as soon\nas they are pronounced.\n\nAnd here too were required the strange aberration of fancy of a Taine,\nhis singular incapacity for receiving clear impressions of the truth,\nin order to portray the feeling of Shakespeare towards man and life as\nbeing fundamentally irrational, based on blind deception, a sequence of\nhasty impulses and swarming images, without an autonomous centre, where\ntruth and wisdom are accidental and unstable effects, or appearances\nwithout substance. These are simply exercises in style, repeated with\nvariants from other writers; they do not even present a caricature\nof the art of Shakespeare, since even for this, some connection with\nfact is necessary. Shakespeare, who has so strong a feeling for the\nbounds set to the human will, in relation to the Whole, which stands\nabove it, possesses the feeling for the power of human liberty in equal\ndegree. As Hazlitt says, he, who in some respects is \"the least moral\nof poets,\" is in others \"the greatest of moralists.\" He who beholds the\nunremovable presence of evil and sorrow, has his eye open and intent\nin an equal degree upon the shining forth of the good, the smile of\njoy, and is healthy and virile as no pessimist ever was. He who nowhere\nin his works refers directly to a God, has ever present within him the\nobscure consciousness of a divinity, of an unknown divinity, and the\nspectacle of the world, taken by itself, seems to him to be without\nsignificance, men and their passions a dream, a dream that has for\nintrinsic and correlative end a reality which, though hidden, is more\nsolid and perhaps more lofty.\n\nBut we must be careful not to insist too much upon these positive\ndefinitions and represent his sentiment as though it were one in which\nnegative elements were altogether overcome. The good, virtue, is\nwithout doubt stronger in Shakespeare than evil and vice, not because\nit overcomes and resolves the other term in itself, but simply because\nit is light opposed to darkness, because it is the good, because it is\nvirtue. This is because of its special quality, which the poet discerns\nand seizes in its original purity and truth, without sophisticating\nor weakening it. Positive and negative elements do really become\ninterlaced or run into one another, in his mode of feeling, without\nbecoming reconciled in a superior harmony. Their natural logic can be\nexpressed in terms of rectitude, justice and sincerity; but their logic\nand natural character also finds its expression in terms of ambition,\ncupidity, egoism and satanic wickedness. The will is accurately aimed\nat the target, but also, it is sometimes diverted from it by a power,\nwhich it does not recognise, although it obeys it, as though under\na spell. The sky becomes serene after the devastating hurricane,\nhonourable men occupy the thrones from which the wicked have fallen,\nthe conquerors pity and praise the conquered. But the desolation of\nfaith betrayed, of goodness trampled upon, of innocent creatures\ndestroyed, of noble hearts broken, remains. The God that should pacify\nhearts is invoked, his presence may even be felt, but he never appears.\n\nThe poet does not stand beyond these struggling passions, attraction\nand repugnance, love and hate, hope and despair, joy and sorrow; but\nhe is beyond being on the side of one or the other. He receives them\nall in himself, not that he may feel them all, and pour tears of\nblood around them, but that he may make of them his unique world, the\nShakespearean world, which is the world of those undecided conflicts.\n\nWhat poets appear at first sight more different than Shakespeare and\nAriosto? Yet they have this in common, that both look upon something\nthat is beyond particular emotions, and for this reason it has been\nsaid of both of them, more than once, that \"they speak but little to\nthe heart.\" They are certainly sentimental and agitated by the passions\nto a very slight degree; the \"humour\" of both has been referred to, a\nword that we avoid here, because it is so uncertain of meaning and of\nsuch little use in determining profound emotions of the spirit. Ariosto\nveils and shades all the particular feelings that he represents, by\nmeans of his divine irony; and Shakespeare, in a different way, by\nendowing all with equal vigour and relief, succeeds in creating a sort\nof equilibrium, by means of reciprocal tension, which, owing to its\nmode of genesis, differs in every other respect from the harmony in\nwhich the singer of the _Furioso_ delights. Ariosto surpasses good\nand evil, retaining interest in them only on account of the rhythm of\nlife, so constant and yet so various, which arises, expands, becomes\nextinguished and is reborn, to grow and again to become extinguished.\nShakespeare surpasses all individual emotions, but he does not\nsurpass, on the contrary, he strengthens our interest in good and\nevil, in sorrow and joy, in destiny and necessity, in appearance and\nreality, and the vision of this strife is his poetry. Thus the one has\nbeen metaphorically called \"imaginative\"; the other \"realistic,\" and\nthe one has been opposed to the other. They are opposed to one another,\nyet they meet at one point, not at the general one of both being poets,\nbut at the specific point of being cosmic poets, not only in the sense\nin which every poet is cosmical, but in the particular sense above\nexplained. Let us hope that it is not necessary to recommend that this\nshould be understood with the necessary reservations, that is to say,\nas the trait that dominates the two poets in a different way and does\nnot exclude the other individual traits of feature, above all not\nthat which belongs to all poetry whatsoever. The limits set to every\ncritical study, which should henceforth be known to all, are laid\ndown by the impossibility of ever rendering in logical terms the full\neffect of any poetry or of other artistic work, since it is clear that\nif such a translation were possible, art would be impossible, that is\nto say, superfluous, because admitting of a substitute. Criticism,\nnevertheless, within those limits, performs its own office, which is to\ndiscern and to point out exactly where lies the poetical motive and to\nformulate the divisions which aid in distinguishing what is proper to\nevery work.\n\nFor the rest, if Ariosto has often been compared to contemporary\npainters, with the object of drawing attention to his harmonic\ninspiration, Ludwig has been unable to abstain from making similar\ncomparisons for Shakespeare. He found the most adequate image for\nhis dramas in the portraits and landscapes of Titian, of Giorgione,\nof Paul Veronese, as contrasting with the amiability of Correggio,\nthe insipidity of the Caracci, the affected manner of Guido and of\nCarlo Dolce, the crudity of the naturalists Caravaggio and Ribera.\nIn Shakespeare, as in those great Venetians, there is everywhere\n\"existence,\" life upon earth, transfigured perhaps, but devoid of\nrestlessness, of aureoles and of sentimentalisms, serene even where\ntragic.\n\nThis sense of strife in vital unity, this profound sense of life,\nprevents the vision from becoming simplified and superficialised in the\nantitheses of good and evil, of elect and reprobate beings, and causes\nthe introduction of conflict, in varying measure and degree, in every\nbeing. Thus the battle is fought at the very heart of things. Hence the\naspect of mystery that surrounds the actions and events portrayed by\nShakespeare, which is not to be understood in the general sense that\nevery vision of art is a mystery, but rather in the special sense of a\ncourse of events of which the poet not only does not possess (and could\nnot possess) the philosophical explanation, but never discovers the\nreposeful term, peace after war, the acceptance of war as a means to a\nmore lofty peace. For this reason is everywhere diffused the terror of\nthe Unknown, which surrounds on every side and conceals a countenance\nthat may be more terrible than terrible life itself, in the development\nof which human beings are involved--a countenance terrible for what\nit will reveal, and perhaps sublime and ecstatic, giving in its very\nterribleness, terror and rapture together. The mystery lies not only in\nthe occasional appearance of spectres, demons, witches, in the poetry,\nbut in the whole atmosphere of which they form only a part, assisting\nby their presence in a more direct determination. This mystery was well\nexpressed by the first great critics who penetrated into the world of\nShakespearean poetry, Herder and Goethe, to the second of whom belongs\nthe simile of the Shakespearean drama as \"open books of Destiny, in\nwhich blows the wind of emotional life here and there stripping their\nleaves in its violence.\" In Shakespeare's musicality we are everywhere\nsensible of a voluptuous palpitation before the mystery which at times\nreflects upon itself and supplies the link between music and love,\nmusic and sadness, music and unknown Godhead.\n\nWe must insist upon the word \"sentiment,\" which we have adopted for\nthe description of this spiritual condition, in order that it may not\nbe mistaken for a concept or mode of thought Or philosopheme, which\noccurs when the word \"conception\" or \"mode of conceiving life\" is taken\nin a literal and material manner as applied to Shakespeare and in\ngeneral to the poets--when, for instance, it is asked by what special\nquality does Shakespeare's \"conception of tragedy\" differ from Greek\nand French tragedy, and the like, as though in such a case, it were a\nquestion of concepts and systems. Shakespeare is not a philosopher:\nhis spiritual tendency is altogether opposed to the philosophic, which\ndominates both sentiment and the spectacle of life with thought that\nunderstands and explains it, reconciling conflicts under a single\nprinciple of dialectic. Shakespeare, on the contrary, takes both and\nrenders them in their vital mobility--they know nothing of criticism\nor theory--and he does not offer any solution other than the evidence\nof visible representation. For this reason, when he is characterised\nand receives praises for his \"objectivity,\" his \"impersonality,\" his\n\"universality,\" and those who do this are not satisfied even with\ntheir incorrect description of the real psychological differences\nnoted above, but proceed to claim a philosophical character for his\nspiritual attitude, it is advisable to reject them all, confronting his\nobjectivity with his poetic subjectivity, his impersonality with his\npersonality, his universality with his individual mode of feeling. The\ncosmic oppositions, in imagining which he symbolises reality and life,\nnot only are not philosophical solutions for him in his plays, but they\nare not even problems of thought; only rarely do they tend to take the\nform of bitter interrogations, which remain without answer. Equally\nfantastic and arbitrary are the attempts to compose a philosophical\ntheory from the work of Shakespeare who is alternately, theistic,\npantheistic, dualistic, deterministic, pessimistic and optimistic,\nby extracting it from his plays in the same manner as that employed\nin the case of the philosophy implied in a historical or political\ntreatise; because there is certainly a philosophy implied in these\nlatter cases, embodied in the historical and political judgments which\nthey contain. In the case of Shakespeare, however, which is that of\npoets in general, to extract it means to place it there, that is, to\nthink and to draw conclusions ourselves under the imaginative stimulus\nof the poet, and to place in his mouth, through a psychological\nillusion, our own questions and answers. It would only be possible to\ndiscuss a philosophy of Shakespeare if, like Dante, he had developed\none in certain philosophical sections of his poems; but this is not so,\nbecause the thoughts that he utters fulfil no other function than that\nof poetical expressions, and when they are taken from their contexts,\nwhere they sound so powerful and so profound, they lose their virtue\nand appear to be indeterminate, contradictory or fallacious.\n\nIt is quite another question as to whether his sentiment was based upon\nwhat are called mental or philosophical _presumptions_ and as to what\nthese, properly speaking, were; because, as regards the first point,\nit must be at once admitted that a sentiment does not appear without a\nbasis of certain mental presumptions or concepts, that is to say, of\ncertain convictions, affirmations, negations and doubts. As regards the\nsecond point, the legitimacy of the enquiry will be admitted, and it\nwill also be noted that this forms one of several historical enquiries,\nrelating to Shakespeare in his poetry, to which belongs the place\nunduly usurped by ineptitudes and superficialities on the theme of his\nprivate affairs; his domestic relations, his business transactions, and\nhis pretended love intrigues with Mary Fitton and the hostess Madam\nDavenant.\n\nIt is also true that the researches into the mental presumptions of\nShakespeare have often strayed into the external and the anecdotic, as\nis the case with such problems as the religion that he followed and\nhis political opinions. Stated in this way, they likewise sink to the\nlevel of biographical problems, indifferent to art. That Shakespeare\nbelonged to the Anglican and not to the Catholic confession (as some\nstill maintain, and in 1864 Rio wrote a whole book on the subject),\nand opposed Puritanism in one quality or the other; that he supported\nEssex in his conspiracy, or on the contrary was on the side of Queen\nElizabeth, has nothing to do with the mental presuppositions immanent\nin his poetry. He may have been impious and profane in active practical\nlife as a Greene or a Marlowe, or a devout papist, worshipping with\nsecret superstition, like an adept of Mary Stuart, and nevertheless he\nmay have composed poetry with different presuppositions, upon thoughts\nthat had entered his mind and had there become formed and dominated in\nhis spirit, without for that reason having changed the faith previously\nselected and observed. The research of which we speak does not concern\nthe superficial, but the profound character of the man; it is not\nconcerned with the congealed and solidified stratum, but with the tide\nthat flows beneath it, which others would call the unconscious in\nrelation to the conscious, whereas, it would be more exact to invert\nthe two qualifications. Presuppositions are the philosophemes that\neveryone carries with him, gathering them from the times and from\ntradition, or forming them anew by means of his own observations and\nrapid reflections. In poetical works, they form the condition remote\nfrom the psychological attitude, which generates poetical visions.\n\nIn this depth of consciousness, Shakespeare shows himself clearly to\nbe outside, not only Catholicism, but also Protestantism, not only\nChristianity, but every religious, or rather every transcendental and\ntheological conception. Here he also resembles the Italian poet of\nthe Renaissance, Ariosto, though reaching the position by different\nways and with different results. His sentiment would have appeared\nin an altogether different guise, if a theological conception, such\nas the belief in an eternal life, in a judging God, in rewards and\npunishments beyond this world, in the view that earthly life is a trial\nand a pilgrimage, had been lively and active in him. He knows no other\nthan the vigorous passionate life upon earth, divided between joy and\nsorrow, with around and above it, the shadow of a mystery.\n\nIt is with natural wonder, then, that we read of Shakespeare,\nespecially among German authors, as a spirit altogether dominated by\nthe Christian ideas proper to the Reformation, whereas, with regard\nto Christianity, he was altogether lacking, both in the theology\nof Judaic-Hellenic origin and in the tendency to asceticism and\nmysticism. On the other hand we cannot admit the opposite statement\nthat he was a pagan, in the somewhat popular sense of self-satisfied\nhedonism, because it is not less evident that his moral discernment,\nhis sense of what is sinful, his delicacy of conscience, his humanity,\nbear a strong imprint of Christian ethics. Indeed, it is precisely\nowing to this lofty and exquisite ethical judgment, united to the\nvision of a world, which moves by its own power or anyhow by some\nmysterious power, frequently opposing or overthrowing or perverting the\nforces directed to the good, that this tragic conflict arises in him.\nTo this double presupposition must be added, as inference, a third,\nthe negation, the scepticism, or the ignorance of the conception of\na rational course of events and of a Providence that governs it. Not\neven does he accept inexorable Fate as sole master of men and Gods;\nnor the determinism of individual character as another kind of Fate,\na naturalistic Fate, as some of his interpreters have believed; he\nremains unaffected by the hard Asiatic or African dualistic idea of\npredestination; on the contrary, he recognizes human spontaneity and\nliberty, as forces that prove their own reality in the fact itself,\nthough he nevertheless permits liberty and necessity to clash and the\none sometimes to overpower the other, without establishing a relation\nbetween the two, without suspecting their identity in opposition,\nwithout discovering that the two elements at strife form the single\nriver of the real, and therefore failing to rise to the level of the\nmodern theodicy, which is History. Our wonderment bursts forth anew,\nin observing the emphatic and insistent statements of such writers as\nfor instance Ulrici as to the historicity of the thought and of the\ntragedies of Shakespeare, where just what is altogether absent is the\nhistorical conception of life, which was possessed by Dante, though in\nthe form of the mediaeval philosophy of history. And since historicity\nis both political and social ideality, Shakespeare must have been and\nis wanting, as has been said, in true political faith and passion.\nHe has however been credited with this by publicists and political\npolemists like Gervinus, who have desired to count so great a name\namong their number, have imagined him possessed with the passion for it\nand even believed that it was crowned in him with doctrinal wisdom.\n\nIt is difficult to decide by what ways and means these presuppositions\nwere formed in his inmost soul, for with this question we reenter the\nbiographical problem as to his education, the company he kept, his\nreading, his experiences; and upon all these subjects little or no\nexact information is available. Did he observe the fervour of life\nwhich prevailed in the England of his day with sympathetic soul and\nvigilant eye? Did he lend an ear to discussions upon theological and\nmetaphysical questions and carry away from them a sense of their\nemptiness? Did he frequent the youth of the universities, which just at\nthat time gave several university wits to literature and to the drama?\nDid he read the _Laus Stultitiae_ of Erasmus, moral and religious\ndialogues and treatises, the English humanists, the Platonicians,\nthe ancient and modern historians, as he certainly read Montaigne\nat a later date? Did he read Machiavelli and the other political\nwriters of Italy, and those who had begun to sketch the doctrine of\nthe temperament and the passions, such as Huarte and Charron, did he\nknow Bruno, or had he heard of him and of his doctrines? Or did the\ninfluence of these men and books reach him by various indirect paths,\nat second or third hand, through conversation, or as by a figure of\nspeech we say, from his environment? And what part of those doubts,\nnegations and beliefs of his, was due to his vivacity and certainty of\nintuition, or to his own continuous and steady rumination in himself,\nrather than to the course of his studies? But even if we possessed\nabundant notes on this subject, we should still remain without much\ninformation, because the processes of the formation of the individual\nescape for the most part the observation of others and frequently even\nthe memory of him in whom they have actually occurred, and the facility\nwith which they are forgotten proves that what is really important to\npreserve, is not these, but their result.\n\nAnd what is here of importance is the relation of these mental\npresuppositions with the life of the time, with the general culture\nof the period, with the historical phase through which the human\nspirit was then passing. In these respects, Shakespeare was truly, as\nhe has appeared to those who have best understood him, a man of the\nRenaissance, of that age, which, with its navigation, its commerce, its\nphilosophies, its religious strifes, its natural science, its poems,\nits pictures, its statues, its graceful architecture, had set earthly\nlife in full relief, and no longer permitted it to lose its colours,\nbecome pallid and dissolve in the rays of another world external to\nit, as had happened through the long period of the Middle Ages. But\nShakespeare did not belong to the pleasure-seeking, joyous and pagan\nRenaissance, which is but a small aspect of the great movement, but\nrather to that side of it which was animated with new wants, with new\nreligious tendencies, with the spirit of new philosophical research,\nfull of doubts, permeated with flashes from the future. These flashes,\nwhich appeared only in the great thinkers, who were not yet able to\narrest them and make of them distributors of a calm and equable light,\nwere also irreducible to a radiant centre in its greatest poet, in whom\nphilosophy served as a presupposition and did not form the essence\nof his mental life. It is therefore vain to seek in Shakespeare for\nwhat neither Bruno nor Campanella attained, nor even Descartes and\nSpinoza at a later date, namely the historical concept, of which we\nhave already spoken, and it is also vain to talk of his Spinozistic or\nShellingian pantheism.\n\nShakespeare nevertheless has assumed in the past and sometimes assumes\neven in our eyes, the appearance of a philosopher and of a master, or\na precursor of the loftiest truths, which have since come to light.\nIt is a fact that modern idealistic and historical philosophy has not\nexperienced equal attraction towards any other poet, recognising in\nhim the soul of a brother. How can this be? The answer is contained\nin what we have been noting and establishing. Shakespeare's mental\npresuppositions, which rejected the Middle Ages and were on a level\nwith the new times, seeking and failing to find unity and harmony\nand above all that vigorous feeling of his for the cosmic strifes,\nbreaking out from them and rising to the sphere of poetry, seems to\noffer material already prepared and to some extent also shaped to the\ndialectician, for he sometimes almost suggests the right word to the\nmoralist, the politician, the philosopher of art. He might also be\ncalled a \"pre-philosopher,\" owing to this power of stimulation that\nhe possesses, and this appellation would have the further advantage\nof making it well understood that there is no use attempting to make\nof him a philosopher. And precisely because it is impossible to\nextract a definite and particular doctrine from his pre-philosophy\nand poetry, can many of different kinds be extracted, according to\ndiversity of minds and the progress of the times. Hence, if some\nhave maintained that the logical complement of that poetical vision\nis speculative idealism, dialectic, anti-ascetic morality, romantic\naesthetic, realistic politics, the historical conception of the real,\nand have maintained this with reason, basing their views upon doctrines\nwhich they believed to be true, and have justly thought that the\nlogical complement of beauty is truth; others have possibly arrived at\npessimistic conclusions from that vision and assertion of conflicts;\nand others have striven and are striving to effect the restauration of\nsome of the presumptions that are negated or are absent, such as faith\nin another world and in divine and transcendental justice. This latter\nposition has been maintained as well as it possibly could have been,\nwith the aid of much research, by an Italian mind of the first order,\nManzoni, who was both a severe Catholic and a fervent Shakespearean. He\nfound in the profundity of Shakespeare the profoundest morality, and\nremarked that \"the representation of profound sorrows and indeterminate\nterrors,\" as given by Shakespeare, \"comes near to virtue,\" because\n\"when man comes inquisitively forth from the beaten path of things\nknown and from the accidents that he is accustomed to combat, and\nfinds himself in the infinite region of possible evils, he feels his\nweakness, the cheerful ideas of defence and of vigour abandon him. Then\nhe thinks that virtue only, a clear conscience, and the help of God\nalone can be of some succour to his mind in that condition.\" And thus\nhe concluded with characteristic certainty: \"Let everyone look into\nhimself after reading a tragedy of Shakespeare, and observe whether he\ndoes not experience a similar emotion in his own soul.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nMOTIVES AND DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE'S POETRY\n\n\nI\n\n\nTHE \"COMEDY OF LOVE\"\n\n\nWhat we have hitherto described as the sentiment of Shakespeare\ncorresponds to the Shakespeare carven in the general consciousness,\nthat which is Shakespeare in an eminent degree, almost, we might say, a\nsymbol of his greater self, the poet of the great tragedies _(Othello,\nMacbeth, King Lear, Julius Caesar, Antony and Cleopatra, Hamlet)_ and\nof the tragic portions of those that are less intense and less perfect.\nBut the work that bears his name is far more varied in tones and\npersonalities and in order to prepare the way for the passage of more\nparticular characteristics, we must distinguish (and here the students\nof Shakespeare have always been industrious) the various configurations\nand degrees, or sources of inspiration of the poet, and make of them\ngroups, which may then be arranged in a series of relations, an ideal\nsuccession.\n\nOn casting the eye over the rich extent of his works, the attention\nis at once drawn to certain of them, whose fresh, smiling colours\nindicate that their principal and proper theme is love. Not the love\nthat becomes joined to other graver passions and unified with them,\nforms a complex, as in the _Othello,_ or in _Antony and Cleopatra,_\nthus acquiring a profoundly tragic quality, but love and love alone,\nlove considered in itself. These passions then are to be found rather\nin the _comedy of love_ than in the tragedies or dramas: in love,\nregarded certainly with affectionate sympathy, but also with curiosity,\ninstinct with softness and tenderness, indeed, one might almost say,\nwith the superiority of an expert mind and thus with delicate irony.\nThe mind that accompanies this amorous heart, observes the caprices and\nillusions, recognising their inevitability and their necessity, but yet\nknowing them for what they are, imaginings, however irresistible and\ndelicious they be, caprices, though noble and beautiful, weaknesses,\ndeserving of indulgence and of gentle treatment, because human, and\nbelonging to man as he passes through the happy and stormy season of\nyouth. This mode of experiencing love is something that manifests\nitself only episodically in the Greek, Latin and medieval poets. With\nthem we find love represented, sometimes as a pleasant, a sensual\nstrife, or as a furious blind passion, fearless of death, or as a\nspiritual cult of lofty and superhuman beauty. Sometimes indeed, as in\nthe comedy of Menander and its long suite of descendants and posterity\namong the Latins and the Italians, it gives rise to a general and\nrather cold psychological simplification, in which love is not found to\ndiffer much from any other passion or desire, such as avarice, courage\nor greed. In the form we have described, it belongs entirely to the\nmode of feeling of the Renaissance, to one of those attitudes which\nthe anti-ascetic and realistic view of human affairs developed and\nbequeathed in a perfected form to modern times. Here we must again note\nthe similarity between Shakespeare and Ariosto, for both painted the\neternal comedy of love in the same manner.\n\nThat love is sincere, yet deceives and is deceived; it imagines itself\nto be firm and constant, and turns out to be fragile and fleeting;\nit claims to be founded upon a dispassionate judgment of the mind and\nupon luminous moral choice, whereas, on the contrary, it is guided in\nan altogether irrational manner by impressions and fancies, fluctuating\nwith these. Sometimes, too, it is represented as repugnance and\naversion, whereas it is really irresistible attraction; it is content\nto suppress itself with deliberate humbleness before works and thoughts\nthat are more austere, but reappears on the first occasion, more\nvehement, tenacious and indomitable than ever.\n\n\"In his men, as in his women,\" says Heine, with his accustomed grace,\nwhen talking of the Shakespearean comedy, \"passion is altogether\nwithout that fearful seriousness, that fatalistic necessity, which it\nmanifests in the tragedies. Love does in truth wear there, as ever, a\nbandage over his eyes and bears a quiver full of darts. But these darts\nare rather winged than sharpened to a deadly point, and the little god\nsometimes stealthily and maliciously peeps out, removing the bandage.\nTheir flames too rather shine than burn; but they are always flames,\nand in the comedies of Shakespeare, love always preserves the character\nof truth.\" Of truth, and for this reason, none of these comedies\ndescends altogether to the level of farce, not even those that most\nnearly approach it, such as _Love's Labour Lost, The Taming of the\nShrew,_ nor even _The Comedy of Errors,_ where some element of human\ntruth always leads us back to the seriousness of art. Still less is\nthere satire there, intellectual and angular satire, constructor of\ntypes, exaggerates in the interest of polemic; always we find there\nsuavity of outline, the soft veil of poetry. Even in the most feeble,\nas _The Two Gentlemen of Verona,_ we enjoy the fresh love scenes,\nmingled with the saltatory course of the narrative, the abundant\ndialogues, the misunderstandings and the verbal witticisms. Even in\nthose that are developed in a somewhat mechanical and superficial\nmanner, which we should now describe as being _\u00e0 th\u00e8se,_ there is\nvivacity, joking, festivity, and an eloquence so flowery (for instance\nin the scene where Biron defends the rights of youth and of love) that\nit has almost lyrical quality.\n\nIn this last comedy there is a king and his three gentlemen, who,\nin order to devote themselves to study and to attain to fame and\nimmortality, have sworn to one another that they will not see a woman\nfor three years. All three of them fail of this and fall in love almost\nas soon as the Princess of France arrives with her three ladies. These\nladies, when they have received the most solemn declarations of love\nfrom the four of them, each one faithless to himself, punish them in\ntheir turn for their levity by condemning them to wait for a certain\nperiod, before receiving a reply to their offers. Thus it was that\nAngelica, in the Italian poems of chivalry, succeeded in setting the\nhearts of the most obdurate cavaliers aflame with love, even of those\nwho held severest discourse. She made them all follow the queen of\nlove, whom no mortal could resist.\n\nIn the _Taming of the Shrew,_ Petruchio the male, who knows what he\nwants and wants his own ease and comfort, hits immediately upon the\nright line of conduct, a line that is, however, altogether spiritual,\nbecause based upon psychological knowledge and volitional resolve. He\nespouses the terrible Catherine and reduces her to lamblike obedience,\nafraid of her husband, no longer able not only to say, but even to\nthink, anything save what he has forced her to think. Yet who can tell\nthat she does not love him who maltreats and tyrannises over her?\n\nIn _Twelfth Night,_ we behold the Duke vainly sighing for the beautiful\nwidow Olivia, and the love that suddenly blossoms in her for the\nintermediary sent by the Duke, a woman dressed as a man; while the\nsteward Malvolio, the Puritan, the pedantic Malvolio, is urged on to\nthe most ridiculous acts, by hope and the illusion of being loved.\nFinally, fortune in this case making the single beloved into two, a\nman and a woman (in a more modest but identical manner to that in the\nadventure of Fiordispina with Bradamante and Ricciardetto) brings about\na happy ending for all.\n\nIn _All's Welly_ the Countess of Roussillon, receives the discovery\nthat poor Helena, the orphan child of the family doctor, is in love\nwith her son, rather with benevolence than with hostility and reflects:\n\n    \"Even so it was with me when I was young:\n    If we are nature's, these are ours;...\n    By our remembrance of days foregone,\n    Such were our faults though then we thought them none.\"\n\nThe amorous couples of princesses, exiles or fugitives, and of exile\nand fugitive gentlemen, wander about the forest of Arden, in _As You\nLike It,_ alternating and mingling with the couples of rustic lovers.\n\nPerhaps the best example of this \"comedy of love\" is the fencing of\nthe two unconscious lovers, Beatrice and Benedick, in _Much Ado About\nNothing._ This young couple seek one another only to measure weapons,\nto sneer and to fence, with the fine-pointed swords of biting jest and\ndisdain, they believe themselves to be antipathetic, disbelieve one\nanother; yet the simplest little intrigue of their friends suffices\nto reveal each to each as whole-heartedly loving and desiring the\nadversary. The union of the two is sealed, when they find themselves\nunited in the same sentiment to defend their friend, who has been\ncalumniated and rejected, thus discovering that their perpetual\nfollowing of one another to engage in strife, had not concealed the\nstruggle, which implies affinity of sex, but the spiritual affinity of\ntwo generous hearts.\n\n    _Benedick._ And, I pray thee now, tell me for which of my bad faults\n    didst thou first fall in love with me?...\n\nAnd the other, speaking with tenderness and ceasing to carry on the\npinpricking:\n\n    \"Suffer love,--a good epithet!\n    I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will.\"\n\nA light touch permeates the treatment of these characters and suffices\nto animate them and make them act. The dramatic or indeed tragic\nsituations, which at times arise, are treated as it were with the\nimplied consciousness of their slight gravity and danger, which shall\nsoon be evident and dispel all the apprehensions of those who doubt.\nThey sometimes consist of nothing but an external action or occurrence,\nsuited to the theatre, and more frequently a decorative background.\nParallelism of personages and symmetry of events also abound in these\nplays, suitable to the merry teaching that pervades them.\n\nThe quintessence of all these comedies (as we may say of _Hamlet_ in\nrespect of the great tragedies) is the _Midsummer Night's Dream._ Here\nthe quick ardours, the inconstancies, the caprices, the illusions, the\ndelusions, every sort of love folly, become embodied and weave a world\nof their own, as living and as real as that of those who are visited by\nthese affections, tormented or rendered ecstatic, raised on high or\nhurled downward by them, in such a way that everything is equally real\nor equally fantastic, as you may please to call it. The sense of dream,\nof a dream-reality, persists and prevents our feeling the chilly sense\nof allegory or of apology. The little drama seems born of a smile, so\ndelicate, refined and ethereal it is. Graceful and delicate to a degree\nis also the setting of the dream, the celebration of the wedding of\nTheseus and Hippolyta and the theatrical performance of the artisans,\nfor these are not merely ridiculous in their clumsiness; they are\nalso childlike and ingenuous, arousing a sort of gay pity: we do not\nlaugh at them: we smile. Oberon and Titania are at variance owing to\nreciprocal wrongs, and trouble has arisen in the world. Puck obeys the\ncommand of Oberon and sets to work, teasing, punishing and correcting.\nBut in performing this duty of punishing and correcting, he too makes\nmistakes, and the love intrigue becomes more complicated and active.\nHere we find a resemblance to the rapid passage into opposite states\nand the strange complications that arose in Italian knightly romances,\nas the result of drinking the water from one of two opposite fountains\nwhereof one filled the heart with amorous desires, the other turned\nfirst ardours to ice. In Titania, who embraces the Ass's head and raves\nabout him, caressing and looking upon him as a graceful and gracious\ncreature, the comedy creates a symbol so ample and so efficacious as\nrightly to have become proverbial. Puck meanwhile, astonished at the\neffect upon men of the subtle intoxication that he has been himself\ndistributing, exclaims in his surprise \"Lord, what fools these mortals\nbe!\"; and Lysander, one of the madmen who are constantly passing from\none love to another, from one thing to its opposite, is nevertheless\nperfectly convinced that\n\n    \"The will of man is by his _reason_ sway'd;\n    And _reason says_ you are the _worthier_ maid.\"\n\nYet the individual reality of the figures appears through this\nexquisite version of the eternal comedy, as though to remind us that\nthey really belong to life. Helena follows the man she loves, but who\ndoes not love her, like a lapdog, which, the more it is beaten, the\nmore it runs round and round its master; she trembles at the outbreak\nof furious jealousy in her little friend Hermia, who threatens to put\nout her eyes, believing her to be capable of it, when she remembers\nthe time when they were at school together:\n\n    \"O, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd!\n    She was a vixen when she went to school:\n    And though she be but little she is fierce.\"\n\nWhen we read _Romeo and Juliet,_ after the _Dream,_ we seem not to have\nleft that poetical environment, to which Mercutio expressly recalls\nus, with his fantastic embroidery around Queen Mab, above all, when\nwe consider the style, the rhyming and the general physiognomy of\nthe little story. All have inclined to suave and gentle speech and\nmetaphor, when speaking of _Romeo and Juliet._ For Schlegel it was\nscented with \"the perfumes of springtide, the song of the nightingales,\nthe freshness of a newly budded rose.\" Hegel too found himself face\nto face with that rose: \"sweet rose in the valley of the world, torn\nasunder by the rude tempest and the hurricane.\" Coleridge too speaks\nof that sense of spring: \"The spring with its odours, its flowers and\nits fleetingness.\" All have looked upon it as the poem of youthful\nlove and have remarked that the play reaches its acme in the two love\nscenes in the garden at night, and in the departure after the nuptial\nnight, in which some have seen the renovation of the traditional forms\nof love poetry, \"the epithalamium,\" \"the dawn.\" This play is not only\nclosely connected with the _Dream,_ but also with the other comedies of\nlove; Romeo passes there with like rapidity, indeed suddenness to the\npersonages of those comedies from love of Rosalind to love of Juliet.\nAt the first sight of Juliet he is conquered and believes that he then\nloves for the first time:\n\n    \"Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight!\n    For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.\"\n\nSaintly Friar Laurence, a mixture of astonishment, of being scandalised\nand of good nature, sometimes almost plays there the part of Puck. When\nhe learns that Romeo no longer loves Rosalind, about whom he had been\nso crazy; he says:\n\n    \"So soon forsaken! Young men's love there lies\n    Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.\n                                      Jesu Maria!\"\n\nWhen Juliet enters her cell, the friar remarks with admiration her\nlightsome tread, which will never wear out the pavement, and reflects\nthat a lover \"may bestride the gossamer that idles in the wanton\nsummer air, and yet not fall; so light is vanity.\" Is it tragedy or\ncomedy? It is another situation of the eternal comedy: the love of two\nyoung people, almost children, which surmounts all social obstacles,\nincluding the hardest of all, family hatred and party feud, and goes\non its way, careless of these obstacles and as though they had no\nimportance for their hearts, no existence in reality. And in truth\nthose obstacles seem to yield before their advance, or rather their\nwinged flight, like soft clouds. Certainly, those obstacles reappear\nsolidly enough later on, asserting their value and taking their\nrevenge, so much so, that the young lovers are obliged to separate\nand Romeo goes into exile. But it will be only for a little while,\nfor Friar Laurence has promised to interest himself in their affairs,\nto obtain the pardon of the Prince, to reconcile the parents and the\nother relations, and to obtain sanction for their secret marriage.\nAnd if nothing of all this happens, if the subtle previsions and the\nacuteness of Friar Laurence turn out to be fallacious, if a sequence of\nmisunderstandings makes them lose their way and take a wrong turning,\nif the two young lovers perish, it is the result of chance, and the\nsentiment that arises from it is one of compassion, of compassion not\ndivorced from envy, a sorrow, which, as Hegel said, is \"a dolorous\nreconciliation and an unhappy beatitude in unhappiness.\" This too then\nis tragedy, but tragedy in a minor key, what one might call the tragedy\nof a comedy.\n\n    \"A greater power than we can contradict\n    Hath thwarted our intents.\"\n\nBut that power is not the mysterious power, something between destiny\nand providence and moral necessity, which weighs upon the great\ntragedies; rather is it Chance, which Friar Laurence hardly succeeds in\ndignifying with the words of religion:\n\n    \"So hath willed it God.\"\n\nThere is a metaphor which is repeated in the terrible accents of _King\nLear,_ and which is itself able to reveal the difference between the\ntwo tragedies. Romeo, whose life has been spared and who has been sent\ninto exile, thinks that what has been done for him, is torture rather\nthan pardon, because Paradise is only where Juliet lives:\n\n                   \"And every cat, and dog,\n    And little mouse, every unworthy thing,\n    Live here in heaven, and may look on her;\n    But Romeo may not!\"\n\nJuliet, who is preparing to drink the medicine that may be poisonous,\nis the shy and timid young girl of Leopardi's _Amore e Morte,_ who\n\"feels her hair stand on end at the very name of death,\" but when she\nhas fallen in love \"dares meditate at length on steel and on poison.\"\nThe very sepulchral cave shines, and Romeo after having stabbed Paris\nat the feet of Juliet, whom he believes to be dead, feels that he is a\ncompanion in misfortune and wishes to bury him there \"In a triumphant\ngrave.\"\n\n    \"A grave, O no, a lantern, slaughtered youth,\n    For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes\n    This vault a feasting presence full of light.\"\n\nSuch words of admiration for love and for the youthful lovers are found\nin other poets, for instance in Dante's words for Beatrice: \"Death, I\nhold thee very sweet: Thou must ever after be a noble thing, since thou\nhast been in my lady.\"\n\nIf we find love in rather piteous guise in _Romeo and Juliet,_ comedy\nreappears in the wise Portia, bound to the promise of allowing, her\nfate to be decided by means of a guess, because although she submits\nto selection by chance, she has already chosen in her heart, not among\nthe dukes and princes of the various nationalities, indeed of various\ncontinents, who are competing for her hand, but a youthful Venetian,\nsomething between a student and a soldier, half an adventurer, but\ncourteous and pleasing in address, who has contrived to please, not\nonly mistress, but maid, which shows, in this agreement of feminine\nchoice, where feminine taste really lies. \"By my troth, Nerissa, my\nlittle body is a-weary of this great world\" (she sighs, with gentle\ncoquettishness toward herself), perhaps with that languor, which is\nthe desire of loving and of being loved, the budding of love; weary,\nas those amorous souls feel, weary, who vibrate with an exquisite\nsensibility. And indeed she is most sensible to music and to the\nspectacles of nature; and the music that she hears in the night causes\nher to stay and listen to it, and it seems to her far sweeter than when\nheard in the daytime. Nocturnal moonlight gives her the impression of a\nday that is ailing, of a rather pallid day when the sun is hidden.\n\nIn the _Merchant of Venice,_ there is also the couple of Jessica\nand Lorenzo, those two lovers who do not feel the want of moral\nidealisation, nor, one would be inclined to say, any solicitude for the\nesteem of others. The man steals without scruple from the old Jew his\ndaughter and his jewels, and the girl has not even a slight feeling of\npity for the father, both alike plunged in the happy egotism of their\npleasure. Jessica is unperturbed, sustaining and exchanging epigrams\nwith her husband and the salacious jesting and somewhat insolent\nfamiliarity of the servant Lancellotto, though abandoning herself all\nthe time to ecstasy, a sensual ecstasy, for she too is sensible to\nmusic and attains by means of it to a melancholy of the only sort that\nshe is capable of experiencing, namely, the sensual.\n\nThere is malice, almost mockery, though tempered with other elements,\nin the portrayal of these loves of the daughter of Shylock. But in\nthose of Troilus and Cressida, we meet at once with sarcasm, a bitter\nsarcasm. The same background, the doings of the Trojan war, which in\nother comedies has the superficial charm of a decoration, is here also\na decoration, but treated with sarcasm and bitterness. Thersites\nfills the part of the cynic among the Greek warriors, in the relations\nbetween Troilus and Cressida, as does Pandarus in Troy. The hastening\nof the last scenes should be noted, the large amount of fighting, the\ntumult: the world is dancing as in a puppet show, while the story of\nTroilus and Cressida is drawing to its close, amid the imprecations of\nthe nauseated Troilus and the grotesquely burlesque lamentations of\nPandarus. Another great artist of the Renaissance comes to mind, in\nrelation to this play: not Ariosto, but Rabelais. The theme is still,\nhowever, the comedy of love, but a comedy bordering on the faunesque,\nthe immoral, the baser instinct, upon lust and feminine faithlessness.\nPandarus is ever the go-between; he laughs and enjoys himself, for he\nis an expert at this sort of business, a battle-stained warrior, as\nit were, bearing traces of that long amorous warfare, if not in his\nsoul, in his old bones; he is the living destruction of love, of the\ncredulous, sensual cupidity of man and of the non-credulous, frivolous\nvanity of woman. His too is the obsession of love-making: he is unable\nto extricate himself from it, taking an almost devilish delight in\ninvolving those who have recourse to him. Troilus does not displease\nCressida, on the contrary, he pleases her greatly, yet she fences with\nhim, because she is already in full possession of feminine wisdom and\nphilosophy. She knows that women are admired, sighed after and desired\nas angels, while being courted, but once they have said yes, all is\nover. She knows that the true pleasure lies _in the doing,_ in the act\nand not in the fact, in the becoming, not in the become. She knows that\nin yielding, she is committing a folly, by breaking the law, which is\nknown to her, but she puts everything she now undertakes upon Pandarus:\n\"Well, uncle, what folly I commit, I dedicate to you.\" How different\nis her union with her lover, to that of Romeo and Juliet! There is an\nironic-comic solemnity in the rite performed by the pander uncle and in\nthe oaths of constancy and loyalty, which all three of them exchange,\nwhile the uncle intones: \"Say amen,\" and the two reply, \"Amen,\" and\nare then pushed into the nuptial chamber by the profane priest. How\ndifferent too is \"the dawn,\" their separation in the morning!\n\n    \"But that the busy day,\n    Waked by the lark, hath raised the ribald crows\n    And dreaming night will hide our joys no longer,\n    I would not from thee.\"\n\nWhereupon the uncle begins to utter improper epigrams and plays upon\nwords, which the impatient Cressida repays, by sending him to the\ndevil. Cressida begins the new intrigue with Diomede, as soon as she is\nface to face with him alone, in spite of this scene and the numerous\noaths that preceded and followed it. She is perfectly aware that she is\nbetraying her love for Troilus and that she has no excuse for doing so.\nShe gives to Diomede the gift of Troilus and when he asks her to whom\nit belongs, she replies:\n\n    \"'Twas one that lov'd me better than you will,\n    But now you have it, take it.\"\n\nHere we find consciousness of her own feminine levity, looked upon\nnot merely as a natural force dragging her after it, but almost as a\nright, as the exercise of a mission or vocation. Cressida can even be\nsentimental, as she abandons herself to another!\n\n    \"Troilus farewell, one eye yet looks on thee;\n    But with my heart the other eye doth see.\n    Ah! poor our sex!\"\n\nTroilus is meanwhile indignant, not from a sense of injured morality,\nfor that sort of love does not admit of such a thing: he is mad with\nmasculine jealousy. \"Was Cressida here?\" ... and further on: \"Nothing\nat all, unless that they were she ...\"\n\nThe figures of Ferdinand and Miranda bring us back to love, youthful\nand pure, all the more pure, because it reveals itself, not in the\nmidst of a great court or city, but in a desert island. The young man\ncomes there ship-wrecked, cut off from the world that once was his,\nborn as it were anew; the maiden has been brought up in solitude.\nYet her love is awakened at first sight, in the beautiful phrase of\nMarlowe, which Shakespeare was so fond of quoting: \"Who ever loved that\nloved not at first sight?\" It is love, law of beings as of things,\nwhich returns eternally new and fresh as the dawn, making his Goddess\nappear to the youth, her God to the maiden, each to each as beings\nwithout their equal upon earth:\n\n                                      \"I might call him\n    A thing divine, for nothing natural\n    I ever saw so noble.\" \"Most sure, the goddess,\n    On whom these airs attend,\" says Ferdinand.\n\nThe choice is soon made, firm, resolute and determined. When Prospero\ntells her that there are men in the world, compared with whom, the\nyouth she admires would seem a monster, Miranda replies:\n\n                 \"My affections\n    Are then most humble; I have no ambition\n        To see a goodlier man.\"\n\nAll noble things that can be imagined surround and elevate their loves:\nmisfortune, compassion, chaste desire, virginal respect. These things,\nthough infinitely repeated in the world's history seem new, as the two\nlive through them, \"surprised withal,\" surprised and ravished at the\nmystery, which in them is celebrated once more.\n\n\n\n2\n\n\nTHE LONGING FOR ROMANCE\n\n\nAnother motive, related to the preceding, may be described as the\nlonging for romance, but this expression must be taken with all due\nlimitations.\n\nAmorous damsels don the travesty of masculine attire, in order to\nfollow their faithless or cruel lovers, to escape persecution, or to\nperform wondrous deeds; brothers, or brothers and sisters, who resemble\none another, are taken for one another, and thus form a centre for the\nmost curious adventures; with like objects in view, princes travesty\nthemselves as shepherds; gentlemen are discovered in forests with\nbandits and are themselves bandits; children of royal blood, ignorant\nof their origin, live like peasants, yet are moved by inclinations,\nwhich make them impatient of their quiet, humble lives, urging them\non to great adventures; sovereigns move, disguised and unknown, among\ntheir subjects, listening to the free speech around them and observant\nof everything; rustic or city maidens become queens and countesses, or\nare discovered to be of royal stock; brothers, who are enemies, become\nreconciled; those who are innocent and having been wrongfully accused\nand condemned, are believed to have died or been put to death, survive,\nto reappear at the right moment, thus gratifying the long-cherished\nhopes of those who had once believed them guilty and had mourned their\nloss.\n\nStrange rules and compacts are imposed, strange understandings come to,\nsuch as the winning of husband or wife upon the solution of an enigma,\nor upon the discovery of some object; then there is the bet as to the\nvirtue of a woman, won with a trick by the punster or by the perfidious\naccuser; the betrothed or unwilling husband, finally obtained by the\nsubstitution of another person; there are miraculous events, dreams,\nmagical arts, work of spirits of earth and sky ... Men and women are\ntossed from land to sea, from city to forest and desert, from court to\ncountry, from a civil and cultured, to a rustic and simple life. These\nlatter situations are peculiar to romance in the form of the idyll,\nwhich is really the most romantic of romanticisms, though it may seem\nto be the opposite. This is so true that even Don Quixote, when he saw\nthe way closed for the time being to the performance of chivalrous\nfeats of knight errantry, thought of retiring to the country, there\nto pasture herds and to pipe songs to the beloved, in the company of\nSancho Panza.\n\nSeveral of Shakespeare's plays derive both plot and material from\nsuchlike things and persons, as for instance, _As You Like It, Twelfth\nNight, All's Well That Ends Well, Cymbeline, The Winter's Tale,\nPericles, The Two Gentlemen of Verona, Much Ado About Nothing, The\nMerchant of Venice, Measure for Measure._ These plays may be said\nto be altogether or in part, of literary origin, or suggested by\nbooks, in a sense different from that in which Shakespeare treated\nthe other plays, where, although not bookish, he gathered his raw\nmaterials from the English chroniclers, from ancient historians, or\nItalian novelists, breathing upon it a new spirit and thus making of\nit something altogether new to the world. Here on the other hand, he\nfound the spirit itself, the general sentiment, in the literature of\nhis time. Italy had worked upon the ancient poetry of Greece and Rome,\nupon Hellenistic and Byzantine romances, upon mediaeval romances,\nupon poems and plays, novels and comedies, and with Italy was also\nSpain, whose _Amadigi_ and _Diane_ were known throughout Europe. The\ngenesis of these themes and of his attraction towards them, is to be\nsought, therefore, rather in the times than in Shakespeare himself,\nand for this reason we shall not delay our progress, to show how\nthe play of sentiment within made dear to him that wandering away\nin imagination to the idyllic life of the country, far from pomp\nand artifice, the deceits and the delusions of courts; though this\nidyllic life itself became in its turn refined and artificial at his\nhand, a pastoral theme. It is important to note, too, that all the\nabove-mentioned material of situations and adventures had already been\nfashioned and arranged for the theatre, in the course of the second\nhalf of the century. This was especially due to the Italian theatre of\nimprovisation or of \"art,\" as it was called. This literature, so often\nof a most romantic and imaginative kind, has had but little attention\nat the hand of investigators into Shakespeare's sources of inspiration.\n\nBoth material derived from books and literary inspiration combine to\nthrow light upon certain of Shakespeare's works, which have given\ngreat trouble to the historians of his art. It is quite natural that\nwriters should draw upon what they have done before and should execute\nvariations upon it, particularly in their earlier years, but also later\nin the course of their lives, when they have afforded far greater\nproofs of their capacity. Shakespeare was no exception to this, any\nmore than the great contemporary poet of _Don Quixote,_ who was also\nthe author of the _Galatea_ and of _Persiles y Sigismunda. The Comedy\nof Errors,_ as we know, consists of a motive from Plautus, repeated\nand rearranged innumerable times by the dramatists of the Renaissance.\nIn treating this theme, Shakespeare rendered it on the one hand yet\nmore artificial, while on the other, he endowed it with a more marked\ntendency towards the romantic, and notwithstanding the frivolity and\nfrigidity of misunderstandings arising from identity of appearance,\nhe yet revived them here and there according to his wont with a touch\nof the reality of life. The intrigue of the Menecmi, or of very close\nresemblance, pleased him so much that he introduced it in _Twelfth\nNight,_ where the pair are of different sex. This variation was first\nemployed by Cardinal Bibbiena in his _Calandria,_ but the Cardinal made\nuse of it to increase the lubricity of the intrigue, while Shakespeare\ndrew from it a theme for most graceful poetic inspiration.\n\nOne would think that the tragic theme of _Titus Andronicus_ (which\nmany critics would like to say was not by Shakespeare, but dare not,\nbecause here the proofs of authenticity are very strong), was also\nborn of a love for literary models, for the tragedy of horrors, so\ncommon in Italy in those days of the _Canaci_ and the _Orbecchi,_\nwhich were rather imitations of Seneca than of Sophocles and Euripides,\nand had already inspired plays to the predecessors of Shakespeare,\nwith slaughter for their theme. What more natural then, than that\nShakespeare as a young man should strike this note? The splendid\neloquence with which he adorned the horrible tale is Shakespearean.\n\nHis two poems, _Venus and Adonis_ and _The Rape of Lucr\u00e8ce,_ are to\nbe attributed to this same literary taste for favorite models. These\npoems received much praise from contemporaries, but are so far from the\n\"greater Shakespeare,\" that they might almost appear not to be his,\nalways, that is to say, if the greater Shakespeare be turned into a\nrigidly historical and conventional personage. Their literary origin\nis evident, not only to those who know well the English literature of\nthe period of the Renaissance (when Marlowe was composing _Hero and\nLeander)_, but yet more to those versed in the Italian literature of\nthe same period, where the themes of the two little poems were in great\nfavour. As regards the first of these, Giambattista Marino, who was\ndestined to expand it into a long and celebrated poem, was already born\nat Naples. Shakespeare here flaunts his virtuosity like our Italian\ncomposers of melodious and voluptuous octaves, revelling in a wealth\nof flowery image phrase, in his abundant, rhetorical capacity and in a\nformal beauty which contains something of aesthetic voluptuousness.\n\nThe _Sonnets_ are also based upon Italian models, where we find\nexhortations addressed to admired youth set upon a pinnacle, similar to\nthose that passed between Venus and Adonis. The beautiful youth, posing\nas Adonis, and treated like him, became very common in our lyric poetry\nof the time of Marino, in the seventeenth century, as were also love\nsonnets addressed to ladies, possessing some peculiar characteristic,\nsuch as red hair or a dark complexion, or even something different\nor unfamiliar in their beauty, such as too lofty or too diminutive a\nstature.\n\nNotwithstanding this literary tendency in his inspiration, Shakespeare\ndoes not cease to be a poet, because he is never altogether able to\nseparate himself from himself, everywhere he infuses his own thoughts\nand modes of feeling, those harmonies, peculiar to himself, those\nmovements of the soul, so delicate and so profound. This has endowed\nthe _Sonnets_ with the aspect of a biographical mystery, of a poem\ncontaining some hidden moral and philosophical sense. When we read\nverses such as these:\n\n    The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye\n    As the perfumed tincture of the roses,\n    Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly\n    When summer's breath their masked buds discloses.\n    But, for their virtue only is their show,\n    They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade;\n    Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;\n    Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made....\n\nwe feel the commonplace of literature, revived with lyric emotion. Note\ntoo in the _Sonnets_ their pensiveness, their exquisite moral tone,\ntheir wealth of psychological allusions, in which we often recognise\nthe poet of the great plays. Sometimes there echoes in them that\nmalediction of the chains of pleasure, which will afterwards become\n_Anthony and Cleopatra_[1]; at others we hear Hamlet, tormented and\nperplexed; yet more often we catch glimpses of reality as appearance\nand appearance as reality, as in the _Dream_ or the _Tempest._ The\ntruth is that the soul of Shakespeare, poured into a fixed and\ntherefore inadequate mould, his lyrical impulse confined to the\nepigrammatic, cause the poetry to flow together there, but deny to\nit complete expansion and unfolding. To note but one example, the\ncelebrated sonnet LXVI (\"Tired with all these for restful death I\ncry\"), is in the manner of Hamlet, but developed analytically, by\nmeans of enumerations and parallelisms, and in obedience to literary\nusage, and is obliged to terminate on the cadence of a madrigal,\nin the last rhymed couplet. The soft, flexible verse of the early\n_Venus and Adonis_ is also free of Marino's cold ingenuity, of his\nexternal sonority and melody, and is inspired rather with a sense of\nvoluptuousness, a grace, an elegance, which recall at times the stanzas\nof Politian:\n\n    The night of sorrow now is turned to day;\n    Her two blue windows faintly she upheaveth,\n    Like the fair sun, when in his fresh array\n    He cheers the morn, and all the earth relieveth:\n          And as the bright sun glorifies the sky,\n          So is her face illumined with her eye.\n\nIn Shakespeare is nothing of the cold literary exercise; he takes a\nvivid interest even in the play of fancy, in the bringing about of\nmarvellous coincidences, of unexpected meetings, in the romantic and\nthe idyllic. He loves all these things, composing them for his own\nenjoyment and fondling them with the magic of his style. He cannot of\ncourse make them what they are not, he cannot change their intimate\nqualities into something different from what they are; he cannot\ndestroy their externality, since they came to him from without. What\nhe can and does put into them is above all their attractiveness as\nimages. For this reason, the poetry that we find here is of necessity\nrather superficial and tenuous, far more so than the poetry of the\nlove dramas, where his powers have a wider scope for observation, for\nreflexion and for meditation upon human affections.\n\nWhat has been said above as to the inventions and fables, which serve\nas a decorative background to certain of the comedies of love, is also\napplicable to these romantic and idyllic plays, in which the decorative\nbackground takes the first place and becomes the principal theme. For\nthe rest, it goes without saying that the plots or decorations referred\nto are also to be included (as has been done) in the present argument,\nbecause it turns upon the different motives of Shakespeare's poetry,\nnot upon the works that are materially distinct, where several motives\nusually meet and are sometimes so very loosely connected, as to form no\nmore intimate a unity than the rather capricious one, of general tone.\n\nA sense of _unreality_ is therefore diffused upon the romantic plays,\nnot of falsity, but just of unreality, such as we experience in the\nplay of fancy, when we recount a fairy tale, well aware that it is\na fairy tale, yet greatly enjoying the passage to and fro before us\nof the prince, the beauty, the ogre and the fairy. A proof of this\nis to be found in the summary treatment of the characters and the\nturning-points or crises of the action, the easy pardoning and making\nof peace, and the bizarre expedients adopted to bring the intrigue to\nan end. Instances of the second sort are the adventure of the lion in\nthe Forest of Arden the reconciliation of the two enemy brothers in\n_As You Like It,_ the dream of Posthumus in _Cymbeline,_ the advent\nof the bear and the ship-wreck in the _Winter's Tale,_ and the like.\nAnd as regards summary treatment, where could we find a more off-hand\nIago than the Hyacinth of _Cymbeline,_ guilty of the most audacious\nand perverse betrayals, as though by chance, yet later on, when he,\nconfesses his sins, he is forgiven and starts again, so far as we can\nsee, a gentleman and perfect knight. We do not speak of Posthumus,\nof Cloten, of King Cymbeline and of so many personages in this and\nothers of the romantic plays. The wicked turn out to be all the more\nharmless, the greater their wickedness; the good are good _nunc et\nsemper,_ without intermission, exactly as introduced at the beginning\nof the play; the most desperate situations, the most terrible passes,\nare speedily and completely overcome, or one foresees that they will be\novercome. Here romance has no intention whatever of ending unhappily\nor in pensive sadness; it wishes to stimulate the imagination, but at\nthe same time to keep it agile and happy and to leave it contented.\nIndeed, in those rare cases when we do meet with painful or terrible\nmotives, which are not easily overcome in the course of the imaginative\ndevelopment of the work, we are sensible of being slightly jarred,\nand this is perhaps the reason for that \"displeasure,\" which such\nfine judges as Coleridge note in _Measure for Measure,_ so rich,\nnevertheless, in splendid passages, worthy of Shakespeare. Not only\ndoes this comedy verge upon tragedy, but here and there it becomes\nimmersed in it, vainly attempting to return to the light romantic vein\nand end like a fairy story, with everyone happy.\n\nAnother element which adds to the imaginative unreality and the gay\nlightsomeness of the romantic dramas, is to be found in the clown,\nthe burlesque incidents, which abound in all of them: Malvolio and\nUncle Toby in _Twelfth Night,_ Parolles in _All's Well,_ the watch\nin _Much Ado_ and so on. Certain personages also, who might seem to\nbe characters, such as the melancholy Jacques in _As You Like It_ or\nAutolycus in the _Winter's Tale,_ are treated rather as character\nstudies.\n\nThese comedies excel in the weaving of intricate incidents, they are\nreplete with grace and winsomeness, melodious with songs inspired by\nidyllic themes. They are far superior in emotional quality, as is the\nrustic, woodland, pastoral poetry of Shakespeare, to that of Italy and\nof Spain, not only to the _Pastor Fido,_ but also to the _Aminta,_\nbecause Shakespeare succeeds in grafting his gay and gentle heart\nupon his artificial and conventional models. Take for instance in _As\nYou Like It_ the scenes in the third act, between Rosalind and Celia,\nRosalind and Orlando, Corin and Touchstone, and in general, the whole\nlife led by the young men and maidens, the shepherds and gentlemen, in\nthat idyllic Forest of Arden; or the open air banquet, in the _Winter's\nTale,_ at which the king surprises his son on the point of marrying\nPerdita; or in _Cymbeline,_ Hyacinth's contemplation of the chaste and\ntender beauty of the sleeping Imogen; and in the same play, all the\nscenes among the mountains between Bellario and the two refugee sons of\nthe king, Guiderio and Arviragus.\n\nThey correspond to that most beautiful utterance in exquisite verse of\nTasso's Hermione Among the Shepherds. His thoughts come back in such\nlines as the following:\n\n                                     \"O, this life\n    Is nobler than attending for a check,\n    Richer than doing nothing for a bribe,\n    Prouder than rustling in unpaid for silk:\n    Such gain the cap of him that makes 'em fine....\"\n\nor\n\n               \"Come, our stomachs\n    Will make what's homely savoury: weariness\n    Can snore upon the flint, when rusty sloth\n    Finds the down pillow hard. Now, peace be here,\n    Poor house that keepest thyself!\"\n\nBut Shakespeare can rise yet higher, to that most tender of songs by\nthe two brothers over Imogene, whom they believe to be dead.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: See Sonnet CXXIX: \"The expense of spirit in a waste of\nshame.\"]\n\n\n\n3\n\n\nSHAKESPEARE'S INTEREST IN PRACTICAL ACTION\n\n\nThe third conspicuous aspect of Shakespeare's genius corresponds to\nwhat are known as the \"historical plays.\" Only here and there do we\nfind a critic who takes them to be the loftiest form of Shakespearean\npoetry, while the majority on the other hand hold them to be merely a\npreparatory form for other poetry, and the general view (always worthy\nconsideration) is that they are less happy or less intense than the\n\"great tragedies.\"\n\nIt is also said of them that they represent the period of the\n\"historical education,\" which Shakespeare undertook, with a view to\nacquiring a full sense of real life and the capacity for drawing\npersonages and situations with firmness of outline. One critic\nhas defined them as a series of \"studies,\" studies of \"heads,\" of\n\"physiognomies,\" of \"movements,\" taken from historical life or reality,\nin order to form the eye and the hand, something like the sketch-books\nand collections of designs of a future great painter.\n\nThe defect of such critical explanations lies in continuing to conceive\nof the artistic process as something mechanical, and the unrecognised\nbut understood presumption of some sort of \"imitation of nature.\" Had\nShakespeare intended to educate himself \"historically,\" by writing the\nhistorical plays, (assuming, but not admitting, that to run through the\nEnglish chronicles, and even Plutarch's lives, can be called historical\neducation), he would have developed and formed his historical thought\nand become a thinker and a critic, he would not have conceived and\nrealised the scenes and personages of the plays. Neither Shakespeare\nnor any other artist can ever attempt to reproduce external nature or\nhistory turned into external reality (since they do not exist in a\nconcrete form) even in the period of first attempts and studies; all he\ncan do is to try to produce and recognise his own sentiment and to give\nit form. We are thus always brought back and confined to the study of\nsentiment, or, as in the present case, to the sentiment which inspired\nwhat are known as the historical plays.\n\nAmong these are to be numbered all those that deal with English\nhistory, _The Life and Death of King John, Richard II, Henry IV, V,\nVI,_ and _Richard III,_ setting aside for certain reasons _Henry VIII,_\nbut including among the plays from Roman history (or from Plutarch as\nthey are also called), _Coriolanus,_ while _Julius Caesar_ and _Anthony\nand Cleopatra_ are connected with the great tragedies. The historical\nquality of the material, in like manner, with every other material\ndetermination, is not conclusive as to the quality of the poetic works,\nand is therefore not independently valid in the estimation of the\ncritic, as a criterion for separation or conjunction. A reconsideration\nof the plays mentioned above and their prominent characteristics, does\nnot lead to accepting them as a kind of \"dramatised epic,\" or as \"works\nwhich stand half way between epic and drama\" (Schlegel, Coleridge), not\nthat there is any difficulty in the appearance of epic quality in the\nform of theatrical dialogue, but just because epic quality is absent in\nthose dramas. It would indeed be strange to see epic quality appearing\nin an episodic manner in an author, during the period of youth alone.\nEpicity, in fact, means feeling for human struggles, but for human\nstruggles lit with the light of an aspiration and an ideal, such as\none's own people, one's own religious faith and the like, and therefore\ncontaining the antitheses of friends and foes, of heroes on both\nsides, some on the side finally victorious, because protected by God\nor justice, others upon that which is to be discomfited, subjected, or\ndestroyed. Now Shakespeare, as has already been said and is universally\nrecognized, is not a partisan; he marches under no political or\nreligious banner, he is not the poet of particular practical ideals,\n_non est de hoc mundo,_ because he always goes beyond, to the universal\nman, to the cosmic problem.\n\nCommentators have, it is true, laboured to extract from these and\nothers of his plays, the ideals which they suppose him to have\ncultivated, concerning the perfect king, the independence and greatness\nof England, the aristocracy, which in their judgment was the main-stay\nand glory of his country. They have discovered his Achilles (in the\ndouble form of \"Achilles in Sciro\" and of \"Achilles at Troy\") in Prince\nHenry, and his _pius Aeneas,_ in the same prince become Henry V, who,\ngrown conscious of his new duties, resolutely and definitely severs\nhimself, not from a Dido, but from a Falstaff. They have discovered\nhis paladins in the great representatives of the English aristocracy,\nand as reflected in the Roman aristocracy, by a Coriolanus, and on\nthe other hand the class which he suspected and despised, in the\npopulace and plebeians of all time, whether of those that surrounded\nMenenius Agrippa or who created tumult for and against Julius Caesar\nin the Forum, or those others who bestowed upon Jack Cade a fortune\nas evanescent as it was sudden. Finally, his Trojans or Rutulians,\nenemies of his people, are supposed by them to be the French. But if\nthe epic ideal had possessed real force and consistency in the mind\nof Shakespeare, we should not have needed industrious interpreters\nto track it down and demonstrate it. On the other hand, it is clear\nthat the author of _Henry VI,_ in treating as he did Talbot and the\nMaid of Orleans, and the author of _Henry V,_ in his illustration of\nthe struggles between the English and the French and the victory of\nAgincourt, restricted himself to adopting the popular and traditional\nEnglish view, without identifying that with his spiritual self, or\ntaxing it as his guide to the conception of the English and Roman\nplays.\n\nNor is there any value in another view, to the effect that Shakespeare\nin these plays set the example and paved the way for what was\nafterwards called historical and romantic drama. Had he sought this\nend, he would not only have required some sort of political, social\nand religious ideal, but also historical reflection, the sense of what\ndistinguishes and gives character to past times in respect to present,\nand also that nostalgia for the past, which both Shakespeare and the\nItalian and English Renaissance were altogether without. About two\ncenturies had to elapse before an imitator of Shakespeare, or rather\nof some of his external forms and methods, arose, in the composer\nof _Goetz von Berlichingen._ He had assimilated the new historical\ncuriosity and affection for the rude and powerful past, and there\nprovided the first model of what was soon afterwards developed as\nhistorical romance and drama, especially by Walter Scott.\n\nWhoever tries to discover the internal stimulus, the constructive idea,\nthe lyrical motive, which led Shakespeare to convert the Chronicles\nof Holinshed and the Lives of Plutarch into dramatic form, when his\npossession of the epic ideal and nostalgia for the past have been\nexcluded, finds nothing save an interest in and an affection for\npractical achievement, for action attentively followed, in its cunning\nand audacity, in the obstacles that it meets, in the discomfitures,\nthe triumphs, the various attitudes of the different temperaments and\ncharacters of men. This interest, finding its most suitable material\nin political and warlike conflicts, was naturally attracted to history\nand to that especial form of it, which was nearest to the soul and to\nthe culture of the poet of his people and of his time, English and\nRoman history. This material had already been brought to the theatre\nby other writers and was in this way introduced to the attention and\nused by the new poet. A psychological origin of this sort explains the\nvigour of the representations, which Shakespeare derived from history,\nincomprehensible, if as philologists maintain, he had simply set\nhimself to cultivate, a \"style\" that was demanded in the theatre and\nknown as _chronicle plays,_ or had there set himself a merely technical\ntask, with a view to attaining dexterity.\n\nThat psychological interest, too, in so far as separated from a\nsupreme end or ideal, towards which actions tend, or rather in so far\nas it remains uncertain and vague in this respect, limiting itself to\nquestions of loss or gain, of success or failure, of living or dying,\nis not a qualitative, but a _formal_ interest. It can also be called\npolitical, if you will, but political in the sense of Machiavelli and\nthe Renaissance, in so far as politics are considered for themselves,\nand therefore only formally. Hence the impression caused by the\nhistorical plays of Shakespeare, of being now \"a gallery of portraits,\"\nnow \"a series of personal experiences,\" which the poet is supposed to\nhave achieved in imagination.\n\nIt is certain that their richness, their brilliancy, their attraction,\nlie in the emotional representation of practical activity. Bolingbroke\nascends the throne, by the adoption of violent and tortuous means,\nknowing when to withdraw himself and when to dare. Later he recounts\nto his son how artfully he composed and maintained the attitude,\nwhich caused him to be looked upon with sympathy and reverence by the\npeople, affecting humility and humanity, but preserving at the same\ntime the element of the marvellous, so that his presence, _like a robe\npontifical,_ was _ne'er seen but wondered at._ He causes the blood of\nthe deposed king to be shed, while protesting after the deed his great\ngrief _that blood should sprinkle me to make me grow,_ and promising\nto undertake a voyage of expiation to the Holy Land. Facing him is the\nfalling monarch, Richard II, in whose breast consciousness of his own\nsacred character as legitimate sovereign and of the inviolable dignity\nattached to it, the sense of being to blame, of pride humiliated, of\nresignation to destiny or divine decree, of bitterness, of sarcasm\ntowards himself and towards others, succeed, alternate and combat\none another, a swarm of writhing sentiments, an agony of suffocated\npassions.\n\n                             \"O, that I were as great\n    As is my grief, or lesser than my name!\n    Or that I could forget what I have been!\n    Or not remember what I must be now!\n    Swell'st thou, proud heart? I'll give thee scope to\n        beat....\"\n\nElsewhere we find the same inexorable conqueror, Bolingbroke, as Henry\nIV, triumphant on several occasions against different enemies, now\ninfirm and approaching death, raving from lack of sleep, and envying\nthe meanest of his subjects, blindly groping in the vain shadows\nof human effort, as once his conquered predecessor, and filled with\nterror, as he views the whole extent of the universe and the\n\n                          \"Revolution of the times\n    Make mountains level, and the continent,\n    Weary of solid firmness, melt itself\n    Into the sea!...\n    And changes fill the cup of alteration\n    With divers liquors! O, if this were seen,\n    The happiest youth,--viewing his progress through\n    What perils past, what crosses to ensue,--\n    Would shut the book and sit him down and die.\"\n\nAnd hearing of some friends becoming estranged and of others changing\ninto enemies, he is no longer indignant nor astonished:\n\n    \"Are these things then necessities?\n    Then let us meet them as necessities.\"\n\nHenry V meditates upon the singular condition of kings, upon their\nmajesty, which separates them from all other men and by thus elevating,\nloads them with a weight equal to that which all men together have to\ncarry, while taking from them the joys given to others, and depriving\nthem of hearing the truth or of obtaining justice.\n\nHe feels himself to be more than a king in those moments when he tears\noff his own kingly mask and mirrors himself in his naked reality as\nman. Facing the enemies who are drawn up on the field of battle and\nready to attack him, he murmurs to himself the profound words:\n\n    \"Besides they are our _natural consciences._\n    And preachers to us all; admonishing\n    That we should dress us fairly for our end.\"\n\nDeath reigns above all else in these dramas, death, which brings every\ngreat effort to an end, all torment of burning passion and ambition,\nall rage of barbarous crimes, and is therefore received as a lofty and\nsevere matron; in her presence, countenances are composed, however\nardently she has been withstood, however loudly the brave show of life\nhas been affirmed. Death is received thus by all or nearly all the men\nin Shakespeare, by the tortured and elegiac Richard II, by the great\nsinner Suffolk, by the diabolic Richard III, down to the other lesser\nvictims of fate. The vileness of the vile, the rascality of rascals,\nthe brutal stupidity of acclaiming or imprecating crowds, are felt and\nrepresented with equal intensity, without once permitting anything of\nthe struggle of life to escape, so vast in its variety.\n\nThe personages of these plays arise like three-dimensional statues,\nthat is to say they are treated with full reality, and thus form a\nperfect antithesis to the figures of the romantic plays. These are\nsuperficial portraits, vivid, but light and vanishing into air; they\nare rather types than individuals. This does not imply a judgment of\ngreater or lesser value or a difference in the art of portraying the\ntrue; it only expresses in other words and formulas the different\nsentiment that animates the two different groups of artistic creations,\nthat which springs from delight in the romantic and that due to\ninterest in human action. A Hotspur, introduced upon the scene of the\nromantic dramas, would break through them like a statue of bronze\nplaced upon a fragile flooring of boards and painted canvas. He is\nthe true \"formal\" hero, volitional, inrushing, disdainful, impatient,\nexuberant; we walk round him, admiring his lofty stature, his muscular\nstrength, his potent gestures. He is like a splendid bow, with its\nmighty string drawn tight to hurl the missile, but wherefore or whither\nit will strike, we cannot tell. He is all rebellion and battle, yet\nhis wit and satire is worthy of an artist; he loves, too, with a pure\ntenderness. But wit and satire and the words of love, alike, bear even\nthe imprint and are hastened by impetuosity, as of a man engaged in\nconversation between one combat and another, still joyful and hot from\nthe battle that is over, already hot and joyful for that which is to\nbegin. \"Away, away, you trifler,\" he says to his wife, \"you that are\nthinking of love. Love! I love thee not,\n\n    I care not for thee, Kate: this is no world\n    To play with memmets and to tilt with lips:\n    We must have bloody noses and cracked crowns,\n    And pass them current too. Gods me, my horse!\n    What say'st thou, Kate? What would'st thou have\n        with me?\"\n\nHis parallel (perhaps slightly inferior artistically), is the Roman\nCoriolanus, as brave, as violent and as disdainful as he, a despiser\nof the people and of the people's praise; he too rushes over the\nprecipice to death and is also a \"formal\" hero, because his bravery is\nnot founded upon love of country, or upon a faith or ideal of any kind,\none might almost say that it was without object or that its object was\nitself. Nor, on the other hand, is Coriolanus a superman, in the sense\nsuggested by the works of some of the predecessors and contemporaries\nof Shakespeare. He is not less tenderly demonstrative towards his\nmother or his silent wife (_\"my gracious silence\"_), than is Hotspur\nto Kate, or when, yielding to a woman's prayers, he stays the course\nof his triumphant vengeance. It would be tedious to record all the\npersonages of indomitable power that we meet with in these historical\ndramas, such as the bastard Faulconbridge, in _King John,_ and most\npopular of all, though not the most artistically executed, Richard\nIII, replete with iniquity, who clears the way by dealing death around\nhimself without pity, and dies in the midst of combat with that last\ncry of desperate courage, \"A horse, a horse! My kingdom for a horse!\"\nAt their side stand, not less powerfully delineated, and set in relief,\nthose queens Constance and Margaret: deprived of their power and full\nof maledictions, terrible in their fury, they are either ferocious or\nshut themselves up in their majestic sorrow. Queen Constance, when she\nsees herself abandoned by her protectors in the face of her enemies,\nwho have become their allies, says, as she lets herself fall to the\nground:\n\n    \"Let kings assemble; for my grief's so great\n    That no supporter but the huge firm earth\n    Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit;\n    Here is my throne: bid kings come bow to it.\"\n\nThis gallery of historical figures is most varied; we find here not\nonly the vigorous and proud, the sorrowful and troubled, but also the\nnoble and severe, like Gaunt, the touching, like the little princes\ndestined to the dagger of the assassins, Prince Arthur and the sons of\nEdward IV, down to the laughing and the credulous, to those who defy\nprejudice to wallow in debauch.\n\nSir John Falstaff is the first of these latter, and it is important\nnot to misunderstand him, as certain critics have done, especially\namong the French. They have looked upon him as a jovial, comic type,\na theatrical buffoon, and have compared him with the comic theatrical\ntypes of other stages, arriving at the conclusion that he is a less\nhappy and less successful conception than they, because his comicality\nis exclusively English, and is not to be well understood outside\nEngland and America. But we must on the other hand be careful not to\ninterpret the character moralistically, as an image of baseness, darkly\ncoloured with the poet's contempt, as one towards whom he experienced\na feeling of disgust. Falstaff could call himself a \"formal\" hero in\nhis own way: magnificent in ignoring morality and honour, logical,\ncoherent, acute and dexterous. He is a being in whom the sense of\nhonour has never appeared, or has been obliterated, but the intellect\nhas developed and become what alone it could become, namely, _esprit,_\nor sharpness of wit. He is without malice, because malice is the\nantithesis of moral conscientiousness, and he lacks both thesis and\nantithesis. There is in him, on the contrary, a sort of innocence, the\nresult of the complete liberty of his relation toward all restraint\nand towards ethical law. His great body, his old sinner's flesh, his\ncomplete experience of taverns and lupanars, of rogues male and female,\ncomplicates without destroying the soul of the boy that is in him, a\nvery vicious boy, but yet a boy. For this reason, he is sympathetic,\nthat is to say, he is sympathetically felt and lovingly depicted by the\npoet. The image of a child, that is to say of childish innocence, comes\nspontaneously to the lips of the hostess, as she tells of how he died:\n\"Nay, sure, he's not in hell: he's in Arthur's bosom, if ever man went\nto Arthur's bosom. 'A made a fine end, and went away, an it had been\nany Christom child....\"\n\nShylock the Jew also finds a place in the historical gallery, for\nthe very reason that he is a Jew, \"the Jew,\" indeed, a historical\nformation, and Shakespeare conceives and describes him with the\ncharacteristics proper to his race and religion, one might almost say,\nsociologically. It has been asserted that for Shakespeare and for\nhis public Shylock was a comic personage, intended to be flouted and\nlaughed at by the pit; but we do not know what were the intentions of\nShakespeare and as usual they matter little, because Shylock lives\nand speaks, himself explaining what he means, without the aid of\ncommentaries, even such as the author might possibly have supplied.\nShylock crying out in his desperation: \"My daughter! O my ducats!...\"\nmay have made laugh the spectators in the theatre, but that cry of the\nwounded and tortured animal does not make the poetical reader laugh;\nhe forms anything but a comic conception of that being, trampled down,\npoisoned at heart and unshakeable in his desire for vengeance. On the\nother hand the pathetic and biassed interpretations of Shylock that\nhave been given during the nineteenth century, are foreign to the\ningenuousness of a creation, without a shadow of humanitarianism or of\npolemic. What Shakespeare has created, fusing his own impressions and\nexperiences in the crucible of his attentive and thoughtful humanity,\nis the Jew, with his firm cleaving to the law and to the written word,\nwith his hatred for Christian feeling, with his biblical language,\nnow sententious now sublime, the Jew with his peculiar attitude of\nintellect, will and morality.\n\nYet we are inclined to ask why Shylock, seen in the relations in\nwhich he is placed in the _Merchant of Venice,_ arouses some doubt\nin our minds; he would seem to require a background which is lacking\nto him there. This background cannot be the romantic story of Portia\nand the three caskets, or of the tired and melancholy Antonio. The\nreader is not convinced by the rapid fall of so great an adversary,\nwho accepts the conversion to Christianity finally imposed upon him.\nBut apart also from the particular mixture of real and imaginary, of\nserious and light, which we find in the _Merchant of Venice,_ it does\nnot appear that the characters of the strictly historical plays find\nthe ideal complement which they should find in the plays where they\nappear. The reason for this is not to be found in the looseness and\nreliance upon chronicles for which they have so often been blamed,\nsince this is rather a consequence or general effect of Shakespeare's\nattitude towards the practical life, described above. This attitude,\nas we have seen, lacks a definite ideal, is indeed, without passion\nfor any sort of particular ideals, but is animated with sympathy for\nthe varying lots of striving humanity. For this reason, it is entirely\nconcentrated, on the one hand upon character drawing, and on the other\nis inclined to accept somewhat passively the material furnished by\nthe chronicles and histories. On the one hand it is all force and\nimpetus, while on the other it lacks idealisation and condensation. The\nmarvelous Hotspur appears in the play, in order that he may confirm\nthe glory of youthful Prince Hal, that is to say, that he may provide\na curious anecdote of what was or appeared to be the scapegrace youth\nof a future sage sovereign; that is, he is not fully represented.\nCoriolanus runs himself into a blind alley; and even if the poet\nportrays with historical penetration, the patricians and plebeians of\nRome, it would be vain to seek in the play for the centre of gravity\nof his feelings, of his predilictions, or of his aspirations, because\nboth Coriolanus, the tribunes and his adversaries are looked upon\nsolely as characters, not as parts and expressions of a sentiment\nthat should justify one or other or both groups. Finally, Falstaff is\nsacrificed, because, like Hotspur, he has been used for the purpose\nof enhancing the greatness of the future Henry V; for this reason, he\ndeclines in prestige from the first to the last scenes of the first\npart of Henry IV, not to speak of the _Merry Wives of Windsor,_ where\nwe find him reduced to being a merely farcical character, flouted and\nthrashed. And when his former boon companion, Prince Hal, now on the\nthrone, answers his advances, familiar and confidential as in the\npast, with hard, cold words, we do not admire the new king for his\nseriousness, because we are sensible of a lack of aesthetic harmony.\nAesthetically speaking, Falstaff did not deserve such treatment, or at\nleast Henry V, who inflicts it upon him, should not be given the credit\nof possessing an admirable moral character, which he does not possess,\nfor it cannot be maintained that he is a great man, lofty in heart and\nmind, when he shows us that he has failed to understand Falstaff, and\nto grant him that indulgence to which he is entitled, after so lengthy\na companionship. Falstaff's friends know that poor Sir John, although\nhe has tried to put a good face on his cruel reception by his young\nfriend, is unconsolable in the face of this inhuman estrangement, this\nchill repulse:\n\n    \"The king hath run bad humours in the knight,\n    His heart is fracted and corroborate.\"\n\nAnd Mistress Quickly, although a woman of bad character and a\nprocuress, shows that she possesses a better heart and a better\nintellect than the great king, when she attends the dying Sir John with\nfeminine solicitude. The narrative, of which we had occasion to quote\nthe first phrase above, continues in the following pitiful strain:\n\n\"'A parted even just between twelve and one, even at the turning of the\ntide: for after I saw him fumble with the sheets, and play with flowers\nand smile upon his fingers ends, I knew there was but one way; for his\nnose was as sharp as a pen, and 'a babbled of green fields. 'How now,\nSir John,' quoth I, 'what, man! be o' good cheer.' So 'a cried out\n'God, God, God,' three or four times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him 'a\nshould not think of God; I hoped there was no need to trouble himself\nwith any such thoughts yet. So 'a bade me lay more clothes on his feet:\nI put my hand into the bed and felt them, and they were as cold as any\nstone; then I felt to his knees, and so upward and upward, and all was\nas cold as any stone.\" And since the friends of the tavern have heard\nthat he raved of sack, of his favourite sweet sack, Mistress Quickly\nconfirms that it was so; and when they add that he raved of women, she\ndenies it, thus defending in her own way the chastity of the poor dead\nman.\n\n\n\n4\n\n\nTHE TRAGEDY OF GOOD AND EVIL\n\n\nThe three aspects, with which we have hitherto dealt, compose what\nmay be called the _lesser_ Shakespeare, in contradistinction to the\n_greater_ Shakespeare, of whom we are about to speak. By \"lesser,\"\nwe do not wish to suggest that the works thus designated are\nartistically weak and imperfect, because there are among them some true\nmasterpieces, nor that they are less perfect by comparison with others,\nbecause every true work of art is incomparable and contains in itself\nits proper perfection. What is intended to be conveyed is that they\nare \"less complex,\" in the same way as the sentiment of a mature or an\nold man is distinguished by complexity of experiences from that of a\nyoung man, which is not for that reason less genuine. There are major\nand minor works in this sense in the production of poets and of all\nartists; and in this sense the greater works themselves of the various\nhistorical epochs stand to one another in the relation of greater or\nless richness, although each one is an entire world and each is most\nbeautiful and incomparable in itself. In the case of Shakespeare, the\ndistinction has already been approximately made by the common accord of\nreaders and critics. It is among things accepted and we have acted upon\nthis assumption.\n\nWhoever, for example, passes from the most excellent \"historical plays\"\nto _Macbeth,_ is immediately sensible, not only of the diversity, but\nalso of the greater complexity, proper to the new work which he has\nbegun to study. In the former, we find a vision that might be described\nin general terms, as psychological or practical; in the latter, the\nvision is wider, it seems to be almost philosophical, yet it does\nnot exclude the particular psychological or practical vision of the\nformer, but includes it within itself. In the historical plays, we find\nindividuals, powerful yet limited, as we find them when we consider the\nsocial competition and the political struggles of the day; in the great\nplays, the characters are more than individuals; they represent eternal\npositions of the human spirit. In the former, the plot hinges upon\nthe acquisition or loss of a throne, or of some other worldly object;\nin the latter, there is also this external gain or loss, but over and\nabove it the winning or losing of the soul itself, the strife of good\nand evil at the heart of things.\n\nEvil: but if this evil were so altogether and openly, if it were\naltogether base and repugnant, the tragedy would be finished before it\nhad begun. But evil was called _greatness_ for Macbeth: that greatness,\nwhich the fatal sisters had prophesied to him and the destined course\nof events immediately begins to bestow, pointing out to him that all\nthe rest is both near and certain, provided that he does not remain\npassive, but extends his hand to grasp it. It shines before Macbeth,\nas a beautiful and luminous idea shines before an artist, assuming for\nthis warlike and masterful man, the form of power, supreme, sovereign\npower. Shall he miss the mark? Shall he fail of the mission of his\nbeing? Shall he not harken to the call of Destiny? The idea fascinates\nhim: _nothing_ now _is but what is not_ in his eyes; it also fascinates\nand draws along with it his wife, his second self, who has instantly\nand with yet more irresistible violence, thrown herself into the\nnon-existing, which creates itself and already exists.\n\n    \"Thy letters,\" (she says), \"have transported me beyond\n    This ignorant present, and I feel now\n    The future in the instant.\"\n\nThe idea, for her, is visible to the eye, it is \"the golden circle,\"\nwhich \"fate and metaphysical aid,\" appear already to have placed upon\nher brow. The two tremble together, as at the springs of being, in the\nabode of the mysterious Mothers. They are both doers and sufferers in a\nprocess of things, in the appearance of a new greatness: they tremble\nin that experience, at that creative moment of daring, which demands\nresolute dedication of the whole man.\n\nBut the obstacle towards the realisation of their daring plan, is not\na material obstacle, nor is it the cowardice that sometimes attacks\nthe bravest; it is a good of a different sort, not less vigorous, but\nof a more lofty quality, gentle and serene, planted in the heart of\nMacbeth and called by the name of loyalty, duty, justice, respect for\nthe being of others, human piety. Thus he feels himself thrown at once\ninto confusion by the idea that has flashed before him, so great is the\nsavage desire, which it has set alight in his breast, and such on the\nother hand the reverence which the other idea inspires into his deeper\nbeing, and against which he prepares for a desperate struggle. The\nsupernatural challenge keeps undulating in his mind, now divine, now\ndiabolical: _cannot be ill, cannot be good._ But his wife, in whom the\npower of desire displays itself as absolute and whose determination of\nwill is rectilinear, knowing not struggle or only struggles speedily\nand completely suppressed, his wife, is ready to take his place,\nwhen he shows his weak side, or at the moments of his vacillation.\nIn the logical clarity of vision that comes to her as the result of\nthe clearness of view with which she contemplates the achievement of\nher end, she has discovered an element of danger. It is concealed in\nthe \"milk of human kindness,\" circulating in the blood of Macbeth,\nwhereby he would attain to greatness, without staining himself with\ncrime. Having discovered the cause of the weakness, she applies the\nremedy. This does not consist in making a frontal attack upon his moral\nconsciousness, or by negating it, but in exciting or strengthening the\nwill for action, the will pure and simple, taking pleasure in itself\nalone, by making it feel the necessity of expressing in action what\nseems to it to be beautiful and delightful, and by making it ashamed\nof not knowing how to remain at the level of the desire which it\nhas encouraged, of the plan that it has formed. Macbeth holds back\ntroubled, because, though he is as bold as man can be in facing danger,\nhe yet feels that the deed now required of him would take away from\nhim the very character of man; but for his wife, that deed would make\nof him more than a man. The sophistry of the will, to the aid of which\ncomes the conquering seduction of desire, exercises its irresistible\naction and the deed is accomplished.\n\nIt is accomplished, but with it, as Macbeth says to himself, nothing is\naccomplished or concluded: the same atrocious discord, which appeared\nwith the first thought of the crime, and which has accompanied its\npreparation and execution, continues to act, and Macbeth is never\nable to get the better of it, being incapable both of achieving\ninsensibility to the pricks of conscience and at the same time of\nrepentance. He persists in his attitude of the first moment, drunk with\ngreatness, devoured with remorse. He neither can nor will go back, and\ndoes go forward; but he goes forward, increasing both the terms of the\ndiscord, the sum of his crimes, and the torment of his conscience.\nNo way of salvation opens itself before him: neither the complete\nredemption of the good, nor the opposite redemption of the completeness\nof evil; neither the tears that relieve the ferocious soul, nor\nabsolute hardening of the heart. If he had to blame anything for his\ncourse of crimes and torments, he would blame life itself, that _fitful\nfever,_ that stupidity of life, which is\n\n                           \"a tale\n    told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,\n    signifying nothing.\"\n\nAnd if there is any image that attracts him from time to time,\nfilling him with the suavity of desire, it is that of sleep, and\nbeyond that, the great final, dissolving sleep, which Duncan, whom\nhe has slaughtered, already enjoys. Thus Macbeth consumes himself,\nand his other self, his wife, consumes herself also, in a different\nway, because what was in him an implacable call, to which he could\ndo violence, but could not suppress, presents itself to his wife as\nthe fascinating idea had presented itself to her, in sensible images,\nand therefore as an obscure rebellion of nature. For this reason,\nthe woman from whose hand the dagger had fallen, when she faced the\nsleeping Duncan, who seemed to her to be her father, wanders in the\nnight, vainly seeking to remove from her small hands the nauseating\nodour of blood, which, it seems to her, still clings to them. Both are\nalready dead, before they die, owing to these bitter, long, continuous,\ninternal shocks and corrosions. Macbeth receives the news of the death\nof her who was his wife, of her whom he had loved and who loved him,\nwith the desolate coldness of one who has renounced all particular\naffections, and the life of the affections themselves. Yet he will not\ndie like a \"Roman fool,\" he will not slay himself, but will provoke\ndeath in battle, still seeking, not death, but victory. For even in his\nlast moments, the internal conflict in him has not ceased, even in\nthose instants, the impulse for greatness rules him and urges him on.\nTo kill himself would be to admit that he was wrong, and he does not\nadmit to himself that he was wrong or right: his tragedy lies in this\nincapacity to hold himself right or wrong; it is the tragedy of reality\ncontemplated at the moment of conflict and before the solution has been\nobtained. Therefore he dies austerely, representing a sacred mystery,\ncovered with religious horror.\n\nIn _Macbeth,_ the good appears only as revenge taken by the good, as\nremorse, punishment. It is not personified. The amiable king Duncan\nglides along on the outside of things, unsuspectful of betrayals,\nwithout an inkling of what is passing in the mind of Macbeth, whom he\nhas rewarded and exalted. The honest Macduff, reestablisher of peace\nand justice, is a warrior pitted against a warrior. Lady Macduff and\nher son are innocent victims, who flee the knife of the murderers in\nvain. The boy with his childish logic expresses his wonderment that the\ngood in the world does not choke the evil and replies to his mother,\nwho says that the honest man must do justice upon wicked men and\ntraitors: \"Then the liars and swearers are fools; for there are liars\nand swearers enow to beat the honest men and hang up them....\"\n\nIn _King Lear,_ that tempestuous drama, which is nothing but a sequence\nof betrayals and horrible torments, goodness is impersonated and takes\nthe name of Cordelia, shining in the midst of the tempest, as when the\nsky is dark and we look, not upon the darkness, but upon the single\nstar that is scintillating there.\n\nAn infinite hatred for deceitful wickedness has inspired this work:\negoism pure and simple, cruelty, perversity, arouse repugnance and\nhorror, but do not directly lead to that tremendous doubt as to\nthe non-existence of goodness, or still less as to its not being\nrecognisable and separable from its contrary, since that moral deceit,\nwhich takes the appearance of rectitude, generosity, loyalty, and when\nit has realised its purpose, discovers itself as impure cupidity,\naridity, hardness of heart, which alone were present throughout. Poor\nhumanity, which has thus allowed itself to be deceived, enters into\nsuch a fury, when it has discovered its illusion, both against itself\nand against the world that has permitted so atrocious an illusion or\ndelusion, as to reach the point of madness. And humanity goes by the\nname of King Lear, proud, imperious, full of confidence in himself and\nin his own power and strength of judgment, quite sure that others will\nagree with his wishes, all the more so, since he is their benefactor\nand they owe him, not only obedience, but duty and gratitude. King\nLear is a creation of pity and of sarcasm: pitiful in his cries of\ninjured pride, of old age deserted, in the shadow of the madness that\nis falling upon him. He has been sarcastically, though sorrowfully,\nrealised by his creator, because he was mad before he became mad, and\nthe clown who keeps him company, has been and is more serious and\nclear-sighted than he. But the creative impulse of Shakespeare goes\nso deeply into the heart of reality, or rather it creates so great a\nreality, that he neglects everything suggestive of the obvious, vulgar\nside of things, as seen from an average and mediocre point of view.\nKing Lear assumes gigantic proportions in his sorrow, in his madness,\nin his piteousness, in his sarcasm, because the passion that shakes him\nis gigantic. The figures of the two deceitful daughters who are opposed\nto him, are also gigantic, especially Goneril, to whom Regan, who is\nsomewhat the younger, gives relief. Goneril's are the guiding mind\nand the initiating will; she it is, who first counsels and instructs\nher sister, who first faces and dominates her father, and who first\nrecognises her own equal in the iron will of the evil Edmund, loving\nhim and despising her own husband, so weak in his goodness, strives\nwith her sister for the loved one, finally slaying her sister and\nimmediately afterwards, herself. Regan has here and there a fugitive\nmoment, not of piety, but of hesitation and almost of suggestion, and\nshows herself to be the less strong, just because she always allows\nherself to be led by the other. Each of them, although both are thus\npowerfully individuated, express the same force of egoism without\nscruples, untamed and extreme in its boundlessness. Their personalities\nare concentrated, felt and expressed, with the whole-hearted hatred of\nan expert.\n\nYet we come to think that in this tragedy the inspiration of love--of\nimmense love--is equal to or greater than the inspiration of hate.\nPerhaps intensity of hatred, making more intense the attraction of\ngoodness, helped to create the figure of Cordelia, which is not\na symbol or allegory of abstract goodness, but is all compact of\ngoodness, of a need for purity, for tenderness, for adoration, which\nhas here thrown its real and unreal appearance, an appearance which\nhas poetical reality. Cordelia is goodness itself in its original\nwell-spring, limpid and shining as it gushes forth: she represents\nmoral beauty and is therefore both courageous and hesitating, modest\nand dignified, ready to disdain contests, where they are of no avail,\nbut also ready to fight bravely, when to do so is of service. Hers\nis a true and complete goodness, not simply softness, mildness and\nindulgence. Words have been so misused for purposes of deceit that she\nhas almost abandoned that inadequate means of communication: she is\nsilent, when speech would be vain or would set her truthfulness on the\nsame level as the lies of others. But since she has clear knowledge\nand a fine sense of her own self and its contrary, she does not allow\nherself to be confused or enticed by false splendours. _\"I know you\nwhat you are,\"_ she says, looking her sisters in the eyes, as she takes\nleave of them. And since goodness is also sympathetic intelligence, she\nunderstands, pardons and lovingly assists her old father, so unjust\nand so wanting in understanding toward herself. And since goodness\ncannot adopt the form of blind passion, even in the act of defence and\noffence, and even when it refuses to tolerate evil, is forced to bow\nto the law of severe resignation, which governs the world, and thus\nentrusts her with its best duty, so Cordelia does not burst into a rage\nagainst the wickedness of her sisters, when she hears how King Lear has\nbeen driven out and despised, but at once resigns herself to patience\nin the affliction, \"like,\" as says one who has seen her at that moment,\nto\n\n    \"Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears\n    Were like a better day.\"\n\nThere are other personages in the play, who affirm the reality of good\nagainst the false assertion of it: the pure and faithful Kent, the\nloyal though unintelligent Gloucester, the brave Edgar, the weak but\nhonest Duke of Albany, the husband of Goneril, who says:\n\n    \"Where I could not be honest,\n    I never yet was valiant.\"\n\nFinally the perfidious Edmund, when he sees himself near death, hastens\nto accomplish a good action and to pay homage to virtue. But all these\nbelong to the earth: Cordelia is on the earth, earthly herself and\nmortal, but she is made of celestial substance, of purest humanity,\nwhich is therefore divine. It has occurred to me to compare her with\nthe Soul, whom Friar Jacob likened to the only daughter and heiress\nof the King of France, and whom her father, for that he loved her\ninfinitely, had adorned \"with a white stole,\" and her fame flew \"to\nevery land.\"\n\nNo greater spiritual triumph can be conceived than that of Cordelia,\nthroughout the drama, from the first scene to the last, although she\nfirst appears as denied and rejected by her father, and later, when she\ncomes with arms to the aid of the unfortunate Lear against the infernal\nsisters and the treacherous Edmund, is conquered, thrown into prison\nand there strangled by the hangman. Why? Why does not goodness triumph\nin the material world? And, why, thus conquered, does she increase\nin beauty, evoke ever more disconsolate desire, until she is finally\nadored as something sacred? The tragedy of King Lear is penetrated\nthroughout with this unexpressed yet anguished interrogation, so\nfull of the sense of the misery of life. The king, acquiring new\nsensibility in his madness, as though a veil had been withdrawn from\nbefore his eyes, sees and receives for the first time in himself,\nsuffering humanity, weeping and trembling, like a child, defenceless,\nill-treated. The fool, who accompanies him, sings, along with much\nelse, his prophecy to the effect that when calumnies cease, when kings\nare punished, and usurers and thieves give up their trade, then all the\nkingdom of Albion will be in great confusion. But the sorrow of sorrows\nis that of Lear, when, having found Cordelia, he dreams of being ever\nafter at her side, adoring, and sees the prison transformed into a\nparadise: they will sing, he will kneel before her, they will pray,\nand tell one another ancient tales. But she is brutally slain before\nhis eyes and her dead body lies in his arms, as he vainly strives to\nreanimate it, and he too dies, uttering the last cry of desperation:\n\n    \"Thou'lt come no more,\n    Never, never, never, never!--\"\n\nIn the tragedy of _Othello,_ evil takes on another face, and here the\nsentiment that answers to it, is not condemnation mixed with pity,\nnot horror for hypocrisy and cruelty, but astonishment. Iago does not\nrepresent evil done through a dream of greatness, or evil for the\negoistic satisfaction of his own desires, but evil for evil's sake,\ndone almost as though through an artistic need, in order to realise his\nown being and feel it strong, dominating and destructive, even in the\nsubordinate social condition in which he is placed. Certainly, Iago, in\nwhat he says, wishes it to be believed or makes himself believe that\nhe is aiming only at his \"own advantage,\" as Guicciardini would have\nsaid, and that he despises those who have different rule of conduct and\nmanage to live honestly, the _honest knaves._ But the truth is that he\ndoes not obtain any material advantage for himself, and that the path\nhe has selected was not necessary for that object and does not lead to\nit. Feelings of vengeance for injustices and affronts suffered lead to\nit still less, though at times he says they do, and wishes it to be\nbelieved or tries to believe it himself. What results from his acts is\nevil as an end in itself, arising from a turbid desire to prove himself\nsuperior to the rest of the world, to delude and to make it dance to\nthe tune of his own mind, and in proof of this to bring it to ruin.\nThe fact that he gives various reasons, with the object of justifying\nand of explaining his acts, demonstrates that he himself failed to\nunderstand that peculiar form of evil which possessed his spirit.\nNone of those about him suspect him: not Othello, a simple, impetuous\nsoldier, who understands open strife and plotting, but both in war and\nbetween one enemy and another. He is quite unable to conceive this\nrefined and intellectual degradation. Desdemona, too, a young woman\nnewly married, rejoicing in the happiness of realized affection and\ndisposed to find everyone about her good and to make everyone happy,\nis unsuspicious, as also is Cassio, who trusts Iago, as a brave and\nloyal comrade, and his wife, the experienced Emilia, who knows him from\nlong habit. The epithets of \"good Iago,\" of \"honest Iago\" ring through\nthe whole play and are a bitter and ironical comment underlining the\nillusion that possesses them all. He is weaving, without reason, and\nas it were for amusement, a horrible web of calumnies, of moral and\nphysical tortures and of death: a good and generous man, rendered\nblind and mad with jealousy and injured honour, is thus led to murder\nhis innocent and beloved wife. Pity and terror arise together in the\nsoul, as we see Othello poisoned drop by drop, excited, changed Into a\nwild beast: one feels that in Desdemona the warrior possessed all the\nsweetness and all the force of life, the happiness on which reposed\nall the rest, and that in her person he had found all that one can\nconceive as most noble, most gentle and most pure in the world. When he\nsuspects that she has betrayed him, not only is he pierced with sensual\njealousy, (this too there is, certainly), but injured in what he holds\nsacred, and therefore the death that he deals to Desdemona is not\nsimply vengeance for the shame done him, but above all expiation and\npurification, as though he wished to purify the world of such impurity,\nand to cleanse her from a stain, which irremediably defiled her. \"O,\nthe pity of all this, Iago! O, Iago, the pity of all this!\" He kisses\nher before he kills her, kissing his own ideal, which he lays at that\nmoment in the sepulchre. But he still trembles with love, and perhaps\nhopes somehow to get her back and to be united with her forever, by\nmeans of that bloody sacrifice. Desdemona is not aware of the fury\nraging around her, sure as she is of her love and of Othello's. Owing\nto her very innocence, she affords involuntary incentives to the\njealousy of Othello and easy occasion to the artifice of Iago. Her very\nunconsciousness makes her fate the more moving. Such is the infamy\nof the crime thus accomplished against her, that the prosaic, shifty\nwife of Iago becomes sublime with indignation and courage, when she\nsees her dying, rising to poetic nobility and defying every menace.\nTranspierced by her husband, she falls at the side of her mistress and\ndying sings the willow song, which she had caught from the lips of\nDesdemona. Othello also dies, when the deceit has been revealed to him.\nThe leader whom Venice had held in great honour and in whom she had\nreposed complete faith, charging him with commands and governments, is\nnow nothing but a wretch deserving punishment. But in slaying himself,\nhe returns in memory to what he was, substituting that image of himself\nfor his present misery, and using the memory of the warrior that he\nwas, to drive the sword deeper into his throat.\n\nOn the other hand, the rallying-point or centre of the whole play is\nnot the ruin of the valiant Othello, not the cruel fate of the gentle\nDesdemona, but the work, of Iago, of that demidevil, of whom one might\nask in vain, why, as Othello asked, why he had thus noosed the bodies\nand souls of those men, who had never nourished any suspicion of him?\n\n    \"Demand me nothing; what you know, you know\n    From this time forth I never will speak word.\"\n\nThis was the answer to the poet from that most mysterious form of evil,\nwhen he met with it, as he was contemplating the universe: perversity,\nwhich is an end and a joy to itself.\n\n\n\n5\n\n\nTHE TRAGEDY OF THE WILL\n\n\nThe tragedy of the good and evil will, is sometimes followed, sometimes\npreceded by another tragedy, that of the will itself. Here the will,\ninstead of holding the passions in control--making its footstool of\nthem--allows itself to be dominated by them in their onrush; or it\nseeks the good, but remains uncertain, dissatisfied as to the path\nchosen; or finally, when it fails to find its own way, a way of some\nsort, and does not know what to think of itself or of the world, it\npreys upon itself in this empty tension.\n\nA typical form of this first condition of the will is voluptuousness,\nwhich overspreads a soul and makes itself mistress there, inebriating,\nsending to sleep, destroying and liquefying the will. When we think\nof that enchanting sweetness and perdition, the image of death arises\nat the same instant, because it truly is death, if not physical, yet\nalways internal and moral death, death of the spirit, without which\nman is already a corpse in process of decomposition. The tragedy of\n_Anthony and Cleopatra_ is composed of the violent sense of pleasure,\nin its power to bind and to dominate, coupled with a shudder at its\nabject effects of dissolution and of death.\n\nHe moves in a world all kisses and caresses, languors, sounds,\nperfumes, shimmer of gold and splendid garments, flashing of lights or\nsilence of deep shadows, enjoyment, now ecstatic, now spasmodic and\nfurious. Cleopatra is queen of this world, avid for pleasure, which she\nherself bestows, diffusing around her its quivering sense, instilling\na frantic desire for it into all, offering herself as an example and\nan incitement, but while conferring it on others, remaining herself a\nregal and almost a mystical personage. A Roman who has plunged into\nthat world, spoke then of her, astonished at her power, demoniac or\ndivine;\n\n    \"Age cannot wither nor custom stale\n    Her infinite variety.\"\n\nCleopatra asks for songs and music, that she may melt into that sea of\nmelody, which heightens pleasure:\n\n    \"Give me some music; music, moody food\n    Of us that trade in love!\"\n\nShe knows how to toy with men, keeping their interest alive by her\ndenials:\n\n                           \"If you find him sad,\n        Say I am dancing; if in mirth, report\n        That I am sudden sick.\"\n\nHer words express sensual fascination in its most terrible form:\n\n                       \"There is gold, and here\n    My bluest veins to kiss; a hand that kings\n    Have lipped, and trembled kissing.\"\n\nAll around her dance to the same tune and imitate the rhythmic folly of\nher life. Note the scene of the two waiting women, who are joking about\ntheir loves, their future marriages, and the manner of their deaths,\nwith the soothsayer. Listen to the first words of Carminia, so mirthful\nand caressing in her playful coquetry: \"Lord Alexas, sweet Alexas, most\nanything Alexas, almost most absolute Alexas, where's the soothsayer\nthat you praised so to the queen? O, that I knew this husband, which,\nyou say, must charge his horns with garlands!\" ...\n\nAnthony is seized and dragged into this vertiginous course of pungent\npleasures, as soon as he appears. In his inebriation the rest of the\nworld, all the active, real world, seems heavy, prosaic, contemptible\nand displeasing. The very name of Rome has no longer any power over him.\n\n    \"Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch\n    Of the ranged empire fall! Here is my space.\n    Kingdoms are clay: one dungy earth alike\n      Feeds beast as man.\"\n\nAs he folds Cleopatra in his arms, he feels that they form a pair\nwho make life more noble, and that in them alone it assumes real\nsignificance.\n\nThis feeling is not love: we have already called it by its proper name:\nvoluptuousness. Cleopatra loves pleasure and caprice, and the dominion,\nwhich both of them afford her; she also loves Anthony, because he is,\nand in so far as he is, part of her pleasures and caprices, and serves\nher as an instrument of dominion. She busies herself with keeping him\nbound to her, struggles to retain him when he removes himself from her,\nbut she always has an eye to other things, which are equally necessary\nfor her, even more so than he, and in order to retain them, she would\nbe ready if necessary to give Anthony in exchange. Anthony too, does\nnot love her; he clearly sees her for what she is, imprecates against\nher, and enfolds her in his embrace without forgiveness.\n\n    \"Shed not a tear; give me a kiss:\n    Even this repays me.\"\n\nLove demands union of some sort between two beings for an objective\nend, with the moral consent of both; but here we are outside morality,\nand even outside the will. We are caught in the whirlwind and carried\nalong.\n\nAnthony it is, who weakens and is conquered. He has lived an active\nlife, which, in the present moment of folly, he holds of no account.\nHe has known war, political strife, the government of States; he has\neven been brushed with the wing of glory and of victory. He tries\nseveral times to grasp his own past and to direct his future. He has\nnot lost his ethical judgment, for he recognizes Cleopatra as she\nreally is, bows reverently before the memory of Fulvia, and treats his\nnew wife Octavia, whom also he will abandon, with respect. For a brief\nmoment, he returns to the world he once knew, takes part in political\nbusiness, comes to terms with his colleagues and rivals. It would seem\nthat he had disentangled himself from the chain that bound him. But\nthe effort is not lasting, the chain encircles him again; vainly and\nwith ever declining power of resistance, he yields to that destiny,\nwhich is on the side of Octavius, the man without loves, so cold and\nso firm of will. Bad fortune dogs every step of the voluptuary: those\nthat surround him remark a change in his appearance from what he was\nformerly. They see him betray this change by uttering thoughts that are\nalmost ridiculously feeble, and making inane remarks. They are led to\nreflect that the mind of man is nothing but a part of his fortune and\nthat external things conform to things internal. He himself feels that\nhe is inwardly dissolving, and compares himself to the changing forms\nof the clouds, dissolved with a breath of wind, like water turning to\nwater. Yet the man, who is thus in process of disaggregation, was once\ngreat, and still affords flashes of greatness, bursting forth in feats\nof warlike prowess, accompanied with lofty speech and generous actions.\nHis generosity confounds Enobarbus, who had deserted him and now takes\nhis own life for very shame. Around him are yet those ready to die\nfor sake of the affection that he inspires. Cleopatra stands lower or\nhigher: she has never known nor has ever desired to know any life but\nthat of caprice and pleasure. There is logic, will, consistency, in her\nvertiginous abandonment. She is consistent also in taking her own life,\nwhen she sees that she would die in a Roman prison, thus escaping shame\nand the mockeries of the triumphant foe, and selecting a death of regal\nvoluptuousness. And with her die her faithful handmaids, by a similar\ndeath; they have known her as their queen and goddess of pleasure, and\nnow as despising _this vile world_ and a life no longer worthy of being\nlived, because no longer beautiful and brilliant. Carminia, before she\nslays herself takes a last farewell of her mistress:\n\n           \"Downy windows close;\n    And golden Phoebus never be beheld\n    Of eyes again so royal! Your crown's awry;\n    I'll mend it, and then play.\"\n\nThe tragedy of the will, which is most poetically lofty in _Anthony and\nCleopatra,_ is nevertheless morally a low form, that is to say, it is\nsimple and elementary in its roughness, such as would manifest itself\nin a soldier like Anthony, the bloody, quarrelsome, pleasure-seeking,\ncrapulous Anthony.\n\nIt shows itself in an atmosphere far more subtle with Hamlet. Hamlet,\nthe hero so refined intellectually, so delicate in taste, so conscious\nof moral values, comes to the action, not from the Roman forum or\nfrom the battlefields of Gaul or Pharsalia, but from the University\nof Wittenberg. In _Hamlet,_ the seductions of the will are altogether\novercome; duty is no longer a condition, or a vain effort, but a\nspontaneous and regular attitude. The obstacle against which it\nstrives is not external to it, it is no inebriation of the senses; it\nis internal, the will itself in the dialectic of its becoming, in its\npassage from meditation to purpose and from purpose to action, in its\nbecoming will, true, concrete, factual will.\n\nHamlet has with reason often been recognised as a companion and\nprecursor of Brutus in _Julius Caesar,_ a play which differs from the\n\"historical tragedies,\" more substantially even than _Anthony and\nCleopatra,_ which is restricted to the practical activity. _Hamlet_\nattains to a more lofty significance. Here too we find a tragedy of\nthe will in a man whose ethical conscientiousness is not internally\ntroubled, for he lives upon a sublime plane; and here too the\nobstacle arises from the very bosom of the will. Brutus differs from\nHamlet, in that he comes to a decision and acts; but his action is\naccompanied with disgust and repugnance for the impurity with which\nits accomplishment must be stained. He reproves, condemns and abhors\nthe political end towards which Caesar is tending, but he does not\nhate Caesar; he would like to destroy that end, to strike at the soul\nof Caesar, but not to destroy his body and with it his life. He bows\nreluctantly to necessity and with the others decides upon his death,\nbut requests that honours should be payed to Caesar dead, and spares\nAnthony contrary to the advice of Cassius, because, as he says, he\nis a priest bound to sacrifice the necessary victim; but he is not a\nbutcher. Melancholy dogs every step toward the achievement of his end.\nHe differs here from Cassius, who does not experience like scruples\nand delicacy of feeling, but desires the end, by whatever means. He\ndiffers too from Anthony, who discovers at once the path to tread\nand enters it; cautious and resolute, he will triumph over him. He\nfinds everywhere impurity: Cassius, his friend, his brother, behaves\nin such a way as to make him doubt his right to shed the blood of\nthe mighty Julius, because, instead of that justice, which he has\nthought to promote and to restore by his act, he now sees only rapine\nand injustice. But if the spiritual greatness of Brutus shrouds him\nin sadness, it does not deprive him of the capacity for feeling and\nunderstanding human nature. His difference with Cassius comes to an\nend with his friend's sorrow, that friend who loves and admires him\nsincerely, and yet cannot be other than he is, hoping that his friend\nwill not condemn too severely his faults and vices, but pass them\nover in indulgent silence. The reconciliation of the two is sealed\nwhen Brutus reveals his wounded heart, as he briefly tells his friend\nof Portia's death. He enfolds himself in his grief. Brutus is among\nthose who have always meditated upon death and fortified themselves\nwith the thought of it. His suffering is not limited to virtue forced\ninto contamination; for he is haunted by doubt unexpressed. He feels\nthat man is surrounded with mystery, the mystery of Fate, or, as we\nshould say, with the mystery surrounding the future history of the\nworld; he seems to be anxiously asking of himself if the way that he\nhas chosen and followed is the best and wisest way, or whether some\nevil genius has not introduced itself into his life, in order to drive\nhim to perdition? He hears at night the voice of the evil genius amid\nthe sounds and songs that should give rest and repose to his agitated\nspirit. He prepares himself to face the coming battle, with the same\ninvincible sadness. It is the day that will bring to an end the work\nbegun on the Ides of March. He takes leave of Cassius, doubtful if he\nwill ever see him again, saying farewell to him for ever:\n\n    \"If we do meet again, why, we shall smile;\n    If not, why then, this parting was well made.\"\n\nO, if man could know the event of that day before it befell! But it\nmust suffice to know that day will have an end, and that the end will\nbe known. Mighty powers govern the world, Brutus resigns himself to\nthem: they may have already judged him guilty or be about to do so.\n\n_Hamlet_ has generally been considered the tragedy of Shakespearean\ntragedies, where the poet has put most of himself, given us his\nphilosophy, and with it the key to the other tragedies. But strictly\nspeaking, Shakespeare has not put himself, that is to say his poetry,\ninto _Hamlet,_ either more or less than into any of the others; there\nis not more philosophy, as judge of reality and of life here than\nin the others; there is perhaps less, because it is more perplexed\nand vague than the others, and even the celebrated monologue (_To\nbe or not to be,_) though supremely poetical, is irreducible to a\nphilosopheme or to a philosophic problem. Finally, it is not the key\nor compendium of the other plays, but the expression of a particular\nstate of the soul, which differs from those expressed in the others.\nThose who read it in the ingenuous spirit in which it was written and\nconceived, find no difficulty about taking it for what it is, namely\nthe expression of disaffection and distaste for life; they experience\nand assimilate that state of the soul. Life is thought and will, but a\nwill which creates thought and a thought which creates will, and when\nwe feel that certain painful impressions have injured and upset us, it\nsometimes happens that the will does not obey the stimulus of thought\nand becomes weak as will; then thought, feeling in its turn that it\nis not stimulated and upheld by the will, begins to wander and fails\nto make progress: it tries now this and now that, but grasps nothing\nfirmly; it is thought not sure of itself, it is not true and effective\nthought. There is, as it were, a suspension of the rapid course of the\nspirit, a void, a losing of the way, which resembles death, and is\nin fact a sort of death. This is the state of soul that Shakespeare\ninfused into the ancient legend of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, on whom\nhe conferred many noble aptitudes and gifts, and the promise or the\nbeginning of a fervent life. He then interrupted and suspended Hamlet's\nbeginning of life, and let it wander, as though seeking in vain, not\nonly its proper task, but even the strength necessary to propose it\nto himself, with that firmness which becomes and is, indeed, itself\naction. Hamlet is a generous and gentle youth, with a disposition\ntowards meditation and scientific enquiry, a lover of the beautiful,\ndevoted to knightly sports, prone to friendship, not averse to love,\nwith faith in the human goodness and in those around him, especially\nin his father and mother, and in all his relations and friends. He\nwas perhaps too refined and sensitive, too delicate in soul; but\nhis life proceeded, according to its own law, towards certain ends,\ncaressing certain hopes. In the course of this facile and amiable\nexistence, he experienced, first the death of his father, followed\nsoon after by the second marriage of his mother, who seems to have\nvery speedily forgotten her first husband in the allurement of a new\nlove. He feels himself in every way injured by this marriage, and with\nthe disappearance of his esteem for his mother, a horrible suspicion\ninsinuates itself, which is soon confirmed by the apparition of his\nfather's restless ghost, which demands vengeance. And Hamlet will, nay\nmust and will carry it out; he would find a means to do so warily and\neffectually, if he had not meanwhile begun to die from that shock to\nhis sentiments. That is to say, he began to die without knowing it, to\ndie internally: the pleasures of the world become in his eyes insipid\nand rancid, the earth and the sky itself lose their colours. Everything\nthat is contrary to the ideal and to the joy of life, injustice,\nbetrayal, lies, hypocrisy, bestial sensuality, greed of power and\nriches, cowardice, perversity and with them the nullity of worldly\nthings, death and the fearful unknown, gather themselves together in\nhis spirit, round that horrible thing that he has discovered, the\nassassination of his father, the adultery of his mother; they tyrannise\nover his spirit and form a barrier to his further progress, to his\nliving with that former warmth and joyous vigour, as indispensable to\nthought as it is to action. Hamlet can no longer love, for love is\nabove all love of life; for this reason he breaks off the love-idyll\nthat he had begun with Ophelia, whom he loved and whom in a certain\nway, he still loves infinitely, but as we love one dead, knowing her to\nbe no longer for us. Hamlet can laugh no more: sarcasm and irony take\nthe place of frank laughter on his lips. He fails to coordinate his\nacts, himself becoming the victim of circumstances, though constantly\nmaintaining his attitude of contempt, or breaking out into unexpected\nresolves, followed by hasty execution.\n\nSometimes he still rises to the level of moral indignation, as in the\ncolloquy with his mother, but this too is a paroxysm, not a coordinated\naction. Joy is needed, not only for love, but also for vengeance;\nthere must be passion for the activity that is being exercised; but\nHamlet is in such a condition that he should give himself the same\nadvice as he gives to the miserable Ophelia--to get her to a nunnery\nand there practice renunciation and restraint. But he is not conscious\nof the nature of his malady, and it is precisely for this reason that\nhe is ill; instead of combating it by applying the right remedy, he\ncultivates, nourishes and increases it. At the most, what is taking\nplace within him excites his astonishment and moves him to vain\nself-rebuke and equally vain self-stimulation, as we observe after his\ndialogue with the players, and after he has heard the passion, fury and\nweeping they put into their part, and when he meets the army led by\nFortinbras against Poland.\n\n                                        \"I do not know\n    Why yet I live to say 'This thing's to do';\n    Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means\n    To do't. Examples, gross as earth exhort me:\n    Witness this army, of such mass and charge,\n    Led by a delicate and tender prince;\n    Whose spirit with divine ambition puff'd,\n    Makes mouths at the invisible event,\n    Exposing what is miserable and unsure\n    To all that fortune death and danger dare\n    Even for an egg-shell.... O, from this time forth,\n    My thought be bloody or be nothing worth!\"\n\nFinally, he accomplishes the great vengeance, but alas, in how small a\nway, as though jestingly, as though it were by chance, and he himself\ndies as though by chance. He had abandoned his life to chance, so his\ndeath must be due to chance.\n\nWe too have termed the condition of spirit that ruins Hamlet, an\nillness; but the word is better applied to a doctor or a moralist,\nwhereas the tragedy is the work of a poet, who does not describe an\nillness, but sings a song of desperate and desolate anguish, and so\nlofty a song is it, to so great a height does it attain, that it\nwould seem as though a newer and more lofty conception of reality and\nof human action must be born of it. What was perdition for Hamlet,\nis a crisis of the human soul, which assumed so great an extension\nand complexity after the time of Shakespeare as to give its name to\na whole historical period. Yet it has more than historical value,\nbecause, light or serious, little or great, it returns to live again\nperpetually.\n\n\n6\n\n\nJUSTICE AND INDULGENCE\n\n\nIt would be vain to seek among the songs of Shakespeare for the song of\nreconciliation, of quarrels, composed of inner peace, of tranquillity\nachieved, but the song of justice echoes everywhere in his works.\nHe knows neither perfect saints, nor perfect sinners, for he feels\nthe struggle at the heart of reality as necessity, not as accident,\nartifice, or caprice. Even the good, the brave and the pure have evil,\nimpurity and weakness in them: \"fragility\" is the word he utters most\noften, not only with regard to women; and on the other hand, even\nthe wicked, the guilty, the criminal, have glimpses of goodness,\naspirations after redemption, and when everything else is wanting, they\nhave energy of will and thus possess a sort of spiritual greatness. One\nhears that song as a refrain in several of the tragedies, uttered by\nfoes over the foes whom they have conquered. Anthony pronounces this\nelegy over the fallen Brutus:\n\n    \"This was the noblest Roman of them all:\n    All the conspirators, save only he,\n    Did that they did in envy of great Caesar;\n    He only in a general honest thought\n    And common good to all, made one of them.\n    His life was gentle and the elements\n    So mix'd in him that nature might stand up\n    And say to all the world 'This was a man.'\"\n\nOctavian, when he hears of the death of Anthony, exclaims:\n\n                                      \"O Anthony!\n    ... We could not stall together; but yet let me lament,\n    With tears as sovereign as the blood of hearts,\n    That thou, my brother, my competitor\n    In top of all design, my mate in empire,\n    Friend and companion in the front of war,\n    Unreconciliable should divide\n    Where mine his thoughts did kindle, that our stars\n    Unreconciliable should divide\n    Our equalness to this.\"\n\nIt is above all in _Henry VIII_ that this feeling for justice widens\ninto a feeling towards oneself and others. We find a particularly good\ninstance of it in the dialogues between Queen Catherine and her great\nenemy Wolsey. When the queen has mentioned all the grave misdeeds of\nthe dead man in her severe speech, Griffith craves permission to record\nin his turn all the good there was in him; and with so persuasive an\neloquence does he record this good, that the queen, when she has heard\nhim, concludes with a sad smile:\n\n    \"After my death I wish no other herald,\n    No other speaker of my living actions,\n    But such an honest chronicler as Griffith.\n    Whom I most hated living thou hast made me,\n    With thy religious truth and modesty,\n    Now in his ashes honour: peace be with him!\"\n\nOne who feels justice in this way, is inclined to be indulgent, and in\nShakespeare we find the song of indulgence, in the _Tempest:_ a lofty\nindulgence, for his discernment of good and evil was acute, his sense\nalike for what is noble and for what is base, exquisite. He could never\nbe of those who slip into some form of false indulgence, which lowers\nthe standard of the ideal, in order to approach the real, cancelling\nor rendering uncertain, in greater or lesser measure, the boundaries\nbetween virtue and vice. Prospero it is, who is indulgent in the\n_Tempest,_ the sage, the wise, the injured, the beneficent Prospero.\n\nThe _Tempest_ is an exercise of the imagination, a delicate pattern,\nwoven perhaps as a spectacle for some special occasion, such as a\nmarriage ceremony, for it adopts the procedure of some fanciful,\njesting scenario from the popular Italian comedy. Here we find islands\nunknown, aerial spirits, earthly beings and monsters; it is full of\nmagic and of prodigies, of shipwrecks, rescues and incantations;\nand the smiles of innocent love, the quips of comical creatures,\nvariegate pleasantly its surface. We have already noted the traces\nof Shakespeare's tendency toward the romantic, and those echoes of\nthe comedy of love, of Romeo and Juliet, who are not unfortunate but\nfortunate, when they are called Ferdinand and Miranda, with their\nirresistible impulse towards love and joy. But although the work has\na bland tone, there are yet to be found in it characters belonging to\ntragedy, wicked brothers, who usurp the throne, brothers who meditate\nand attempt fratricide. In Caliban we find the malicious, violent\nbrute, abounding in strength and rich in possibilities. He listens\necstatically to the soft music, with which the isle often resounds, he\nknows its natural secrets and is ready to place himself at the service\nof him who shall aid him in his desire for vengeance and shall redeem\nhim from captivity. Henceforth Prospero has all his enemies in his\npower; he can do with them what he likes. But he is not on the same\nplane with them, a combatant among combatants: meditation, experience\nand science have refined him: he is penetrated with the consciousness\nof humanity, of its instability, its illusions, its temptations, its\nmiseries. Where others think they see firm foothold, he is aware of\nchange and insecurity; where others find everything clear as day, he\nfeels the presence of mystery, of the unsolved enigma:\n\n    \"We are such things\n    As dreams are made of and our little life\n    Is rounded with a sleep.\"\n\nWill he punish? Finally, even his sprite Ariel, his minister of air,\nfeels compassion for those downcast prisoners, and when asked by\nProspero, does not withhold from him, that in his place he would be\nhuman.\n\n                      \"And mine shall.\n    Hast thou, which are but air, a touch, a feeling\n    Of their afflictions, and shall not myself,\n    One of their kind, which relish all as sharply,\n    Passion as they, be kindlier moved than thou art?\"\n\nThe guilty are pardoned, and finally Caliban, the monstrous Caliban,\nis pardoned also, promising to behave himself better from that moment\nonward. Prospero divests himself of his magic wand, which gave him so\nabsolute a power over his like, and while yet in his possession, caused\nhim to incur the risk of behaving towards them in a more than human,\nperhaps an inhuman way.\n\nShakespeare can and does attain to indulgence towards men; but since in\nhim the contest between good and evil, positive and negative, remains\nundecided, he is unable to rise to a feeling of cheerful hope and\nfaith, nor, on the other hand, to submerge himself in gloomy pessimism.\nIn his characters, the love of life is extraordinarily vigorous and\ntenacious; all of them are agitated by strong passions; they meditate\ngreat designs and pursue them with indomitable vigour; all of them\nlove infinitely and hate infinitely. But all of them, almost without\nexception, also renounce life and face death with fortitude, serenity,\nand as though it were a sort of liberation. The motto of all is uttered\nby Edgar, in _King Lear,_ in reply to his old father, Gloucester, who\nloses courage and wishes to die, when he hears of the defeat of the\nking and of Cordelia. Edgar reminds his father that men must face\n\"their coming here even as their going hence,\" and that _\"ripeness\nis all.\" _ They die magnificently, either in battle, or offering\ntheir throats to the assassin or the executioner, or they transpierce\nthemselves with their own hands, when nothing is left but death or\ndishonour. They know how to die; it seems as though they had all\n_\"studied death,\"_ as says a character in _Macbeth,_ when describing\none of them.\n\nAnd nevertheless the ardour of life never becomes lessened or\nextinguished. Romeo indeed admired the tenacity of life and the fear\nof death in him who sold him the poison; miserable, hungry, despised,\nsuspected by men and by the law, as he was. In _Measure for Measure,_\nin the scene where Claudio is in prison and condemned, the usual order\nis inverted; first we have the prompt persuasion and decision to\naccept death with serenity, and a few moments later the will to live\nreturns with furious force. The make-believe friar, who assists the\ncondemned man, sets the nullity of life before him in language full\nof warm and rich imagery: it is troublous and such as \"none but fools\nwould keep,\" a constant heart-ache for the fear of losing it, a craving\nafter happiness never attained, a falsity of affections, a crepuscular\ncondition, without joy or repose; and Claudio drinks in these words and\nimages, feeling that to live is indeed to die, and wishes for death.\nBut his sister enters, and when she tells him how she has been offered\nhis life as the price of her dishonour, he instantly clutches hold\nagain of life at that glimmer of hope, of hope stained with opprobrium,\nand dispels with a shudder of horror the image of death:\n\n                \"To die and go we know not where;\n    To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;\n    This sensible and warm motion to become\n    A kneaded clod; 'tis too horrible!\n    The weariest and most loathed worldly life\n    That age, ache, penury and imprisonment\n    Can lay on nature is a paradise\n    To what we fear of death....\"\n\nAnd in the same play the singular personage of Barnadine is placed\nbefore us, perfect in a few strokes, Barnadine, the criminal and almost\nanimal, indifferent to life and death, but who yet lives, gets drunk\nand then stretches himself out and sleeps soundly, and when he is\nawakened and called to the place of execution, declares firmly, that\nhe is not disposed to go there that day, so they had better leave him\nalone and not trouble him; he turns his shoulders on them and goes back\nto his cell, where they can come and find him, if they have anything\nto say. Here too the feeling of astonishment at an eagerness for life,\nwhich does not exclude the tranquil acceptance of death, is accentuated\nalmost to the point of becoming comic and grotesque.\n\n\n\n7\n\n\nIDEAL DEVELOPMENT AND CHRONOLOGICAL SERIES\n\n\nIt is clear that in considering the principal motives of Shakespeare's\npoetry and arranging them in series of increasing complexity, we\nhave not availed ourselves of any quantitative criterion or rule of\nmeasurement, but have considered only the philosophical concept of the\nspirit, which is perpetual growth upon itself, and of which every new\nact, since it includes its predecessors, is in this sense more rich\nthan they. We declare in the same way, that prose is more complex than\npoetry, because it follows poetry, assumes and dominates, while making\nuse of it, and that certain concepts and problems imply and presuppose\ncertain others; we further declare that a particular equality in poetry\npresupposes other poetry of a more elementary quality, and that a\npessimistic song of love or sorrow, presupposes a simple love-song.\n\nThus, in the succession of his works as we have considered them, which\nmight be more closely defined and particularised, we have nothing less\nthan the ideal development of Shakespeare's spirit, deduced from the\nvery quality of the poetical works themselves, from the physiognomy\nof each and from their reciprocal relations, which cannot but appear\nin relations which are serial and evolutionary. The comedies of love\nand the romantic comedies have the vagueness of a dream, followed by\nthe hard reality of the historical plays, and from these we pass to\nthe great tragedies, which are dream and reality and more than dream\nand reality. The general line followed by the poet even offered the\ntemptation to construct his development by means of the dialectic triad\nof thesis, antithesis and synthesis. But we do not recommend this\ncourse, or if followed, it should only be with the view of reaching and\nadopting a compendious and brilliant formula, without suppressing in\nany way the consciousness of complexity and variety of many effective\npassages, much less the positive value of individual expressions.\n\nThis development does not in any case coincide with the chronological\norder, because the chronological order takes the works in the order in\nwhich they are apprehensible from without, that is to say, in the order\nin which they have been written, acted or printed, and arranges them in\na series that is qualitatively irregular, or in other words, chronicles\nthem. Now this arrangement must not be opposed to or placed on a\nlevel with the other, as though it were the real opposed to the ideal\ndevelopment, for the ideal is the only truly real development, while\nthe chronological is fictitious or arbitrary, and thus unreal; that is\nto say, in clear terms, it does not represent development, but simply\na series or succession. To make this point yet more clear, by means of\nan example taken from common experience, we have all known men, who in\ntheir youth have practised or tried to practise some form of activity\n(music, versification, painting, philosophy, etc.) which they have\nafterwards abandoned for other activities, more suitable, because in\nthem susceptible of richer development. These men, later on, in their\nmaturity, or when old age is approaching, revert to those earlier\noccupations, and take delight in composing verses or music, in painting\nor in philosophising, returning, as they say, to their old loves.\nSuch returns are certainly never pure and simple returns: they are\nalways coloured to some extent by what has occurred in the interval.\nBut they really and substantially belong to the anterior moment; the\ndifferences that we observe in them some part of that particular\nconsideration which we have disregarded in considering the development\nof Shakespeare, while recommending it as a theme for special study.\nAs we find in works which represent a return to the period of youth,\nechoes of the mature period, so in youthful works we sometimes find\nanticipations and suggestions of the mature period. This is the case\nwith Shakespeare, not only in certain situations and characters of\nthe historical plays, but also in certain effects of the _Dream,_ the\n_Merchant of Venice_ and _Romeo and Juliet._\n\nAs the result of our argument, we cannot pass from the ideal to the\nextrinsic or chronological order, and therefore it could only indicate\ncaprice, were we to conclude from the fact that _Titus Andronicus_\nrepresents a literary Shakespeare or a theatrical imitator, that it\nmust chronologically precede _Romeo and Juliet,_ or even _Love's\nLabour's Lost._ The same applies to the argument that because\n_Cymbeline,_ the _Winter's Tale_ and _Pericles_ are composed of\nromantic material similar to that of _All's Well,_ of _Much Ado_ and\nof _Twelfth Night_ (where we find innocent maidens falsely accused and\nafterwards triumphant, dead women, who turn out to be alive, women\ndressed as men, and the like), that they must all have been written at\nthe same time. The same holds good of the historical plays: we cannot\nargue from the fact that these plays represent a more complex condition\nof the soul than the love comedies and the romantic plays, that the\nhistorical plays are all of them to be dated later than the two groups\nabove-mentioned; or that for the same reasons, _Hamlet,_ the first\n_Hamlet,_ could not by any means have been composed by Shakespeare in\nhis very earliest period, about 1592, as Swinburne asserts, swears and\ntakes his solemn oath is the case: and who knows but he is right?\n\nIn like manner, we cannot pass from the chronological to the ideal\norder, and since the chronology, documentary or conjectural, places\n_Coriolanus_ after _Hamlet,_ and also after _Othello, Macbeth, Lear_\nand _Anthony and Cleopatra,_ must not, therefore, insist upon finding\nin it profound thoughts, which it does not contain, or deny that it\nbelongs to the period of the \"historical plays\" with which it has the\nclosest connection. Again, although the chronology places _Cymbeline_\nand the _Winter's Tale,_ as has been said, in the last years of\nShakespeare's life, we must not insist upon finding profound meanings\nin those works, or talk, as some have done, of a superior ethic, a\n\"theological ethic,\" to which Shakespeare is supposed at last to\nhave attained, or dwell upon the gracious idyllic scenes to be found\nin them, weighing them down with non-existent mysteries, making out\nthat the Imogens and Hermiones are beings of equal or greater poetic\nintensity than Cordelia, or Desdemona, or take Leontes for Othello,\nJacques for Iago, whereas, in the eyes of those possessed of poetic\nsentiment, the former stand to the latter in the relation of little\ndecorative studies compared to works by Raphael or Giorgione. Proof of\nthis is to be found in the fact that the latter have become popular and\nlive in the hearts and minds of all, while the former please us, we\nadmire them, and pass on.\n\nAll that can be admitted, because comformable to logic and experience,\nis that the two orders in general--but quite in general, and therefore\nwith several exceptions and disagreements--big and little--correspond\nto one another. Indeed, if we take the usual chronological order, as\nfixed by philologists and to be found in all Shakespearean manuals\nand at the head of the plays, with little variation, we see that the\nfirst comedies of love and the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, including\nthe romantic element, which is common to all of them, belong to the\nfirst period, between 1591 and 1592. We next find the historical plays,\nthe comedies of love and the romantic dramas, closely associated;\nthen begins the period of the great tragedies, _Julius Caesar_ and\n_Anthony and Cleopatra;_ then again,--after a return to anterior\nforms with _Coriolanus, Cymbeline_ and the _Winter's Tale,_--we reach\nthe _Tempest,_ which seems to be the last, or among the last of\nShakespeare's works.\n\nBiographers have tried to explain the last period of Shakespeare's\npoetry in various ways, sometimes as the period of his _\"becoming\nserene,\"_ sometimes as that of his _\"poetical exhaustion\"_ sometimes\nas _\"an attempt after new forms of art\"_; but with such utterances as\nthese, we find ourselves among those conjectural constructions, which\nwe have purposely avoided, if for no other reason than that so many\npeople, who are good for nothing else, make them every day, and we do\nnot wish to deprive them of their occupation.\n\nThe _biographical_ character of that period can be interpreted, as we\nplease, as one of repose, of gay facility, of weariness, of expectation\nand training for new works, and so on: but the _poetical_ character\nof the works in question, is such as we have described, and such as\nall see and feel that it is. It is too but a biographical conjecture,\nhowever plausible,--but certainly most graceful and pleasing--, which\nmaintains that the magician Prospero, who breaks his wand, buries his\nbook of enchantments, and dismisses his aerial spirit Ariel, ready\nto obey his every nod, symbolizes William Shakespeare himself, who\nhenceforth renounces his art and takes leave of the imaginary world,\nwhich he had created for his own delight and in obedience to the law of\nhis own development and where till then he had lived as sovereign.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nTHE ART OF SHAKESPEARE\n\n\nThe motives of Shakespeare's poetry having been described, there is\nno occasion for the further question as to the way in which he has\nmade of them concrete poetry, in other words, as to the _form_ he\ngave to that affective content. Form and content cannot be separated\nfrom one another and considered apart. For this reason, everything\nremarked of Shakespeare's poetry, provided that it is something real\nand well observed, must be either a repetition applied to Shakespeare\nof the statement as to the characteristics, that is to say, the\nunique character of all poetry, or a description in language more\nor less precise, beneath the title of \"formal characteristics,\" of\nwhat constituted the physiognomy of the sentiment or sentiments of\nShakespeare, thus returning to that determination of motives, of which\nwe have treated above. Still less can we engage in an enquiry as to the\n_technique_ of Shakespeare, because the concept of technique is to be\naltogether banished from the sphere of aesthetic criticism, technique\nbeing concerned solely with the practical purposes of extrinsication,\nsuch as for poetry would be the training of a reciter's voice, or the\nmaking of the paper and the type, with which it is printed. There is\nno trade secret in Shakespeare, which can be communicated, no \"part\"\nthat \"can be taught and learned\" (as has been maintained); in the best\nsense \"technique\" has value as a synonym of artistic form and in that\nway returns to become part of the dilemma above indicated.\n\nEasy confirmation of this fact is to be found in any one of the many\nbooks that have been written on the \"form\" or on the \"technique\" of\nShakespeare. Take for example the most intelligent of all, that by\nOtto Ludwig, written with much penetration of art in general and of\nShakespearean art in particular, which contains the words that have\nbeen censured above. There we read, that in Shakespeare \"everything is\nindividualised, and at the same time idealised, by means of loftiness\nand power: every speech accords with the sentiment that has called\nit forth, every action with the character and situation, every\ncharacter and situation depends upon every other one, and both upon\nthe individuality of the time; every speech and every situation is\nyet more individualised by means of time and place, even by means of\nnatural phenomena; in such a way that each one of his plays has its own\natmosphere, now clearer, now more dark.\"\n\nBut of what poetry that is poetry cannot this individuated idealisation\nbe affirmed or demanded? We read in the same volume that Shakespeare\n\"is never speculative, but always holds to experience, as Shylock to\nthe signature on the bond.\" But what poetry that is poetry ever does\nabandon the form of the sensible for the concept or for reasoning?\nThe \"supreme truth\" of every particular of the representation is\npraised, but this does not exclude the use of the \"symbolical,\" that\nis, of particulars which are not found in nature, but mean what they\nare intended to mean, and \"give the impression of the most persuasive\nreality, although, indeed precisely because, not one word of them can\nbe said to be true to nature.\" With such a statement as this, the\nutmost attained is a confutation of the pertinacious artistic heresy as\nto imitation of nature. We find \"Shakespearean totality\" exalted, by\nmeans of which \"a passion is like a common denominator of the capital\nsum, and the capital sum becomes in its turn the general denominator\nof the play.\" This \"totality\" is clearly synonymous with the lyrical\ncharacter, which constitutes the poetry of every poem, including those\nthat are called epic and dramatic, or narrative, and those in the form\nof dialogue. We find here too that nearly all the tragedies assume\nin a sense the \"form of a sonata,\" which contains in close relation\nand contrast the theme, the idea of the hero and the counter-theme,\nand in the passages aforesaid develops the motives of the theme with\n\"harmonious and contrapuntal characteristics\" and \"in the third part\nresumes the whole theme in a more tranquil manner, and in tragedy in a\nparallel minor key.\" But this imaginary technical excellence is nothing\nbut the \"musical character\" of all art, which, like the \"lyrical\ncharacter,\" is certainly worth insisting upon as against the materially\nfigurative and realistic interpretation of artistic representations.\nAnalogous observations avail as to the \"ideality\" of \"time\" and\n\"place,\" which Ludwig discovers in Shakespeare, and which are to be\nfound in every poem, where rhythm and form obey rules, which are by no\nmeans arithmetical or geometrical, but solely internal and poetic. They\nalso avail against all the other statements of Ludwig and other critics\nas to typicity, impersonality, constancy of characteristics, which is\nalso variability, and the like. These are all similes or metaphors\nfor poetry, which is unique. It is true that some of these things are\nnoted, just with a view to differentiate Shakespeare from other poets,\nand therefore assume a proper individual meaning, when we take truth as\nbeing the particular Shakespearean truth, his vision of things, and the\nsense which he reveals for the indivisible tie between good and evil\nexisting in every man; for \"impersonality,\" his attitude of irresolute\nbut energetic dialectic, and so on; but in certain other cases, it is\nnot a question of the form of Shakespeare, but, as has been said, of\nhis own sentiment and of his motives of inspiration.\n\nIn one case only is it possible to separate form from content and to\nconsider it in itself; that is to say, when the rhetorical method\nis applied to Shakespeare or to any other artist. This consists in\nseparating form from content and making of it a garment, which becomes\njust nothing at all without the body with which it grew up, or gives\nrise to pure caprice and to the illusion that anyone can appropriate\nand adopt it to his own purposes. In romantic parlance (for there\nexisted a romantic manner of speech) what was known as a mixture of\ncomic and tragic, of prose and verse, what was called the \"humorous,\nthe grotesque, the fanciful,\" such as apparitions of mysterious and\nsupernatural beings, and again the method that Shakespeare employed\nin production of his plays, his manner of treating the conflict and\ndetermining the catastrophe, the way in which he makes his personages\nspeak, the quality and richness of his vocabulary, were enumerated\nas \"characteristics of his art,\" things that others could employ if\nthey wished to do so, and indeed they were so employed, with the poor\nresults that one can imagine. This is the source of the anticritical\nterminology employed for Shakespeare and other poets, which discovers\nand magnifies his \"ability,\" his \"expedients,\" his \"conveying of the\nnecessary information without having the air of doing so,\" as though he\nwere a calculator or constructor of instruments with certain practical\nends, not a divine imagination. But enough of this.\n\nCertainly, it would be possible to take one of the plays of\nShakespeare, or all of them, one after the other, and having exposed\ntheir fundamental motive (this has been done), to illustrate their\naesthetic coherence and to point out the delicacy of treatment, bit by\nbit, scene by scene, accent by accent, word by word. In _Macbeth,_ for\ninstance, might be shown the robust and potent unity of the affective\ntragical representation, which bursts out and runs like a lyric, all\nof a piece, everywhere maintaining complete harmony of parts, and each\nscene seeming to be a strophe of the poem, from its opening, with the\nsudden news of Macbeth's victories, and the joy and gratitude of the\nold king, immediately followed by the fateful meeting with the witches\nand by the kindling of the voracious desire, against which Macbeth\nstruggles; down to the coming of the king to the castle, where ambush\nand death await his unsuspecting confidence; then the scene darkens,\nthe murder takes place on that dread night, and Macbeth becomes\ngradually involved in a crescendo of crimes, up to the moment when the\nterrible tension ends in furious combat and the slaying of the hero.\nKing Duncan, when he arrives at the gate of the castle, serene and\nhappy as he is, in the event which has given peace to his kingdom,\nlingers to enjoy the delicate air and to admire the amenity of the\nspot. Banquo echoes him, and abandons himself to innocent pleasure, in\nwhole-hearted confidence, repeating that delicious little poem about\nthe martlet, which has suspended everywhere on the walls of the castle\nits nest and fruitful cradle,\n\n    \"This guest of summer,\n    The temple-haunting martlet,\"\n\nwhose presence he has always observed, implies that the \"air is\ndelicate.\" In the whole of that quiet little conversation, we feel\nsympathy for the good old man, we shudder for what is coming and are\nsensible of the piteous wrong in things. When Macbeth crosses swords\nwith Macduff, he remembers the last words of the witches' prophecy,\nwhich he believes to be favourable to himself; but when it becomes\nsuddenly evident that Macduff it is, who shall slay him, he shudders\nand bursts out as before, with: \"I will not fight with thee.\" This\nejaculation reveals the violence of the shock and an instinctive\nmovement of the will to live, which would elude its destiny. And we\ncan pause at any part of _Othello,_ for instance, at the moment when\nDesdemona intercedes for Cassio, with the gentleness and coquetry of\na woman in love, who knows that she is loved, and talks like a child,\nwho knows it has the right to be a little spoilt; or at the moment when\nDesdemona is in the act of being slain, when she does not break into\nthe complaints of innocence calumniated, nor assumes the attitude of a\nvictim unjustly sacrificed, but like a poor creature of flesh and blood\nthat loves life, loves love, and with childish egoism has abandoned her\nfather for love, and now breaks out into childish supplications, trying\nto postpone and to retard death, at least for a few moments.\n\n    \"O, banish me, my lord, but kill me not!...\n    Kill me to-morrow; let me live to-night!...\n    But half an hour!...\n    But while I say one prayer!\"\n\nWe could in like manner enable anyone to understand the fabulous-human\ncharacter of _King Lear,_ who did not at once understand it for\nhimself, by analysing the great initial scene between Lear and his\nthree daughters, where, at the poet's touch, the story and the fabulous\npersonages assume at one stroke a reality that is the very strength of\nour abhorrence of dry egoism cloaking itself in affectionate words and\nalso the very strength of our tender admiration for the true goodness,\nwhich conceals itself and does not speak (\"What shall Cordelia do? Love\nand be silent\").\n\nThis insistence upon analysis and eulogy will be of special value to\nthose who do not immediately understand of themselves, owing either\nto preconceptions, to habitual lack of attention, to their slight\nknowledge of art or to their lack of penetration. It will be of use in\nschools, to promote good reading, and outside them, it may assist in\nsoftening those hard heads which belong sometimes to men of letters.\nBut it does not form part of our object in writing this treatise, nor\ndoes it appear to form part of the duty of Shakespearean criticism, for\nShakespeare is one of the clearest and most evident of poets, capable\nof being perfectly understood by men of slight or elementary culture.\nWe run with impatience through the many prolix, aesthetic commentaries\nwhich we already possess on his plays, as we should certainly listen\nwith impatience to anyone who should draw our attention to the fact\nthat the sun is shining brightly in the sky at midday, that it is\ngilding the country with its light, making sparkle the dew, and playing\nwith its rays upon the leaves.\n\nOn the other hand, it is not inopportune to record that excellence\nin his art was long denied or contested to Shakespeare. This was the\ngeneral view of his contemporaries themselves, because we now know\nwhat we are to think of the words of praise, which we find relating to\nhim in the literature of his time. These had been diligently traced\nand collected by scholars, but had been more or less deliberately\nmisunderstood, and interpreted in a sense opposed to their correct\nmeaning, which was that of benevolent sympathy and condescending praise\nfor a poet of popular appeal, approximately what we should employ\nnow for a lively and pleasing writer of romantic adventures. Similar\njudgments reappeared in a different style and at a different time in\nthe famous utterances of Voltaire, which vary in their intonation\naccording to his humour: such are _barbare aimable, fou s\u00e9duisant,\nsauvage ivre,_ and the like. They do not appear to have lost their\nweight especially in France, where a certain Monsieur Pellissier has\nfilled a large volume with them, coming to the conclusion that the\nwork of Shakespeare, \"malgr\u00e9 tant de beaut\u00e9s admirables est un immense\nfouillis,\" and that it generally seems to be, \"celle d'un \u00e9colier,\nd'un \u00e9colier g\u00e9nial, qui n'ayant ni exp\u00e9rience, ni mesure, ni tact,\ngaspille pr\u00e9matur\u00e9 son g\u00e9nie abortif.\" Finally (and this has greater\nweight), Jusserand, a learned historian of English literature, treating\nof Shakespeare with great display of erudition, presents him as \"un\nfid\u00e8le serviteur\" of his theatrical public, and speaks of his \"d\u00e9fauts\n\u00e9normes.\" Chateaubriand, in his essay of 1801, playing the Voltaire in\nhis turn, attributed to him \"le g\u00e9nie,\" while he denied to him \"l'art,\"\nthe observance of the \"r\u00e8gles\" and \"genres,\" which are \"n\u00e9s de la\nnature m\u00eame\"; but later he recognises that he was wrong to \"mesurer\nShakespeare avec la lunette classique.\" Here he put his finger on the\nfundamental mistake of that sort of criticism, which judges art, not\nby its intrinsic qualities, but by comparison with other works of art,\nwhich are taken as models. The same mistake was renewed, when French\ntragedy was not the model, but the art of realistic modern drama\nand fiction. The principal document in support of this is Tolstoi's\nbook, where at every word or gesture of Shakespeare's characters, he\nexclaims that men do not speak thus, that is to say, the men who are\nnot man in universal, but the men of Tolstoi's romances, though these\nlatter happen to be far nearer to the characters of Shakespeare than\ntheir great, but unreasonable and quite uncritical author suspected.\nTolstoi arrives at the point of preferring the popular and unpoetical\nplay _King Lear,_ to the _King Lear_ of Shakespeare, because there is\nmore logic in the conduct of the plot in the former, thus showing that\nhe prefers minute prosaic details to sublime poetry.\n\nAn attenuated form of these views as to the lack of art in Shakespeare\nis the theory maintained better by R\u00fcmelin than by others, to the\neffect that the characters in Shakespeare are worth a great deal\nmore than the action or plots, which are disconnected, intermittent,\ncontradictory and without any feeling for verisimilitude. He also\nholds that Shakespeare works on each scene, without having the power\nof visualising the preceding scene, or the one that is to follow,\nand also that the characters themselves do not respect the truth of\ndialogue and of the drama, in their manner of speech, which is always\nfiery, imaginative and splendid. Finally, it might be said of him that\nhe composes beautiful music for libretti, which are more or less ill\nconstructed. Now if this theory had for its object to assert, though\nwith emphasis and exaggeration, that in a poetical work the material\npart of the story, the web of events, does not count, and that the only\nthing of importance is the soul that circulates within it, just as in\na picture, it is not the material side of the things painted (which is\ncalled by critics of painting \"the literary element,\" or that which\ntaken in itself is external and without importance), but the rhythm of\nthe lines and of the colours, what he maintained would be correct, if\nonly as a reaction. Coleridge has already noted the independence of the\ndramatic interest from the intrigue and quality of the story, which in\nthe Shakespearean drama, was obtained from the best known and commonest\nsources. But the object with which this theory was conceived by\nR\u00fcmelin and with which it is generally maintained, has for its object\nto establish a dualism or contradiction in the art of Shakespeare, by\nproving him to be \"strong\" in one domain of the spirit and \"weak\" in\nanother, where strength in both is \"necessary,\" in order to produce a\nperfect work.\n\nWe are bound to deny with firmness this assumption: we refuse to\nadmit the existence of any such dualism and contradiction, because\nthe distinction between characters and actions, between style and\ndialogue and style and work, is arbitrary, scholastic and rhetorical.\nThere is in Shakespeare one poetical stream, and it is impossible\nto set its waters against one another--characters against actions,\nand the like. So true is this, that save in cold blood, one does not\nnotice his so-called contradictions, omissions and improbabilities,\nthat is to say, when we leave the poetical condition of the spirit\nand begin to examine what we have read, as though it were the report\nof an occurrence. Nor is the imputation cast upon the speech of\nShakespeare's characters, which is perfectly consonant with the nature\nof the poems, admissible. Hence from the lips of Macbeth and of Lady\nMacbeth, of Othello and of Lear, came true and proper lyrics. These\nare not interruptions and dissonances in the play, but motions and\nupliftings of the play itself; they are not the superposition of one\nlife upon another, but the outpouring of that life, which is continued\nin the central motive. These witticisms, conceits and misunderstandings\nin _Romeo and Juliet,_ which have so often been blamed, are to\nbe explained, at least in great measure, in a natural way, as the\ncharacter of the play, as the comedy, which precedes and imparts its\ncolour to the tragedy, and is brilliant with the fashionable and\ngallant speech of the day.\n\nIn making the foregoing statement, we do not wish to deny that in the\ndrama of Shakespeare are to be found (besides historical, geographical,\nand chronological errors, which are indifferent to poetry but not\nnecessary and for that reason avoidable or to be avoided) words and\nphrases, and sometimes entire scenes, which are not justifiable, save\nfor theatrical reasons. We do not know to what extent they had his\nassent and to what extent they are due to the very confused tradition,\nunder the influence of which the text of his works has descended to us.\nWe also do not wish to deny that he was guilty of little over-sights\nand contradictions, and that he was perhaps generally negligent.\nBut it is important in any case to understand and bear in mind the\npsychological reasons for this negligence, inspired with that sort of\nindifference and contempt for the easy perfecting of certain details,\nof those engaged upon works of great magnitude and importance.\nGiambattista Vico, a mighty spirit who resembles Shakespeare, both in\nhis full, keen sense of life and in the adventures of his work and\nof his fame, was also apt frequently to overlook details and to make\nslight mistakes, and was convinced \"that diligence must lose itself in\narguments, which have anything of greatness in them, because it is a\nminute, and because minute a tardy virtue.\" Thus he openly vindicated\nthe right of rising to the level of heroic fury, which will not brook\ndelay from small and secondary matters.\n\nAs Vico was nevertheless most accurate in essentials, never sparing\nhimself the most lengthy meditations to sound the bottom of his\nthoughts, so it is impossible to think that Shakespeare did not give\nthe best and greatest part of himself to his plays, that he was not\ncontinually intent upon observing, reflecting comparing, examining his\nown feelings, seeking out and weighing his expressions, collecting and\nvaluing the impressions of the public and of his colleagues in art,\nin fact, upon the study of his art. The precision, the delicacy, the\ngradations, the shading of his representations, are an irrefragable\nproof of this. The sense of classic form is often denied to him, even\nby his admirers, that is to say, of a partial and old-fashioned\nideal of classical form, consisting of certain external regularities.\nBut he was a classic, because he possessed the strength that is sure\nof itself, which does not exert itself, nor proceed in a series\nof paroxysmal leaps, but carries in itself its own moderation and\nserenity. He had that taste which is proper to genius and commensurate\nwith it, because genius without taste is an abstraction to be found\nonly in the pages of treatises. The various passages, where he chances\nto find an opportunity for theorizing on art, show that he had\nprofoundly meditated the art he practised. In one of the celebrated\npassages of the _Dream,_ he makes Theseus say,\n\n    \"The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,\n    Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;\n    And as imagination bodies forth\n    The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen\n    Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing\n    A local habitation and a name.\"\n\nAnd that a powerful imagination, if it is affected by some joy,\nimagines someone as the bringer of that joy, and if it imagine some\nnocturnal terror, it changes a bush into a wild beast with great\nfacility. That is to say, he shows himself conscious of the creative\nvirtue of poetry and of its origin in the feelings, which it changes\ninto persons, endowed with ethereal sentiment. But in the equally\ncelebrated passage of _Hamlet,_ he dwells upon the other aspect of\nartistic creation, upon its universality, and therefore upon its calm\nand harmony. What Hamlet chiefly insists upon in his colloquy with\nthe players, is \"moderation,\" \"for in the very torrent, tempest, and,\nas I may say, the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a\ntemperance that may give it smoothness.\" To declare Shakespeare to be\na representative of the frenzied and convulsed style in poetry, as has\nbeen done several times, is to utter just the reverse of the truth.\nIn this respect, it is well to read the contemporary dramatists, with\na view to measuring the difference, indeed the abyss between them. In\nthe famous _Spanish Tragedy_ of Kyd, there is a scene (perhaps due to\nanother hand) in which Hieronymus asks a painter to paint for him the\nassassin of his own son, and cries out:\n\n    \"There you may show a passion, there you may show a passion....\n    Make me rave, make me cry, make me mad,\n    Make me well again, make me curse hell,\n    Invocate, and in the end leave me\n    In a trance, and so forth.\"\n\nThe same character is attacked by doubt and asks with anxiety: \"Can\nthis be done?\" and the painter replies: \"Yes, Sir.\"\n\nSuch was not the method of Shakespeare, who would have made the painter\nreply, not with a yes, but with a yes and a no together.\n\nHis art, then, was neither defective nor vitiated in any part of its\nown constitutive character, although certain works are obviously\nweak and certain parts of other works, in the vast mass that goes\nunder his name. Such youthful plays as _Love's Labour's Lost, The\nTwo Gentlemen,_ the _Comedy of Errors,_ are not notable, save for a\ncertain ease and grace, only manifesting in certain places the trace\nof his profound spirit. The \"historical plays,\" are as we have already\nshown, fragmentary and do not form complete poems animated with a\nsingle breath of passion. Some of them, and especially the first\npart of _Henry VI,_ have about them an arid quality and are loosely\nanecdotal; in others, such as _Henry IV_ and _Henry V,_ is evident the\ndesire to stimulate patriotic feelings, and they are further burdened\nwith scenes of a purely informative nature. _Coriolanus_ too, which\nwas apparently composed later and is derived from a different source,\nalso lacks complete internal justification, for it consists of a\nstudy of characters. _Timon_ (assuming that it was his) is developed\nin a mechanical manner, although it is full of social and ethical\nobservations and possesses rhetorical fervour. _Cymbeline_ and the\n_Winter's Tale_ contain lovely scenes, but are not as a whole works\nof the first order; the idyllic and romantic Shakespeare appears\nin them to have rather declined in comparison to the author of the\nearlier plays of the same sort, inspired with a very different vigour.\n_Measure for Measure_ contains sentiments and personages that are\nprofoundly Shakespearean, as the protagonist Angelo, the meter out of\ninexorable justice, so sure of his own virtue, who yields to the first\nsensual temptation that occurs, in Claudius, who wishes and does not\nwish to die, and in the Barnadine already mentioned. This play, which\noscillates between the tragic and the comic, and has a happy ending,\ninstead of forming a drama of the sarcastic-sorrowful-horrible sort,\nfails to persuade us that it should have been thus developed and thus\nended. There is something of the composite in the structure of the\nwonderful _Merchant of Venice,_ and certain of the scenes of _Troilus\nand Cressida,_ such as those of the speeches of Ulysses and those\non the other side of Hector and Troilus, seem to be echoes or even\nentire pieces taken from historical plays and transported with ironic\nintention into comedy. Points of this sort are to be found even in the\ngreat tragedies. In _Lear,_ for instance, the adventures of Gloucester\nand his son are not completely satisfactory, grafted as they are upon\nthose of the king and his daughters, either because they introduce too\nrealistic an element into a play with an imaginary theme, or because\nthey create a heavy parallelism, much praised by an Italian critic,\nwho has attempted to express _King Lear_ in a geometrical form; but\nthe origin for this parallelism may perhaps be really due to the need\nfor theatrical variety, complication and suspense, rather than to any\nmoral purpose of emphasising horror at ingratitude. The clown, who\naccompanies the king, abounds in phrases, which are not all of them\nin place and significant. But if to set about picking holes in the\nbeauties of Shakespeare's plays has seemed to us a superfluous and\ntiresome occupation, such too, from another point of view and in\naddition pedantic and irreverent, seems to be the investigation of\ndefects that we observe in them; they are opaque points, which the eye\ndoes not observe in the splendour of such a sun.\n\nAnother judgment which also has vogue refers to a constitutive or\ngeneral defect in Shakespeare's poetry, a certain limit or barrier\nin it, a narrowness, albeit an ample and a rich narrowness. We must\ndistinguish two forms of this judgment, the first of which might\nbe represented by the epigrams of Platen, who, while recognising\nShakespeare's power to move the heart and the strength of his\ncharacterisation, declared that \"so much truth is a fatal gift,\" and\nthat Shakespeare draws so incisively, only because he cannot veil\nhis personages in grace and beauty. He greatly admired even what is\npainful in Shakespeare, looking upon it as beautiful, and was full\nof admiration for his comical figures, such as Falstaff and Shylock,\n\"an incomparable couple\"; but he denied to Shakespeare true tragic\npower, which \"must open the deepest of wounds and then heal them.\"\nThe second of these forms is the commonest, and Mazzini may stand as\nits representative. He maintained that Shakespeare was a poet of the\nreal, not of the ideal, of the isolated individual, not of society;\nthat he was not dominated by the thought of duty and responsibility\ntowards mankind, as expressed in politics and history, that his was a\nvoice rather of the Middle Ages than of modern times, which found their\norigin in Schiller, the poet of humanity and Providence.\n\nEven Harris's book concludes with a series of reservations: he says\nthat Shakespeare was neither a philosopher nor a sage; that he never\nconceived a personage as contesting and combating his own time;\nthat he had only a vague idea of the spirit by which man is led to\nnew and lofty ideals in every historical period; that he was unable\nto understand a Christ or a Mahomet; that instead of studying, he\nridiculed Puritanism and so remained shut up in the Renaissance, and\nthat for these reasons, in spite of _Hamlet;_ he does not belong\nto the modern world, that the best of a Wordsworth or of a Tolstoi\nis outside him, and so on. We may perfectly admit all this and it\nmay even be of use in putting a curb upon such hyperbole and such\nsuperlatives as those of Coleridge, to the effect that Shakespeare\nwas _an\u00e9r myri\u00f3nous,_ the myriad-minded man (although even this\nmyriad-mindedness may seem to be but a very ample narrowness, if\nmyriads be taken as a finite number).\n\nShakespeare could never have desired to possess the ideal of beauty,\nwhich visited the soul of the hirsute and unfortunate Platen, the\nsocial or humanitarian ideals of the Schillers and Tourgueneffs. But\nhe had no need whatever of these things to attain the infinite, which\nevery poet attains, reaching the centre of the circle from any point\nof the periphery. For this reason, no poet, whatever the historical\nperiod at which he was born and by which he is limited, is the poet\nof only one historical epoch. Shakespeare formed himself during the\nperiod of the Renaissance, which he surpasses, not with his practical\npersonality, but with his poetry. There is nothing, then, for these\nlimiters to do, save to manifest their dissatisfaction with poetry\nitself, which is always limited-unlimited. This, I think, was also the\ncase with Emerson, who lamented that Shakespeare (whom he nevertheless\nplaced in the good company of Homer and of Dante) \"rested in the beauty\nof things and never took the step of investigating the virtue that\nresides in symbols,\" which seemed to be inevitable for such a genius,\nand that \"he converted the elements awaiting his commands,\" into a\ndiversion, and gave \"half truths to half men\": whereas, according\nto Emerson, the entire truth for entire men could only be given by\na personage whom the world still awaits. To Emerson, this personage\nseemed most attractive, but to others he may possibly perhaps seem as\nlittle amiable as Antichrist: he called him \"the poet-priest.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\nSHAKESPEAREAN CRITICISM\n\n\nCriticism of Shakespeare, like every criticism, has followed and\nexpressed the progress and alternations of the philosophy of art,\nor aesthetic; it has been strong or weak, profound or superficial,\nwell-balanced or one-sided, according to the doctrines that have\nthere been realised. Their history would form an excellent History\nof Aesthetic, because the fame of Shakespeare became widespread,\nconcurrently with the spread of aesthetic theory, with its liberation\nfrom external norms and concepts, and its penetration to the heart of\nits subject. Shakespeare's poetry in its turn stimulated this deepening\nof the theory of aesthetic, by its revelation of a poetic world, for\nemotion and admiration, in appearance at least, very different from\nwhat had previously passed as its sole and perfect example. But since\nwe are occupied at the present moment with Shakespeare and not with\naesthetic theory, we shall touch only upon certain points of this\ncriticism, in order the more firmly to establish by indirect proof the\njudgment expressed above, and to indicate certain obstacles, which the\nstudent of Shakespeare will meet with in critical literature relating\nto that poet. Our description and definition of them may render\navoidable certain of the most common errors.\n\nAmong these must be included (not in the seat of criticism, but in\nthe entrance-hall and at the gates) what may be called _exclamatory_\ncriticism, which instead of understanding a poet in his particularity,\nhis finite-infinity, drowns him beneath a flood of superlatives. This\nis the method employed by English writers towards Shakespeare (I am\nbound to admit that the Italians do the same as regards Dante). An\nexample of this habit, selected from innumerable others, is Swinburne's\nbook, from which we learn that \"it would be better that the world\nshould lose all the books it contains rather than the plays of\nShakespeare\"; that Shakespeare is \"the supreme creator of men\"; that\nhe \"stands alone,\" and at the most might admit \"Homer on his right and\nDante on his left hand\"; then, as to individual plays, we learn that\nthe trilogy of _Henry IV-V_ suffices to reveal him as \"the greatest\nplaywright of the world,\" that the _Dream_ stands \"without and above\nany possible or imaginable criticism.\" Thus he continues, puffing out\nhis cheeks to find hyperboles, which themselves finally turn out to be\ninferior to hyperbolic requirements. Sometimes such exclamations not\nonly border on the ridiculous, but fall right into it, as is the case\nwith Carlyle, who stood in perplexity before the hypothetical dilemma,\nas to whether England could better afford to lose \"the empire of India\nor Shakespeare.\" Victor Hugo, more generous, and an admirer of the\nocean, constituted a series of _hommes oc\u00e9ans,_ where the tragic poet\nof Albion found a place alongside of Aeschylus, Dante, Michael-Angelo,\nIsaiah and Juvenal.\n\nAnother style of criticism, _by images_ to be found in works that\nare estimable in other respects, is somewhat akin to this criticism\nwithout criticism, besides being far more justifiable, because, if it\ndoes not explain, it tries at least to give, as though in a poetical\ntranslation, a synthetic impression of Shakespeare's art and of the\nphysiognomy of his various works. It describes the works of Shakespeare\nby means of landscapes and other pictures, as Herder and other writers\nof the _Sturm and Drang_ period delighted in doing. Coleridge too did\nlikewise and Hazlitt even more often, as may be shown by an extract\nfrom the letter of a certain Miss Florence O'Brien, on _King Lear,_\nto be found in well-nigh all books that deal with this tragedy. She\nbegins: \"This play is like a tempestuous night: the first scene is like\na wild sunset, grandiose and terrible, with gusts of wind and rumblings\nof thunder, which announce the imminence of the hurricane: then comes a\nfurious tempest of madness and folly, through which we see darkly the\nmonstrous and unnatural figures of Goneril and Regan\"; et cetera. The\ndanger of such poetical variations is that of superimposing one art on\nanother, and of leading astray or of distracting the attention from the\ngenuine features of the original to be enjoyed and understood, in the\nattempt to render its effect.\n\nLet us pass over _biographical-aesthetic_ criticism: its fundamental\nerror and the arbitrary judgments with which it disturbs both biography\nand the criticism of art have already been sufficiently illustrated;\nand let us also pass over the _aesthetic_ criticism of _philologists,_\nwho imagine themselves to be interpreting and judging poetry, when\nthey are talking mere philology and uttering ineptitudes prepared with\ninfinite pains. Being confined to citing but one example of their\nmethod, I would select for that purpose Furnivall's introduction to\nthe _Leopold Shakespeare._ I fail to understand why this introduction\nis so highly esteemed and reverenced. Furnivall too, when he contrives\nnot to lose himself in exclamations and attempts poetry, (\"who could\npraise Falstaff sufficiently?\" \"who could fail to love Percy?\" \"the\ncountess mother in _All's Well_ resembles one of Titian's old ladies;\"\netc.), amuses himself by establishing links between the plays. These he\ndiscovers in the situations, in the action and elsewhere, regarding the\nworks externally and from a general point of view. Thus he discovers\na connection between _Julius Caesar_ and _Hamlet,_ in the repetition\nof the name of \"Caesar,\" which is found thrice in the latter play, in\nthe mouth of Horatio, of Polonius and of Hamlet, on the occasion of\nboth seeing a ghost, in Hamlet's feeling that he must avenge his father\nlike Antonius Caesar, and in the likeness of character between Brutus\nand Hamlet's father. Thus he attains to the ridiculous, as Carlyle and\nSwinburne by another route, when, for instance, he affirms that \"in a\ncertain sense Hotspur (the fiery Hotspur of _Henry IV_) is Kate (that\nis to say, the shrew in the _Taming of the Shrew,_) become a man and\nbearing armour!\"\n\nWe shall also not dwell upon _rhetorical_ criticism, which employs the\nmethod of \"styles.\" This method, after having rejected Shakespeare,\nbecause he does not pay attention to the different styles of writing\n(French criticism), and having then proceeded to reconcile him with\nstyles as explained by Aristotle in his _Poetics,_ when these are well\nunderstood (Lessing), having sung his praises as the \"genius of the\ndrama,\" the \"Homer of dramatic style\" (Gervinus), is still seeking for\nwhat is \"his alone and individually\" in \"the treatment\" of the \"drama.\"\nThis it will never find, because such a thing as a \"dramatic style\"\ndoes not exist in the world of poetry: what does exist is simply and\nsolely \"poetry.\" These questions of literary style are now rather out\nof date: they survive rather in the lazy repetition of words and forms\nthan in actual substance. It is certainly surprising to know that there\nstill exist persons who examine what are called the \"historical plays,\"\nand because they are \"historical,\" compare them with history books,\nblaming the poet for not having given to Caesar the part that should\nhave been his in _Julius Caesar,_ and quoting in support of their\nargument (like Brandes) the histories of Mommsen and of Boissier. And\nthere are also fossils who discuss in the language of the sixteenth\ncentury, verisimilitude, incongruity or multiplicity of plot, congruity\nor reverse of characters, crudeness of expression, and observation or\nfailure to observe by Shakespeare the rules of dramatic composition. To\nGerman criticism of the speculative period and to the vast monographs\nthat it produced upon Shakespeare must be given the credit of having\ntried to discover and determine the _soul_ of Shakespeare's poetry.\nWe must also admit, as a general quality of scientific German books\non literature, even when these are of the heaviest and most full of\nmistakes, that they do make us feel the presence of problems not\nyet solved, whereas other books, more easy to read, better written\nand perhaps less full of mistakes, are less fruitful of thoughts\nthat arise by repercussion or reaction. Unfortunately, these German\nwriters imagined that soul to reside in a sort of _philosophical,\nmoral, political and historical teaching,_ upon which Shakespeare\nwas supposed to have woven his plays. This was a flagrant offence\nagainst all sense of poetry, for not only did they forget the poetical\nin favour of the non-poetical; and attributed equal value to all of\nShakespeare's widely differing works, whatever their real value, but\nalso, since this non-poetical teaching had no existence, they set\nabout creating it on their own account by means of various subtleties,\nand of a sort of allegorical exegesis. Thus in Ulrici, Gervinus,\nKreyssig, Vischer and others like them, we read with astonishment,\nthat in _Richard III_ (to take a historical play) Shakespeare wished\nto impart \"an immortal doctrine upon the divine right of kings and\ntheir intangibility,\" and at the same time to give warning that it does\nnot suffice a king to be conscious of his right divine, unless he be\nprepared to maintain it with force against force. These writers have an\nalmost prophetic vision that Germany will need this lesson in the case\nof its romantic king, Frederick William IV of Prussia! In the _Tempest_\nagain (to take an imaginative play) Shakespeare is supposed by them to\nhave desired to give his opinion upon the great question, common to\nour time and his, as to the right of Europeans to colonise and the\nneed of subjecting the native savage by means of whip and sword, free\nof any scruple dictated by false sentiment. Finally (to take a last\nexample from the great tragedies), they held that the ideal teaching\nof _Othello_ is that punishment awaits unequal marriages, marriage\nbetween persons of different race, or different social condition, or\nof different age; and that Desdemona deserved her cruel fate, for she\nwas weighed down with sin, having disobeyed her old father, imprudently\nand over-warmly supported the cause of Cassio, and shown negligence and\nlack of care in handling the famous handkerchief, which she let fall at\nher feet! We can only reply to all this in the witty words of Riimelin,\n_\u00e0 propos_ of such incredible interpretations of Shakespeare's\ncatastrophes, to the effect that this \"dramatic justice,\" so dear to\nGerman aestheticians, is \"like Draco's sanguinary code, which decreed a\nsingle penalty for all misdeeds: death.\"\n\nNumberless are the shocks that the artistic consciousness receives\nfrom such a method as this. Gervinus, who professed \"an even firmer\nbelief in Shakespeare's infallibility in matters of morality than in\nhis lack of aesthetic defects,\" is indignant with readers disposed to\nfind hard and cruel Prince Henry's repulse on coming to the throne,\nof his old friend Falstaff, the companion of his merry adventures. He\ngravely declares that this proves modern readers to be \"far inferior\nboth to Prince Henry and to Shakespeare in nobility and ethical\nfervour\"; whereas it is evident that the poor readers are right,\nbecause we have to deal here with poetical images, not with practical\nand moral acts, and readers justly feel that Shakespeare was on this\noccasion obeying certain ends outside the province of art. Falstaff is\nsympathetic to every reader: even Gervinus does not dare to declare\nhim antipathetic, but sets about finding plausible explanations for\nthis illicit attractiveness. He produces three: the artistic perfection\nof the representation, the logical perfection of the type, and the\nstruggle between the will for pleasure that always stimulates Falstaff,\nand his old age and his paunch, which hinder or make him impotent,\nand according to Gervinus, are bestowed upon him, in order to appease\nor mitigate our shocked sense of ethical severity. But the only and\nobvious explanation of Falstaff's sympathetic attractiveness is the\nsympathy which the poet himself felt in his genial way for him as\na human force. In like manner, what we have held to be an error of\ncomposition, such as the story of Gloucester and his sons forming a\nparallel with that of Lear, is held to be a miracle by the professors\naforesaid, because, as says Ulrici, the poet wished to teach us that\n\"moral corruption is not isolated, but diffused among the most noble\nfamilies, representative of all the others.\" Vischer holds a similar\nview, to the effect that Shakespeare \"intended to show that, if impiety\nis widely diffused, society becomes impossible, and the world rocks to\nits foundation; but one instance of this did not suffice, so he had to\naccumulate the most terrifying confirmation of the fact.\"\n\nThese professors are also unanimous in rejecting the interpretation of\nthe words: \"He has no sons!\" uttered by Macduff, when he learns that\nMacbeth has caused his wife and little son to be murdered, as they are\nunderstood by the ingenuous reader, namely, that Macduff thus expresses\nhis rage at not being able to take an equal vengeance upon Macbeth,\nby slaying his sons. Their reason for this is that such a thing would\nbe unworthy of so upright and honourable a man as Macduff. As though\nsuch honourable men as Macduff are not subject to the impulse of anger\nand capable of at least momentary blindness; as though the eyes, even\nof Manzoni's Father Christopher did not sometimes blaze \"with a sudden\nvivacity,\" though he kept them as a rule fixed on the ground, as if\n(in the word of the author), they were two queer-tempered horses,\ndriven by a coachman, whom they know to be their master, yet they\nwill nevertheless indulge in an occasional frolic, for which they\nimmediately atone with a good pull on the bit.\n\nThat is what happens to Macduff, who assumes possession of himself when\nhe hears Malcolm's words that immediately follow. \"Dispute it like a\nman,\"--and says: \"I shall do so; but I must also feel it like a man.\"\n\nQuitting psychology and returning to poetry, nothing short of Malcolm's\nsavage outburst can express his torment, in the climax of the dialogue.\nWere Shakespeare himself to come forward and declare that he meant what\nthose insipid, moralising professors declare that he meant, Shakespeare\nwould be wrong, and whoever said that he was wrong, would be in better\naccordance with his genius than he himself, for he was a genius; only\nupon condition of remaining true to the logic of poetry.\n\nWe could fill a large volume with the misinterpretations of moralising\nand philosophising Shakespearean critics, but it is hoped that having\nhere demonstrated the absurdity of the principle, readers should be\nable to recognise it for themselves, in its sources and methods of\napproach.\n\nBut it would need a series of volumes to catalogue all the absurdities\nof another form of Shakespearean criticism, which differs from the\npreceding, in being in full flower and vigour to-day: we refer to\n_objectivistic_ criticism. The reason for this is that few are yet\nfully aware that every kind and example of art is only successful to\nthe extent that it is irradiated with a sentiment, which determines\nand controls it in all its parts. This used to be denied of certain\nforms of poetry, particularly of the dramatic; hence the false, but\nextremely logical deduction, of Leopardi, that the dramatic was the\nlowest and least noble kind of poetry, because it was the most remote\nand alien from pure form, which is the lyric. Shakespeare's objectivity\nof \"representation\" and the perfect \"reality\" of his characters, which\nlive their own lives independently are often praised. This can be\nsaid in a certain sense, but must not be taken literally, for it is\nmetaphorical; because, when we would reach and handle those images of\nthe poet's sentiment, there may not be an \"explosion\" (as happened when\nFaust threw himself upon the phantom of Helen), but in any case they\nwill lose their shape, fall into shreds and vanish before our eyes.\nIn their place will appear an infinite number of insoluble questions\nas to the manner of understanding or reestablishing their solidity\nand coherence. What is known as the _Hamlet-Litteratur_ is the most\nappalling of all these manifestations and it is daily on the increase.\nHistorians, psychologists, lovers of amorous adventures, gossips,\npolice-spies, criminologists investigate the character, the intentions,\nthe thoughts, the affections, the temperament, the previous life, the\ntricks they played, the secrets they hid, their family and social\nrelations, and so on, and crowd, without any real claim to do so, round\nthe \"characters of Shakespeare,\" detaching them from the creative\ncentre of the play and transferring them into a pretended objective\nfield, as though they were made of flesh and blood.\n\nAmong those inclined to such realistic and antipoetical investigation,\nsome there are, who see in Hamlet a pleasure-seeker, called to the\nachievement of an undertaking beyond his powers; others find in him\na scrupulous person, who struggles between the call to vengeance and\nhis better moral conscience, or one who studies vengeance, but without\nstaining his conscience. For others again, he is an artistic genius,\ninclined to contemplation, but ill-adapted to action, or a partial\ngenius not adapted to artistic creation, or a pure soul, or an impure\nand diseased soul, or a decadent, or a sexual psychopath, obsessed with\nlust and incest. We find others able to discover that he inherited\nthe characteristics of a father, who was tyrannical, vicious and a\nbad husband, and of an uncle possessed of a lofty soul and capacity\nfor governing a kingdom. Finally, some have even suspected him of not\nbeing a man, but a woman, daughter of the king, disguised as a man,\nand for that reason and for no other, rejecting the beautiful Ophelia\nand seeking Horatio, with whom she (Hamlet) was secretly in love. And\nwhat kind of maiden was Ophelia? Was she na\u00efve and innocent, or was\nshe not rather a malicious little court lady? Perhaps she too had\nher secret, which would explain her strange relations with Hamlet. An\nEnglish enquirer has arrived at the conclusion that Ophelia was not\nchaste, that she had given birth to a baby, and what is more, to a baby\nwhose father was not Hamlet, and that this was the reason why Hamlet\nadvised her to get her to a nunnery, and the priest refused to give\nher body Christian burial. Her brother, Laertes, had lived in Paris,\nand having there learned French customs, was for this reason so ready\nto accept the advice of the king to use a poisoned sword. According\nto some, Macbeth was so powerfully restrained by his own conscience,\nthat, save for his wife, he would never have satisfied his ambition\nand slain King Duncan. But according to others, he had meditated\nregicide for some time and had deferred his design, because he hoped\nto succeed in a legitimate manner, were the king to die without an\nheir. But he broke truce, when the king contemplated bestowing upon\nhis son the title of Duke of Cumberland, that is to say, Crown Prince.\nFor many, Lady Macbeth is a cold, pitiless woman, but for others she\nis tender and sweet by nature; for some, she is madly in love with her\nhusband, for others, madly incensed with him, because, judging by his\nundoubted military prowess, she had at first believed him to possess\nthe great soul of a conqueror, and then, when she found him vile with\nhuman mildness, sensible of scruples and remorse perturbed at the\nresults of his own deeds, to the extent of experiencing hallucinations\nand behaving rashly, she is consumed with scorn and dies of a broken\nheart, on the fall of that idol and which she had aspired, the perfect\ncriminal.\n\nOthello has been by some identified with a Moor, a Berber, a\nMauritanian, for others he is without doubt a bestial negro, boiling\nwith African blood. Iago is generally characterised as amoral and\nMachiavellian, a true Italian; but others deem him worthy the name\nof \"honest Iago,\" because he was good, amiable, serviceable in all\nthings--when his personal ambition was not at stake.\n\nBy some, Desdemona has been held to be desirable as a wife (others, on\nthe other hand, would be ready to marry Cordelia or Ophelia, others\nImogen or Hermione, others the nun Isabel, and finally there are some\nwho would prefer Portia, as \"an ideal woman,\" and a \"perfect wife\");\nbut as regards this, there are some who have divined the secret\ntendencies of Desdemona and have had no hesitation in defining her as\n\"a virtual courtesan.\"\n\nThen again: what was the difference of age between Othello and\nDesdemona? Had Othello seen the wonderful things existing in other\ncountries of which he speaks, or had he imagined them, or had he been\ntold of them? Perhaps he had enjoyed the wife of Iago, which would\nexplain the regard he has for the husband?\n\nBrutus, until lately, passed for an idealist tormented with ideals;\nbut more accurate investigations have revealed him to be a hypocrite\nin the Puritan manner, who, by means of repeated lies, ends by himself\nbelieving the noble motives to be found on his lips; however, things\nturn out badly and he finally receives the punishment he deserves.\n\nFalstaff's religious origin has been discovered: he was a Lollard,\nand thus a declared eudemonist, convinced of the nullity of the world\nand of the inutility of life, living from minute to minute. He is not\nreally a liar and a boaster, but an imaginative person; nor is he vile,\nsave in appearance; he should be regarded rather as an opportunist.\n\nWe read these and an infinity of other not less astonishing statements\nin the volumes, opuscules and articles which are published every year\nupon the characters of Shakespeare. The effect of such discussions,\neven where most sensibly written, is never to clear up or decide\nanything, but on the contrary, to darken what appeared perfectly\ncertain, and gave no reason for any difficulty, to render uncertain\nwhat was clearly determined. Such works give rise further to the doubt\nthat Shakespeare was perhaps so inexpert a writer as not to be able to\nrepresent his own conceptions, nor express his own thoughts.\n\nBut when we do not allow ourselves to be caught in the meshes of these\nfictitious problems, of which we indicated the _proton pseudos,_\nwhen we resolutely banish them from the mind, and read and reread\nShakespeare's plays without more ado, everything remains or becomes\nclear again, everything, that is to say, which should (as is natural)\nbe clear for the ends of poetry, in a poetical work. As Grillparzer\nremarked in his time, that very Hamlet, whom Goethe took such trouble\nto explain psychologically, and over whom so many hundreds of\ninterpreters have so diligently toiled, \"is understood with perfect\nease by the tailor or the bootmaker sitting in the gallery, who\nunderstands the whole of the play by raising his own feelings to its\nlevel.\"\n\nFrom this derives another consequence: Shakespeare has been loudly\npraised for his portentous fidelity to nature and reality, but at\nthe same time the critics, as quoted above, have placed obstacles of\nvarious sorts in the way of those who would understand him so it has\nbeen freely stated that Shakespeare is certainly a great poet, but that\nhis method is not that of \"fidelity,\" to nature, on the contrary, he\nviolates \"reality\" at every turn, creating characters and situation,\n\"which are not found in nature.\" It would be better to say simply\nthat Shakespeare, like every poet, is neither in accordance nor in\ndisaccordance with external reality (which for that matter is what each\none of us likes to make and to imagine in his own way), for the reason\nthat he has nothing to do with it, being intent upon the creation of\nhis own spiritual reality.\n\nThe third great misadventure that has befallen Shakespeare, after those\nof the moralising and psychological-objectivistic critics, is his\ntransference, we will not call it his promotion, to the position of a\n_German,_ opposed to that of a _Latin_ or neo-Latin poet. It is not\ndifficult to trace the origin of this transference, when we remember\nthat Shakespeare was looked upon, both by his contemporaries and yet\nmore so when rediscovered in the eighteenth century, as a spontaneous,\nrough, natural, popular poet, just the opposite of the cultured,\nmannered school, in which, however, he had shown evidence of prowess\nwith the lesser poems and the sonnets.\n\nThis conception of his as a natural poet is found in the first school\nof the new German literature, known as the _Sturm und Drang,_ which\ncultivated the idea of \"genius\"; and from this arose the idea of\nShakespeare as the expression of \"pure virgin genius, ignorant of rules\nand limits, a force as irresistible as those of nature\" (Gerstenberg).\nAnd since the new German poets and men of letters greatly admired him,\nand as has been said, the new Aesthetic understood him much better\nthan the old Poetic had done or been able to do, instead of this\nbetter sympathy and intelligence being attributed to the spiritual\ndispositions of the Germans of that period and to the progress that\nthey were effecting in the life of thought, it was attributed to\naffinity and relationship, which was supposed to connect the German\nspirit with that of Shakespeare. It is true that this theory was soon\nfound to lack foundation, because the best German critics, among whom\nwere August William Schlegel, proved that there was as much art and\nregularity in Shakespeare as in any other poet, although they were\nnot the same in him as in others, and he did not obey contingent and\narbitrary rules.\n\nIt is also true that to a Frenchman was due the first revelation\nof Shakespeare outside his own country: Voltaire, with his _odi et\namo,_ has always been blamed and held up to ridicule for the negative\nside of his criticism, but the positive side of it, the mental\ncourage, the freshness of mental impressions, which his interest in\nShakespeare, his admiration for his sublimity, deserved, have not\nbeen sufficiently remarked. But it is likewise true that France has\nnever understood Shakespeare well, owing to her classical tradition\nin literature and her intellectualist tradition in philosophy, though\nwe do not forget her fugitive enthusiasms for the poet. Even to-day,\nMaeterlinck notes \"la profonde ignorance\" that still reigns \"de\nl'\u0153uvre shakespearienne,\" even among \"les plus lettr\u00e9s.\" This afforded\nan opportunity for underlining the antithesis between \"German\" and\n\"French\" taste, which was soon, but without any justification, expanded\ninto \"Latin\" taste.\n\nThe English of that period, both in speech and literature, were almost\nas indifferent to Shakespeare as were the French. This was observed\nand commented upon in a lively manner, among others by Schlegel,\nTieck, Platen and Heine. However, the new methods of German criticism\nsoon made their influence felt in England (Coleridge, Hazlitt), and\nit seemed to the Germans that these writers had preserved the true\ntradition of the race and had reillumined the fire that was languishing\nor had been altogether extinguished among their brethren of the same\nrace, and that they had dissipated the heavy cloud of classical,\nFrench and Latin taste, which was hanging over England. To their real\nmerit in recognising the fame of Shakespeare and their profound study\nof the poet, and to the false interpretation that they gave of these\nmerits by attributing them to the virtue of their race, were added,\nfor well known political reasons, German pride and self-conceit, which\ndid the rest. All the moralising critics, to whom we have referred,\nwere also critics imbued with the German spirit. They united the\naustere morality, which they discovered in Shakespeare and his heroes,\nto celebration of the German nature of these qualities and of the\npoet. They set in opposition the genuine, rude, realistic quality of\nShakespeare's poetry, to the artificial, cold, schematic poetry of the\nLatins. They celebrated the Germanism of a Henry IV (his wild youth is\njust that of a German youth, says Gervinus; it is the genius of the\nGerman race, with its incorruptible health, its strength of marrow, its\ninfinite depths of feeling, beneath a hard and angular exterior, its\nchildlike humility, its wealth of humour, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera,\nsays Kreyssig), of a Hamlet (naturally, because he is represented\nas a student of Wittenberg) and so on, through the Ophelias and the\nCordelias, and even the characters of the comedies, such as Benedick\nand Biron (this last \"possessing a character entirely German,\" \"with\nthe harshness of a Saxon,\" humorous, remote from sentimentality and\naffectation, and therefore \"out of place among the gallantries of Latin\nsociety\"--all the above is taken from Gervinus).\n\nShakespeare's place \"is in the Pantheon of the Germanic people, in the\nsanctuary richly adorned with all the gods and demons of this race,\nthe most vigorous in life, the best capable of development, the most\nwidely diffused of all races.\" He stands, either beside Durer and\nRembrandt, or on a spur of Parnassus, facing Homer and Aeschylus on\nanother spur, sometimes permitting Dante to stand at his side--Dante\nwas of German origin--, while the impotent crowd of the poets of Latin\nrace seethes at his feet. For Carri\u00e8re, he is the mouthpiece of the\nGerman spirit in England, while for another, he is England's permanent\nambassador to Germany, accredited to the whole German people.\n\nBoth French and Italian critics also gave credence to this boasting,\nsometimes echoing the theory of difference between the two different\narts, that of the north and that of the south, romantic and classic,\nrealistic and idealistic or abstract, passionate or rhetorical,\nwhile others bowed reverently before the superiority of the former.\nIn the recent war took place a rapid change of style, but not of\nmental assumptions. Both French and Italians mocked and expressed\ntheir contempt for the rough and violent poetry of Germany, and even\nShakespeare did not have _une bonne presse_ on the occasion of his\ncentenary, which took place during the second year.\n\nBut return to serious matters, it seems undeniable that the historical\norigin of Shakespeare is to be found in the Renaissance, which\nis generally admitted to have been chiefly an Italian movement.\nShakespeare got from Italy, not only a great part, both of his form\nand of his material, but what is of greater moment, many thoughts that\nwent to form his vision of reality. In addition to this, he obtained\nfrom Italy that literary education, to which all English writers of\nhis time submitted. One may think, however, what one likes as to the\nhistorical derivation of Shakespeare's poetical material and of his\nliterary education: the essential point to remember is that the poetry\nhad its origin solely in himself; he did not receive it from without,\neither from his nation, his race, or from any other source. For this\nreason, divisions and counter-divisions of it, into Germanic and Latin\npoetry, and similar dyads, based upon material criteria, are without\nany foundation whatever. Shakespeare cannot be a Germanic poet, for\nthe simple reason that in so far as he is a poet, he is nothing but a\npoet and does not obey the law of his race, whether it be _lex salica,\nwisigothica, langobardica, anglica_ or any other _barbarorum,_ nor\ndoes he obey the _romana--_he obeys only the universally human _lex\npoetica._\n\nThat a more profound and a better understanding of Shakespeare should\nhave been formed and be steadily increasing, in the midst of and\nbecause of these and other errors, is a thing that we are so ready to\nadmit as indubitable and obvious that we take it as understood, because\nit always happens thus, in every circle of thought and in literary\nhistory and criticism in general, and so in the particular history and\ncriticism of Shakespeare.\n\nOur object has not been, however, to give the history of that\ncriticism, but rather to select those points in it, which it was\nadvisable to clear up, in order to confirm the judgment that we\npropose and defend. If erroneous positions of criticism serve by their\nopposition to arouse correct thoughts relating to the poet, others,\nwhich are not erroneous, lead directly to them. In addition to the\npages of older writers, always worthy of perusal (though devoted\nto problems of different times), such as those of Herder, Goethe,\nSchlegel, Coleridge and Manzoni, the student will find among those\nwith whom he will like to think among the Dowdens, the Bradleys, the\nRaleighs of to-day. These will inspire in him the wish to continue\nthinking on his own account about the nature of the great poetry of\nShakespeare.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nSHAKESPEARE AND OURSELVES\n\n\nShakespeare (and this applies to every individual work) had a history,\nbut has one no longer. He had a history, which was that of his poetical\nsentiment, of its various changing notes, of the various forms in\nwhich it found expression. He had also (we must insist), an individual\nhistory which it is difficult to identify united with that of the\nElizabethan drama, to which he belongs solely as an actor and provider\nof theatrical works. The general traits, which, among many differences,\nhe shares with his contemporaries, predecessors and imitators (even\nwhen these are more substantial than theatrical imitations, conventions\nand habits) form part of the history of the Renaissance in general and\nof the English Renaissance in particular, but do not of themselves\nconstitute the history that was properly speaking his own.\n\nBut he no longer has this, because what happened afterwards and what\nhappens in the present, is the history of others, is our history,\nno longer his. Indeed, the histories of Shakespeare, which have\nbeen composed, considered in the light of later times--and they are\nstill being written--have been and are understood, in a first sense,\nas the history of the criticism of his works; and it is clear that\nin this case, it is the history of us, his critics, the history of\ncriticism and of philosophy, no longer that of Shakespeare. Or they\nare understood as the history of the spiritual needs and movements of\ndifferent periods, which now approach and now recede from Shakespeare,\ncausing either almost complete forgetfulness of his poetry, or causing\nit to be felt and loved. In this case too, it is the history, not of\nShakespeare, but of the culture and the mode of feeling of other times\nthan his. Or they are understood in a third sense, as the history of\nthe literary and artistic works, in which the so-called influence of\nShakespeare is more or less discernible; and since this influence would\nbe without interest, if it produced nothing but mere mechanical copies,\nand on the contrary has interest only because we see it transformed in\nan original manner by new poets and artists, it is the history of the\nnew poets and artists and no longer that of Shakespeare.\n\nAs regards the last statement, it will not be out of place to remark\nthat the accounts which have been given of the representations of\nhis plays are altogether foreign to Shakespeare; because theatrical\nrepresentations are not, as is believed, \"interpretations,\" but\nvariations, that is to say \"creations of new works of art,\" by means\nof the actors, who always bring to them their own particular manner of\nfeeling. There is never a _tertium comparationis,_ in the sense of a\npresumably authentic and objective interpretation, and here the same\ncriterion applies as to music and painting suggested by plays, which\nare music and painting, and not those plays. Giuseppe Verdi, who for\nhis part composed an _Othello,_ wrote to the painter Morelli, who had\nconceived a painting of Iago (in a letter of 1881, recently published):\n\"You want a slight figure, with little muscular development, and if I\nhave understood you rightly, one of the cunning, malignant sort ...\nBut if were I an actor and wished to represent Iago, I should prefer a\nlean, meagre figure, with thin lips, and small eyes close to the nose,\nlike a monkey's, a high retreating forehead, with a deal of development\nat the back of the head; absent and _nonchalant_ in manner, indifferent\nto everything, incredulous, sneering, speaking good and evil lightly,\nwith an air of thinking about something quite different from what he\nsays ...\" They might have entered into a long discussion as to the two\ndifferent interpretations, had not Verdi, with his accustomed good\nsense, hastened to conclude: \"But whether Iago be small or big, whether\nOthello be Venetian or Turk, _execute them as you conceive them_: the\nresult will always be good. But remember _not to think too much about\nit._\"\n\nThe insurmountable difference that exists between the most studiously\npoetic theatrical representation and the original poetry of\nShakespeare, is the true reason why, contrary to the general belief in\nShakespeare's eminent \"theatricality,\" Goethe considered that \"he was\nnot a poet of the theatre and did not think of the stage, which is too\nnarrow for so vast a soul, that the visible world is too narrow for\nit.\" Coleridge too held that the plays were not intended for acting,\nbut to be read and contemplated as poems, and added sometimes to say\nlaughingly, that an act of Parliament should be passed to prohibit the\nrepresentation of Shakespeare on the stage.\n\nCertainly, Lear and Othello, Macbeth and Hamlet, Cordelia and\nDesdemona are part of our souls, and so they will be in the future,\nmore or less active, like every part of our souls, of our experiences,\nof our memories. Sometimes they seem inert and almost obliterated, yet\nthey live and affect us; at others they revive and reawaken, linking\nthemselves to our greatest and nearest spiritual interests. This latter\nwas notably the case in the epoch that extends from the \"period of\ngenius\" at the end of romanticism, from the criticism of Kant to the\nexhaustion of the Hegelian school. At that time, poets created Werther\nand Faust, as though they were the brothers of Hamlet, Charlotte and\nMargaret and Hermengarde, as though sisters of the Shakespearean\nheroines, and philosophers constructed systems, which seemed to frame\nthe scattered thoughts of Shakespeare, reducing his differences to\nlogical terms, and crowning them with the conclusion that he either did\nnot seek or did not find. At that time persisted even the illusion that\nthe spirit of Shakespeare had transferred itself from the Elizabethan\nworld to the new world of Europe, was poetising and philosophising with\nthe mouths of the new men and directing their sentiments and actions.\n\nPerhaps after that period, love of Shakespeare, if not altogether\nextinguished, greatly declined. The colossal mass of work of every sort\ndevoted to Shakespeare, cannot be brought up against this judgment,\nfor this mass, in great part due to German, English and American\nphilologists, proves rather the sedulity of modern philology, than a\nprofound spiritual impulse. This was more lively, when Shakespeare\nwas far less investigated, rummaged and hashed up, and was read in\neditions far less critically correct. How could he be truly loved and\nreally felt in an age which buried dialectic and idealism beneath\nnaturalism and positivism, for the former of which he stood and which\nhe represented in his own way? In this age, the consciousness of the\ndistinction between liberty and passion, good and evil, nobility and\nvileness, fineness and sensuality, between the lofty and the base\nin man, became obscured; everything was conceived as differing in\nquantity, but identical in substance, and was placed in a deterministic\nrelation with the external world. In such an atmosphere artistic\nwork became blind, diseased, gloomy, instinctive; struggling for\nexpression amid the torment of sick senses, no longer amid passionate,\nmoral struggles of the soul; confused writers, half pedantic, half\nneurasthenic, were taken for and believed themselves to be, the heirs\nof Shakespeare. Even when one reads some of the most highly praised\npages of the critics of the day upon Shakespeare, so abounding in\nexquisite refinements, a sort of repugnance comes over one, as though a\nwarning that this is not the genuine Shakespeare. He was less subtle,\nbut more profound, less involved, but more complex and more great than\nthey.\n\nThis is not a lamentation directed against the age, which is perhaps\nnow drawing to a close and perhaps has no desire to do so, and will\ncontinue to develop its own character for a greater or lesser period.\nIt is simply an observation of fact, which belongs to that history,\nwhich is not the history of William Shakespeare. He continues to live\nhis own history, in those spirits alone, who are perpetually making\nanew that history which was truly his, as they read him with an\ningenuous mind and a heart that shares in his poetry.\n\n\n\n\nPART III\n\n\nPIERRE CORNEILLE\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nCRITICISM OF THE CRITICISM\n\n\nThere is no longer any necessity for a criticism of Corneille's\ntragedies in a negative sense, for it is already to be found in\nseveral works. Further, if there exists a poet, who stands outside\nthe taste and the preoccupations of our day (at least in France), it\nis Corneille. The greater number of lovers of poetry and art confess\nwithout reserve that they cannot endure his tragedies, which \"have\nnothing to say to them.\" The fortune of Corneille has declined more\nand more with the growth of the fame of Shakespeare, which has been\ncorrelative to the formation and the growth of modern aesthetic\nand criticism; and if the fame of Shakespeare seemed strange and\nrepugnant to classicistic elegance, the same fate has befallen the\nFrench dramatist, as the result of Shakespeareanism in relation to the\nappreciation of art which has now penetrated everywhere. Corneille\nonce represented \"_la profondeur du jugement_\" as opposed to \"_les\nirr\u00e9gularit\u00e9s sauvages et capricieuses_\" of the Englishman, decorum\nagainst the lack of it, calm diffused light against shadows pierced\nat rare intervals with an occasional flash. Lessing had selected for\nexamination and theme the _Rodogune,_ which he held to be a work, not\nof poetical genius, but of an ingenious intellect, because genius loves\nsimplicity, and Corneille, after the manner of the ingenious, loved\ncomplications. Schiller, when he had read the most highly praised works\nof Corneille, expressed his astonishment at the fame which had accrued\nto an author of so poor an inventive faculty, so meagre and so dry in\nhis treatment of character, so lacking in passion, so weak and rigid in\nthe development of action, and almost altogether deprived of interest.\nWilliam Schlegel noted in him, in place of poetry, \"tragic epigrams\"\nand \"airs of parade,\" pomp without grandeur--he found him cold in the\nlove scenes--his love was not as a rule love, but, in the words of the\nhero Sertorius, a well calculated _aimer par politique--_intricate\nand Machiavellian and at the same time ingenuous and puerile in\nthe representation of politics. He defined the greater part of the\ntragedies as nothing but treatises on the reason of State in the\nform of discussions, conducted rather in the manner of a chess-player\nthan of a poet. Even the most temperate De Sanctis could not succeed\nin enjoying this writer, as is to be gathered from his lectures upon\ndramatic literature delivered in 1847. He found that he does not render\nthe fullness of life, but only the extreme points of the passions\nin collision, and that he prefers eloquence to the development of\ntragedy, so that he often unconsciously turns tragedy into comedy. The\nconfrontation of Corneille's _Cid_ with its Spanish original, _Las\nmocedades_ of Guill\u00e9n de Castro, has however prevailed above all others\nas the text upon which to base arguments against the French dramaturge.\nShack declared that the work of Corneille was altogether negative, that\nhe reduced and re\u00eblaborated his original, losing the poetical soul\nof the Spanish poet in the process and destroying the alternate and\nspontaneous expression of tenderness and of violent passion. He found\nthat he substituted oratorical adornments and a swollen phraseology\nfor the pure language of sentiment, coquetry for the struggle of the\naffections, to which it is directly opposed, and a boastful charlatan\nfor the heroic figure of Rodrigo. Klein, passing from severe\ncriticism into open satire, described the _Cid_ to be a \"commentary in\nAlexandrines\" upon the poem of the _Mocedades,_ comparing the Spanish\nJimena to a fresh drop of dew upon \"a flower that has hardly bloomed,\"\nand the French Chim\u00e8ne on the contrary to a \"muddy drop, which presents\na tumultuous battle of infusorians to the light of the sun\": the\n\"infusorians\" would represent the antithesis to the \"Alexandrine tears\"\n(_Alexandrinerthr\u00e4nen_), which she pours forth.\n\nBut these negative judgments were not restricted altogether and\nat first to foreigners and romantics. In the eighteenth century,\nVoltaire (who for that matter sometimes lifts his eyes to the\ndangerous criterion of Shakespeare in his notes upon Corneille) did\nnot refrain from criticising his illustrious predecessor for the\nfrequent _froideur_ observable in his dramatic work, as well as for his\nconstant habit of speaking himself as the author and not allowing his\npersonages to speak, for his substitution of reflections for immediate\nexpressions, and for the artifices, the conventions and the padding, in\nwhich he abounds. Vauvenargues showed himself irreconcilable (Racine\nwas his ideal). He too blamed the heroes of Corneille for uttering\ngreat things and not inspiring them, for talking, and always talking\ntoo much, with the object of making themselves known--whereas great\nmen are rather characterised by the things they do not say than those\nthey do say--and in general for ostentation, which takes the place\nof loftiness, and for declamation, which he substitutes for true\neloquence. Gaillard allowed the influence of the generally unfavorable\nverdict or the verdict full of retractations and cautions in respect\nof its theme, to colour the eulogy which he composed in 1768. It used\nto be said of Corneille that he aimed rather at \"admiration\" than at\n\"emotion,\" and that he was in fact \"not tragic.\" This insult (declared\nGaillard) was spoken, but not written down, \"because the pen is always\nwiser than the tongue.\" But the accusation of \"coldness\" had made\nitself heard on the lips of Corneille's contemporaries in the second\nhalf of the seventeenth century, particularly when the tragedies of\nRacine, with their very different message to the heart, had appeared to\nafford a contrast.\n\nThe defenders of Corneille have often yielded to the temptation of\naccepting Shakespeare's dramas or at least the tragedies of Racine as\na standard of comparison and a reply to criticism. They have attempted\nto prove that Corneille should be read, judged and interpreted in the\nspirit of those poets. They have claimed to discover in Corneille just\nthat which their adversaries failed to discover and of which they\ndenied the existence: this they call truth, reality and life, meaning\nthereby, passion and imagination. Thus we find Sainte-Beuve lamenting\nthat not only foreigners, but France herself, had not remarked and\nhad not gloried in the possession of Pauline (in _Polyeucte_), one\nof the divine poetical figures, which are to be placed in the brief\nlist containing the Antigones, the Didos, the Francescas da Rimini,\nthe Desdemonas, the Ophelias. More recently others have elevated the\nCleopatra (of _Rodogune_) to the level of Lady Macbeth, and the Cid, on\naccount of the youthful freshness of his love-making, to the rank of\n_Romeo and Juliet,_ while they have discovered in _Androm\u00e8de_ nothing\nless than that kind of _f\u00e9erie po\u00e9tique_ \"to which the English owe a\n_Midsummer Night's Dream_ and the _Tempest._\" They also declare that\nthe _Horace_ is a tragedy in which reigns a sort of \"savage Roman\nsanctity,\" culminating in the youthful Horace, \"intransigent and\nfanatical, ferociously religious\"; while his sister Camilla is \"a\ncreature of nerves and flesh, who has strayed into a family of heroes\"\nand rises up in revolt against that hard world. For them Camilla is\nan \"invalid of love,\" \"one possessed by passion,\" a \"neurotic,\" of\nan altogether modern complexion. _Polyeucte_ represents \"a drama of\nnascent Christianity,\" and its protagonist, a \"mystical rebel,\" recalls\nat once \"Saint Paul, Huss, Calvin and Prince Krapotkine,\" arousing\nthe same curiosity as a Russian nihilist, such as one used to see\nsome years ago in the beershops, with bright eyes, pale and fair, the\nforehead narrow about the temples and of whom it was whispered that he\nhad killed some general or prefect of police at Petersburg. Severus\nseems to them to be similar in some respects to \"a modern exegete,\"\nwho is writing the history of the origin of Christianity. There exists\nno play \"which penetrates more profoundly into the human soul or opens\na wider perspective of untrodden paths.\" _Cinna_ represents in the\ntragedy of Augustus another neurotic after the modern manner. Augustus,\nambitious and without scruples, has attained to the summit of his\ndesires and is weary and tired of power. He negates the man who ordered\nthe proscriptions that is in himself and his generosity is due almost\nto satiety for too easy triumphs and vengeances. Attila, in the tragedy\nof that name, springs out before us as \"a monster of pride, cruel,\nemphatic and subtle, conscious of being the instrument of a mysterious\npower, an ogre with a mission\": this \"stupendous\" conception is worthy\nto stand side by side with the gigantic figures of the _L\u00e9gende des\nSi\u00e8cles._\n\nThese are all fantastic embroideries, metaphors, easel pictures, which\nsometimes do honour to the artistic capacity of the eulogists, but\nhave no connexion whatever with the direct impression of Corneille's\ntragedies. Spinoza would have said that they have as much connexion\nwith them as the dog of zoology with the dog-star. An obvious instance\nof this is the strange comparison of the character Polyeucte with\nthe \"Russian nihilist\"--but it is little less evident in the other\ninstances, because it is altogether arbitrary to interpret the Augustus\nof the _Cinna_ as though he were a Shakespearean Richard II or Henry IV\nand to attribute to him the psychology of what Nietzsche describes as\nthe \"generous man.\"\n\nFancy for fancy, as well admit Napoleon's comment. He declared himself\npersuaded that Augustus was certainly not changed in a moment into a\n_\"prince d\u00e9bonnaire,\"_ into a poor prince exercising \"_une si pauvre\npetite vertu_\" as clemency, and that if he holds out to Cinna the right\nhand of friendship, he only does this to deceive him and in order to\nrevenge himself more completely and more usefully at the propitious\nmoment. It is an amusement like another to take up the personages of\na play or of a story and refashion them in our own way by the free\nuse of the fancy, or to weave a new mode of feeling out of the facts\nconcerning certain cases and characters. Camilla can thus be quite\nwell transformed even into a nymphomaniac; but unfortunately criticism\ninsinuates itself into the folds of fancy and causes the fancier\nhimself (Lema\u00eetre) to note that Camilla sacrifices her love to her duty\n_\"d\u00e9lib\u00e9r\u00e9ment,\"_ that she certainly resembles a character of Racine,\nbut \"_non certes par la langue,_\" and that she would show us what she\nreally is \"_si elle parlait un langage moins rude at moins compact._\"\nAs though the speech and the inflection were an accident and not the\nwhole of a poetic creation, the beating of its heart! The demoniacal,\nthe neurotic Camilla, it is true, speaks in this way:\n\n    \"Il vient, pr\u00e9parons-nous a montrer constamment\n    Ce que doit une amante \u00e0 la mort d'un amant.\"\n\nHere Voltaire's unconquerable good sense could not refrain from\nremarking: \"'_Pr\u00e9parons-nous_' adds to the defect. We see a woman who\nis thinking how she can demonstrate her affliction and may be said to\nbe rehearsing her lesson of grief.\"\n\nThe same fantastic and anticritical method of comparison has been\nadopted with De Castro's play, with the object of obtaining a contrary\nresult: this comparison, whenever it is conducted with the criterion\nof realistic art, or of art full of passion, cannot but result in\na condemnation of Corneille's re\u00eblaboration of the theme. This has\nbeen frankly admitted by more than one French critic (Fauriel for\nexample), who contrived to loosen somewhat the chains of national\npreconceptions and traditional admirations. Indeed it was already\nimplied in the celebrated judgment of the Academy, which is not the\nless just and acute for having been delivered by an academy and written\nby a Chapelain. Guillen de Castro's play, which is epical and popular\nin tone, celebrates the youthful hero Rodrigo, the future Cid, strong,\nfaithful and pious, admired by all, and looked upon with love by\nprincesses. An anecdote is recounted, with the object of celebrating\nhim, describing how he was obliged to challenge and to slay the father\nof the maiden he loved. Bound to the same degree as himself by the laws\nof chivalry, she is held to be obliged to provide for the vendetta\nrequired by the death of her father. She performs her duty without\nhatred and solely as a legal enemy, an _\"ennemie l\u00e9gitime\"_ (to employ\na phrase of the same Corneille in the _Horace)._ She does not cease\nto love, nor does she feel any shame in loving. Finally, his prowess\nand the favour of heaven, which he deserves and which ever accompanies\nhim, obtain for Rodrigo the legal conquest of his loving beloved,\nwho is also his enemy for honour's sake. De Castro's play is limpid,\nlively, full of happenings. Corneille both simplifies and complicates\nit, reducing it to series of casuistical discussions, vivified here and\nthere with echoes of the passionate original, softened with moments\nof abandonment, as in the vigorous scene of the challenge, which is\nan echo of the Spanish play, or in the tender sigh of the duet,\n\"_Rodrigue, qui Veut cru?... Chim\u00e8ne, qui l'e\u00fbt dit?..._\" which is also\nin De Castro. After this, it can be asserted that Corneille \"has made a\nhuman drama, a drama of universal human appeal, out of an exclusively\nSpanish drama\"; it will also be declared that \"the most beautiful\nwords of the French language find themselves always at the point of\nthe pen, when one is writing about the _Cid;_ duty, love, honour, the\nfamily, one's native land,\" because \"everything there is generous,\naffectionate, ingenuous, and there never has been breathed a livelier\nor a purer air upon the stage, the air of lofty altitudes of the soul.\"\nBut this is verbiage. It is also possible to revel in the description\nof \"the fair cavalier, protected of God and adored by the ladies, who\ncarries his country about with him wherever he goes, and along with it\neverybody's heart; in the beautiful maiden with the long black veil, so\nstrong and yet so weak, so courageous and so tender; in the grand old\nman, so majestic and yet so familiar, the signor so rude and so hoary,\nyet with a soul as straight and as pure as a lily, in whom dwells the\nancient code of honour and all the glory of times past; in the king,\nso good-natured and ingenuous, yet so clever, like the good king one\nfinds in fairy stories; in the gentle little infanta, with her precious\nsoliloquies, so full of gongorism and knightly romances ...\"; but as we\nhave previously observed, this will be merely drawing fancy pictures.\nIt suffices to read the _Cid,_ to see that it contains nothing of this\nand nothing of this is to be found among the tragedies of Corneille.\n\nThe vanity of such criticisms, which attempt to alter Corneille by\npresenting him as that which he is not and does not wish to be, a\npoet of immediate passions, would at once be apparent, were it to be\nrealised that no such attempts are made in the case of Racine, whose\npassionate soul makes its presence at once felt through literary and\ntheatrical conventions, in the affection which he experiences for the\nsweet, for what is tremendous and mysterious with religious emotion,\nwhich palpitates in Andromache, in Phaedra, in Iphigenia and Eriphylis\nin Joad and in Attila. But it confutes itself by becoming modified,\nsometimes among the very critics whom we have been citing, into the\nthesis that Corneille is the poet of the \"reason,\" or of \"the rational\nwill.\" And we say modified, because the reason or the rational will\nis in poetry itself a passion, and he would be correctly described\nas a poet of that kind of inspiration, who should accentuate the\nrational-volitional moment in the representation of the passions, by\ncreating types of wise and active men, such as are to be found in the\nepic, in many dramatic masterpieces, in high romance and elsewhere. But\nnot even this exists in Corneille, so much so that the very persons who\nmaintain the thesis, remark that he isolates a principle and a force,\nthe reason and the will, and seeks out how the one makes the other\ntriumph. To this, they declare, we must attribute the \"character of\nstiffness\" proper to the heroes of Corneille, who are necessarily bound\nto lack \"the seductive flexibility, the languors, the perturbations,\nwhich are to be observed in those moved by sentiment.\" Now this is not\npermissible in art, because art, in portraying a passion, even if it\nbe that of inflexible rationality and inflexible will and duty, never\n\"isolates\" it, in the fashion of an analyst in a laboratory, or a\nphysicist, but seizes it in its becoming, and so together with all the\nother passions, and together with the \"languors\" and \"disturbances.\"\nThus Corneille, described as they describe him by isolating the reason\nand the will, would be a slayer of life, and so of the will and the\nreason themselves. And when he is blamed for having given so small and\nso unhappy a place to love, \"to the act by which the race perpetuates\nitself, to the relations of the sexes and to all the sentiments that\narise from them, and which, by the nature of things form an essential\npart of the life of the human race,\" it is not observed that beneath\nthis reproof, which is somewhat physiological and lubricious and lacks\nseriousness of statement, there is concealed the yet more serious\nand more general reproof that Corneille suffocates and suppresses\nthe quiver of life. La Bruy\u00e8re was probably among the first to give\ncurrency to the saying, which has been repeated, that Corneille depicts\nmen not \"as they are,\" but \"as they ought to be,\" and leads to a like\nconclusion, though expressed in an euphemistic form; because poetry in\ntruth knows nothing of being or of having to be, and its existence is a\nhaving to be, its having to be a being.\n\nThis critical position, which desires to explain and to justify\nCorneille as poet of the reason and of the rational will (although, as\nwe shall see further on, it contains some truth), is indeed equivocal,\nbecause it seems to assert on the one hand that he possesses a\nparticular form of passion, and on the other takes it away from him\nwith its \"isolation,\" its \"having to be,\" and with its assertion that\nhis personages \"surpass nature,\" with its boasting of his \"Romans\nbeing more Roman than Romans,\" his \"Greeks more Greek than Greeks\"\nand the like, that is to say, by making of him an exaggerator of\ntypes and of abstractions, the opposite of a poet. The passage, then,\nis easy from this position to its last thesis or modification, by\nmeans of which Corneille is exalted as an eminent representative of\na special sort of poetry, \"rationalistic poetry,\" which is held to\ncoincide with poetry that is especially \"French.\" The theory here\nimplied is to be found both among the French and those who are not\nFrench, among classicists and romantics, sometimes being looked upon\namong both as a merit, that is to say, it is recognised by them that\nthis sort of poetry is legitimate. In the course of his proof that\nFrench rationalistic tragedy excludes the lyrical element and demands\nthe intrigue of action and the eloquence of the passions, Frederick\nSchlegel indicated \"the splendid side of French tragedy, where it\nevinces lofty and incomparable power, fully responding to the spirit\nand character of a nation, in which eloquence occupies a dominant\nposition, even in private life.\" A contemporary writer on art,\nGundolf, blames his German conationals for the prejudices in which\nthey are enmeshed, and for their lack of understanding of the great\nrationalistic poetry of France, so logical, so uniform, so ordered and\nsubordinated, so regular and so easily to be understood. It is the\nnatural and spontaneous expression of the French character, in the same\nway as is the monarchy of Louis XIV, differing thereby from the narrow\nconvention or imitation, which it became in the hands of Gottsched and\nothers of Gallic tendencies, in other countries. Sainte-Beuve, alluding\nin particular to Corneille, argued that in French tragedy \"things are\nnot seen too realistically or over-coloured, since attention is chiefly\nbestowed upon the saying of Descartes:--I think, therefore I am: I\nthink, therefore I feel;--and everything there happens in or is led\nback to the bosom of the interior substance,\" in the \"state of pure\nsentiment, of reasoned and dialogued analysis,\" in a sphere \"no longer\nof sentiment, but of understanding, clear, extended, without mists and\nwithout clouds.\" Another student of Corneille opposes the different and\nequally admissible system of the French tragedian, \"a constructor and\nas it were an engineer of action,\" to that of Shakespeare, portrayer\nof the soul and of life. Thus, while all the most famous plays of\nShakespeare are drama, but lyrical drama, \"hardly one of the most\nbeautiful and popular plays of Corneille is essentially lyrical.\" What\nare we to think of \"rationalistic\" or \"intellectualistic,\" or \"logical\"\nor \"non-lyrical\" poetry? Nothing but this: that it does not exist. And\nof French poetry? The same: that it does not exist; because what is\npoetry in France is naturally neither intellectualiste nor essentially\nFrench, but purely and simply poetry, like all other poetry that has\ngrown in this earthly flower-bed. And if the old-fashioned romanticism,\nwhich sanctifies and gives substance to nationality and demands of art,\nof thought and of everything else, that it should first be national, is\nreappearing among French writers in the disguise of anti-romanticism\nand neo-classicism, this is but a proof the more of the spiritual\ndulness and mental confusion of those nationalists, who embrace their\npresumed adversary.\n\nThe only reality that could be concealed in \"rationalistic poetry,\"\nfor which Corneille is praised, as shown above, would be one of the\ncategories in old-fashioned books of literary instruction, known as\n\"didactic poetry,\" which was not too well spoken of, even there.\nCorneille is admired from this point of view, among other things,\nfor his famous political dissertations in the _China_ and in the\n_Sertorius,_ where Voltaire considers that he is deserving of great\npraise for \"having expressed very beautiful thoughts in correct and\nharmonious verse.\" In this connexion are quoted the remarks of the\nMar\u00e9chal de Grammont about the _Othon,_ that \"it should have been the\nbreviary of kings,\" or of Louvois, \"an audience of ministers of state\nwould be desirable for the judgment of such a work.\" It is indeed only\nin \"didactic poetry,\" which is versified prose, that we find \"thoughts\"\nthat are afterwards \"versified.\" The method employed by another man of\nletters would also make of the tragedies of Corneille masked didactic\npoetry. He is an unconscious manipulator of thesis, antithesis and\nsynthesis, in the manner of Hegel, and describes it as \"the alliance of\nthe individual with the species, of the particular with the general,\"\nwhich were separate in the medieval \"farces\" and \"moralities,\" the\nformer being all compact of individuals and actions, the latter of\nideas, which Corneille was able to unite, being one of those great\nmasters who proceed from the general to the particular and vivify the\nabstractions of thought with the power of the imagination.\n\nThe justification of the tragedies of Corneille, as based upon the\nfoundations of French society and history in the time of Corneille,\nis certainly more solid than that which explains them as based upon a\nmystical French \"character,\" or \"race,\" or \"nation.\" Do conventions and\netiquette govern and embarrass the development of dialogue and action\nin every part of those tragedies? But such was life at court, or life\nmodelled upon life at court, in those days. Do the characters rather\nreason about their sentiments than express them? But such was the\ncustom of well-bred men of that day. And do they always discuss matters\naccording to all the rules of rhetoric and with perfect diction? But\nto speak well was the boast of men in society and diplomatists at that\ntime. Do the women mingle love and politics, and rather make love\nfor political reasons than politics for love? But the ladies of the\nFronde did just this; indeed Cardinal Mazarin, in conversation with the\nSpanish ambassador, gave vent to the opinion that in France \"an honest\nwoman would not sleep with her husband, nor a mistress with her lover,\nunless they had discussed affairs of State with them during the day.\"\nAnd so discussions continue and are to be found continuing in Taine\nand many others, without explaining anything, because they pass over\nthe poetry and the problem of the poetry, which is not, as Taine held,\n\"the expression of the genius of an age\" or \"the reflection of a given\nsociety\" (society reflects and expresses itself in its own actions\nand customs), but \"poetry, that is to say, one of the free forces of\nevery people, society and time, which must be interpreted with reasons\ncontained in itself.\"[1] It is superfluous to add that the poetry is\nlost sight of in the delight of finding the personages and social types\nof the French seventeenth century, beyond the verses and the ideal\nconceptions of character; for example, we find them declaring their\nown affectionate sympathy for \"Christian Theodora,\" for this martyr,\nof the dress with the starched collar and the equally proudly starched\nsentiments, \"for this proud martyr, in the grand style of Louis XIII,\"\naltogether forgetting the reality of the art of Corneille and the\ncritical problems suggested by the _Th\u00e9odora._ This is certainly very\nprettily and gracefully said, but it misses the point.\n\nThere remains to mention but one last form of defence, which however is\nnot a justification of the art of Corneille, but a eulogy of him as an\ningenious man, who deserved well of culture and possessed refinement\nof manners, particularly as regards theatrical representations. To him\nbelongs the \"great merit\" (said Voltaire in concluding his commentary)\nof \"having found France rustic, gross and ignorant, about the time of\nthe _Cid,_ and of having changed it 'by teaching it not only tragedy\nand comedy, but even the art of thinking.\" And his rival Racine, in\nhis praise of Corneille before the Academy at the time of his death,\nhad recorded \"the debt that French poetry and the French stage owed\nto him.\" He had found it disordered, irregular and chaotic, and after\nhaving sought the right road for some time and striven against the\nbad taste of his age, \"he inspired it with an extraordinary genius\naided by study of the ancients, and exhibited reason (_la raison_)\non the stage, accompanied with all the pomp and all the ornaments, of\nwhich the French language is capable.\" All the historians of French\nliterature repeat this, beginning by bowing down before Corneille, the\n\"founder,\" or \"creator\" of the French theatre. Such praise as this\nmeans little or nothing in art, because non-poets, or poets of very\nslender talents, even pedants, are capable of exercising this function\nof being founders and directors of the culture and the literature of\na people. An instance of this in Italy was Pietro Bembo, \"who removed\nthis pure, sweet speech of ours from its vulgar obscurity, and has\nshown us by his example what it ought to be.\"\n\nHe was not a poet, yet was surrounded with the gratitude, and with the\nmost sincere reverence on the part of poets of genius, among whom was\nAriosto, to whom belong the verses cited above.\n\nThat other merit accorded to Corneille, of having accomplished a\nrevolution, cleared the ground and \"raised the French tragic system\nupon it,\" the \"classical system,\" is without poetical value. We shall\nleave it to others to define as they please, precisely of what this\nwork consisted, the introduction of the unities and of the rules of\nverisimilitude, the conception and realisation of tragic psychological\ntragedy, or the tragedy of character, of which actions and catastrophes\nshould form, the consequences, the fusing and harmonising in a single\ntype of sixteenth century tragedy, which starts from \"the tragic\nincident,\" with that of the seventeenth century, which ends with it,\nand so on. We prefer to remark, with reference to this and to so many\nother disputes that have taken place since the time of Calepio and\nLessing onward, and especially during the romantic period, with regard\nto the merits and the defects of the \"French system,\" as compared with\nthe \"Greek system\" and with the \"romantic\" or \"Shakespearean,\" that\n\"systems\" either have nothing to do with poetry, or are the abstract\nschemes of single poems, and therefore that such disputes are and\nalways have been, sterile and vain. Here too it should be mentioned\nthat a \"system\" may be the work of non-poets or of mediocre poets, as\nwas the case in Italy with the system of \"melodrama,\" of which (to\nemploy the figure of De Sanctis), Apostolo Zeno was the \"architect\"\nand Pietro Metastasio the \"poet.\" In England too, the system of the\ndrama was not fixed by Shakespeare, but by his predecessors, small fry\nindeed as compared with him. We would also observe that death or life\nmay exist in one and the same system, for indeed a system is a prison,\nwith bolts and bars. Note in this respect, that although the romantics\nhad boasted the salvation that lay in the Shakespearean system, a new\ndramatic genius springing therefrom was vainly awaited. There appeared\nonly semigeniuses and a crowd of strepitous works, not less cold and\nempty than those that had been condemned in the opposing \"French\nsystem.\"\n\nWe may therefore conclude that the arguments of the admirers and\napologists of Corneille, which have been passed in review, do not\nembrace the problem, but leave the judgments of negative criticism free\nto exercise their perilous potency. They find in Corneille intellectual\ncombinations in place of poetical formations, abstractions in place of\nwhat is concrete, oratory in place of lyrical inspiration and shadow in\nplace of substance.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: \"Est-ce que la critique moderne n'a pas abandonn\u00e9 l'art\npour l'histoire? La valeur intrins\u00e8que d'un livre n'est rien dans\nl'\u00e9cole Sainte-Beuve-Taine. On y prend tout en consid\u00e9ration, sauf le\ntalent.\" (Flaubert, _Correspondence,_ IV, 81.)]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nTHE IDEAL OF CORNEILLE\n\n\nNevertheless, when all this has been said and the conclusion drawn,\nthere remains the general impression of the work, which has in it\nsomething of the grandiose, and brings back to the lips the homage\nthat the next generations rendered to the author, when they called\nhim \"the great Corneille.\" It is to be hoped that no one has been\ndeceived as to the intention of our discourse up to this point, which\nhas been directed not against Corneille, but against his critics,\nnor among them against those who have written many other things both\ntrue and beautiful on the subject; we have but to refer to the acute\nLema\u00eetre among the most recent, to the diligent and loving Dorchain,\nand to the most solid of all, Lanson. We shall avail ourselves of\nthem in what follows, but shall oppose their particular theories\nand presuppositions, which are misrepresentations of the subject of\ntheir judgments itself. For the negative criticism, which we have\nrecapitulated, does not win our confidence, but rather shows itself\nto be erroneous or (which amounts to the same thing) incomplete,\nexaggerated and one-sided, for the very reason that it does not account\nfor that impression of the grandiose. Conducted as it has been, it\nwould very well suit a writer who was a rhetorician with an appearance\nof warmth, a writer able to make a good show before the public and in\nthe theatre, while remaining internally unmoved himself, superficial\nand frivolous. But Corneille looks upon us and upon those critics with\nso serious and severe a countenance, that we lose the courage to treat\nhim in so unceremonious and so expeditious a manner.\n\nWhence comes that air of severity, which we find not only in his\nportraits but in every page of his tragedies, even in those and in\nthose parts of them, in which he fails to hit the mark, or appears to\nbe tired, to have lost his way, and to be making efforts?\n\nFrom this fact alone: that Corneille had an ideal, an ideal in which\nhe believed, and to which he clung with all the strength of his soul,\nof which he never lost sight and which he always tended to realise in\nsituations, rhythms, and words, seeking and finding his own intimate\nsatisfaction, the incarnation of his ideal, in those brave and solemn\nscenes and sounds.\n\nHis contemporaries felt this, and it was for this reason that Racine\nwrote that above all, \"what was peculiar to Corneille consisted of a\ncertain force, a certain elevation, which astonishes and carries us\naway, and renders even his defects, if there be found some to reprove\nhim for them, more estimable than the virtues of others\"; and La\nBruy\u00e8re also summed it up in the phrase that \"what Corneille possessed\nof most eminent was his soul, which was sublime.\"\n\nThe most recent interpreters have found Corneille's ideal to reside\nin will for its own sake, the \"pure will,\" superior or anterior to\ngood and evil, in the energy of the will as such, which does not pay\nattention to particular ends. Thus the false conception of him as\nanimated with the ideal of moral duty or with that of the triumph of\nduty over the passions has been eliminated, and agreement has been\nreached, not only with the reality of the tragedies, but also with\nwhat Corneille himself laid down in his _Discours_ as to the dramatic\npersonage. Such a personage may indeed be plunged in all sorts of\ncrimes, like Cleopatra in the _Rodogune,_ but in the words of the\nauthor, \"all his actions are accompanied with so lofty a greatness of\nsoul that we admire the source whence his actions flow, while we detest\nthose actions themselves.\"\n\nOn the other hand, the concept of the pure will runs some risk of\nbeing perverted at the hands of those who proceed to interpret it by\nidentification with that other \"will for power\" of Nietzsche, who\nunderstood the French poet in this hyperbolical manner and referred\nto him with fervent admiration on account of this fancy of his. The\nideal of the will for power has an altogether modern origin, in the\nprotoromantic and romantic superman, in over-excited and abstract\nindividualism. It did not exist at the time of Corneille, or in the\nheart of the poet, who was very healthy and simple. The figures of\nCorneille's tragedies must be looked at through coloured and deforming\nglasses, as supplied by fashionable literature, in order to see in them\nsuch attitudes and gestures.\n\nThe further definition, which, while it renders the first conception\nmore exact and more appropriate, at the same time shuts the door on\nthese new fancies, is this: that Corneille's ideal does not express\nthe pure will at the moment of violent onrush and actuation, but of\nponderation and reflection, that is to say, as _deliberative will._\nThis was what Corneille truly loved: the spirit which deliberates\ncalmly and serenely and having formed its resolution, adheres to it\nwith unshakeable firmness, as to a position that has been won with\ndifficulty and with difficulty strengthened. This represented for\nhim the most lofty form of strength, the highest dignity of man.\n_\"Laissez-moi mieux consulter mon \u00e2me,\"_ says one of Corneille's\npersonages, and all of them think and act in the same way. \"_Voyons,_\"\nsays the king of the Gepidi to the king of the Goths in the _Attila,\n\"--voyons qui se doit vaincre, et s' il faut que mon \u00e2me. A votre\nambition immole cette flamme. Ou s'il n'est point plus beau que votre\nambition. Elle-m\u00eame s'immole a cette passion.\"_\n\nAugustus hesitates a long while, and gives vent to anguished\nlamentations, when he has discovered that Cinna is plotting against\nhis life, as though to clear his soul and to make it better capable of\nthe deliberation, which begins at once under the influence of passion,\nin the midst of anguish and with anguish. Has he the right to lament\nand to become wrathful? Has he not also made rivers of blood to flow?\nDoes he then resign himself in his turn? Does he forsake himself as\nthe victim of his own past? Far from it: he has a throne and is bound\nto defend it, and therefore will punish the assassin. Yes, but when he\nhas caused more blood to flow, he will find new and greater hatreds\nsurrounding him, new and more dangerous plots. It is better, then, to\ndie? But wherefore die? Why should he not enjoy revenge and triumph\nonce again? This is the tumult of irresolution, which, while felt as a\nhard, a desperate torment, and although it seems to hold the will in\nsuspense, in reality sets it in motion, insensibly guiding it to its\nend. _\"O rigoureux combat d'un c\u0153ur irr\u00e9solu!...\"_ The more properly\ndeliberative process enters his breast with the appearance upon the\nscene of Livia, to whose advice he is opposed, for he disputes and\ncombats it, yet listens and weighs it, seeming finally to remain still\nirresolute, yet he has already formed hi:; resolve, he has decided in\nhis heart to perform an act of political clemency, so thunderous, so\nlightning-like in quality, as to bewilder his enemy and to hurl him\nvanquished at his feet.\n\nThe two brother princes in _Rodogune_ are conversing, while they await\nthe announcement as to which is the legitimate heir to the throne.\nUpon this announcement also depends which shall become the happy\nhusband of Rodogune, whom they both love with an equal ardour. How will\nthey face and support the decision of fate? One of the two, uncertain\nand anxious about the future, proposes to renounce the throne in favour\nof his brother, provided the latter renounces Rodogune; but he is met\nwith the same proposal by the other. Thus the satisfaction of both,\nby means of mutual renunciation, is precluded. But the other course\nis also precluded, that of strife and conflict, for their brotherly\naffection is firm, and so is the sentiment of moral duty in both. This\nalso forbids the one sacrificing himself for the other, because neither\nwould accept the sacrifice. What can be saved from a collision, from\nwhich it seems that, nothing can be saved? One of the two brothers,\nafter these various and equally vain attempts at finding a solution,\nreturns upon himself, descends to the bottom of his soul, finds there\na better motive and is the first to formulate the unique resolution:\n\"_Malgr\u00e9 l'\u00e9clat du tr\u00f4ne et l'amour d'une femme, Faisons si bien\nr\u00e9gner l'amiti\u00e9 sur notre \u00e2me, Qu'\u00e9touffant dans leur perte un regret\nsuborneur, Dans le bonheur d'un fr\u00e8re on trouve son bonheur...._\" And\nthe other, who has not been the first to see and to follow this path\nasks: \"_Le pourriez, vous mon fr\u00e8re?_\" The first replies: \"_Ah; que\nvous me pressez! Je le voudrais du moins, mon fr\u00e8re, et c'est assez; Et\nma raison sur moi gardera tant d'empire, Que je d\u00e9savo\u00fbrai mon c\u0153ur,\ns'il en soupire.\"_ The other, firm in his turn replies: \"_J'embrasse\ncomme vous ces nobles sentiments...._\"\n\nLoving as he did, in this way, the work of the deliberative will (we\nhave recorded two only of the situations in his tragedies, and we could\ncite hundreds), Corneille did not love love, a thing that withdraws\nitself from deliberation, a severe illness, which man discovers in his\nbody, like fire in his house, without having willed it and without\nknowing how it got there. Sometimes the deliberative will is affected\nby it and for the moment at least upset, and then we hear the cry of\nAttila: \"_Quel nouveau coup de foudre! O raison confondue, orgueil\npresque \u00e9touff\u00e9..._.\" as he struggles against its enchantments: _\"cruel\npoison de l'\u00e2me et doux charme des yeux.\"_ But as a general rule,\nhe promptly drives it away from him, coldly and scornfully; or he\nsubdues it and employs it as a means and an assistance in far graver\nmatters, such as ambition, politics, the State; or he accepts it for\nwhat it contains of useful and worthy, which as such is the object and\nthe fruit of deliberation. \"_Ce ne sont pas les sens que mon amour\nconsulte: Il hait des passions l'imp\u00e9tueux tumulte.._..\" Certainly,\nthis attitude is intransigent, ascetic and severe: but what of it?\n\"_Un peu de duret\u00e9 sied bien aux grandes \u00e2mes._\" Certainly love comes\nout of it diminished and humiliated: \"_D'Amour n'est pas le ma\u00eetre\nalors qu'on d\u00e9lib\u00e8re_;\" love deserves its fate and almost deserves\nthe gibe: \"_La seule politique est ce qui nous \u00e9meut; On la suit et\nl'amour s'y m\u00eale comme il peut: S'il vient on l'applaudit; s'il manque\non s'en console..._.\" It manages as best it can and becomes less\npowerful and wonderfully ductile beneath this pressure, ready to bend\nin whatever direction it is commanded to bend by the reason. Sometimes\nit remains suspended between two persons, like a balance, which awaits\nthe addition of a weight in order to lean over: \"..._Ce c\u0153ur des deux\nparts engag\u00e9, Se donnant \u00e0 vous deux ne s'est point partag\u00e9, Toujours\npr\u00eat d'embrasser son service et le v\u00f4tre, Toujours pr\u00eat \u00e0 mourir et\npour l'un et pour l'autre. Pour n'en adorer qu'une, il e\u00fbt fallu\nchoisir; Et ce choix e\u00fbt \u00e9t\u00e9 au moins quelque d\u00e9sir, Quelque espoir\noutrageux d'\u00eatre mieux re\u00e7u d'elle ..._.\" On another occasion, although\nthere might be some inclination or desire, rather toward the one than\nthe other side, it is yet kept secret, beneath the resolve to suffocate\nit altogether, should reason ordain that love must flow into a contrary\nchannel. Not only are Corneille's personages told to their face: _\"Il\nne faut plus aimer,\"_ an act of renunciation to be asked of a saint,\nbut they are also bidden thus: \"_Il faut aimer ailleurs,_\" an act\nworthy of a martyr.\n\nHe did not love love, not because it is love, but because it is\npassion, which carries one away and which, if it be allowed to do so,\nwill not consent to state the terms of the debate clearly, and engage\nin deliberation. His dislike for the inebriation of hatred and of\nanger, which blind or confound the vision, and which, as passion, is\nalso foreign to his ideal, also appears in confirmation of this view.\n\"_Qui hait brutalement permet tout \u00e0 sa haine, Il s'emporte o\u00f9 sa\nfureur l'entra\u00eene.... Mais qui hait par devoir ne s'aveugle jamais;\nc'est sa raison qui hait ..._.\" His ideal personages sometimes declare,\nwhen face to face with their enemy: \"_je te dois estimer, mais je te\ndois ha\u00efr._\" On the other hand, we perceive clearly why Corneille was\nled to admire the will, even when without moral illumination, even\nindeed when it is actively opposed to or without morality; for it has\nthe power of not yielding to and of dominating the passions, of not\nbeing violent weakness, but strength, or as it was called during the\nRenaissance, \"virt\u00fa.\" In that sphere of deliberation there existed a\ncommon ground of mutual understanding between the honest and dishonest\nman, between the hero of evil and the hero of good, for each pursued\na course of duty, in his own way and both agreed in withstanding and\ndespising the madness of the passions.\n\nAnd we also see why the domain towards which Corneille directed his\ngaze and for which he had a special predilection, was bound to be that\nof politics, where \"virt\u00fa,\" in the sense that it possessed during the\nperiod of the Renaissance, found ample opportunity for free expansion\nand for self-realisation. In politics, we find ourselves continuously\nin difficult and contradictory situations, where acuteness and long\nviews are of importance and where it is necessary to make calculations\nas to the interests and passions of men, to act energetically upon\nwhat has been decided after nice weighing in the balance, to be\nfirm as well as prudent. It has been jocosely observed by William\nSchlegel that Corneille, the most upright and honest of men, was more\nMachiavellian than any Machiavelli in his treatment and representation\nof politics, that he boasted of the art of deceiving, and that he\nhad no notion of true politics, which are less complicated and far\nmore adroit and adaptable. Lema\u00eetre too admits that in this respect\nhe was _\"fort candide.\"_ But who is not excessive in the things that\nhe loves? Who is not sometimes too candid regarding them, with that\ncandour and simplicity which is born of faith and enthusiasm? His very\nlack of experience in real politics, his simplicism and exaggeration\nin conceiving them, is there to confirm the vigour of his affection\nfor the ideal of the politician, as supremely expressed by the man who\nponders and deliberates. He always has _la raison d'\u00e9tat_ and _les\nmaximes d'\u00e9tat_ upon his lips. We feel that these words and phrases\nmove, edify and arouse in him an ecstasy of admiration.\n\nIt was free determination and complete submission to reason, duty,\nobjective utility, to what was fitting--and not a spirit of courtly\nadulation--that led him to look with an equal ecstasy of admiration\nupon personages in high positions and upon monarchs, the summit of\nthe pyramid. He did not therefore admit them because they can do\neverything, still less because they can enjoy everything, but on\nthe contrary, because, owing to their office, their discipline and\ntradition, they are accustomed to sacrifice their private affections\nand to conduct themselves in obedience to motives superior to the\nindividual. Kings too have a heart, they too are exposed to the soft\nsnares of love; but better than all others they know what is becoming\nbehaviour: \"_Je suis reine et dois r\u00e9gner sur moi: Je rang que nous\ntenons, jaloux de notre gloire, Souvent dans un tel choix nous d\u00e9fend\nde nous croire, Jette sur nos d\u00e9sirs un joug imp\u00e9rieux, Et d\u00e9daigne\nl'avis et du c\u0153ur et des yeux._\" And elsewhere: \"_Les princes out cela\nde leur haute naissance, Leur \u00e2me dans leur rang prend des impressions\nQui dessous leur vertu rangent leurs passions; Leur g\u00e9n\u00e9rosit\u00e9 soumet\ntout \u00e0 leur gloire ..._.\" They love, certainly, as it happens to all\nto love, but they do not on that account yield to the attractions of\nthe senses. \"_Je ne le c\u00e8le point, j'aime, Carlos, oui, j'aime; Mais\nl'amour de l'\u00e9tat plus fort que de moi-m\u00eame, Cherche, au lieu de\nl'objet le plus doux \u00e0 mes yeux, Le plus digne h\u00e9ros de r\u00e9gner en ces\nlieux._\" His predilection for history, especially for Roman history,\nhas the same root, and had long been elaborated as an ideal--even in\nthe Rome of the Empire, yet more so at the time of the Renaissance and\nduring the post-Renaissance, and even in the schools of the Jesuits.\nIt was thus transformed into a history that afforded examples of civic\nvirtues, such as self-sacrifice, heroism, and greatness of resolve. We\nspare the reader the demonstration that this tendency was altogether\ndifferent from, and indeed opposed to historical knowledge and to the\nso-called \"historical sense,\" because questions of this sort and the\naccompanying eulogies accorded to Corneille as a historian, are now to\nbe looked upon as antiquated.\n\nThe historical relations of Corneille's ideal are clearly indicated or\nat any rate adumbrated in these references and explanations, as also\nits incipience and genesis, which is to be found, as we have stated,\nin the theory and practice of the Renaissance, concerning politics and\nthe office of the sovereign or prince, and for the rest in the ethics\nof stoicism, which was so widely diffused in the second half of the\nsixteenth century, and not less in France than elsewhere. The image\nof Corneille is surrounded in our imagination with all those volumes,\ncontaining baroque frontispieces illustrative of historical scenes,\nwhich at that time saw the light every day in all parts of Europe.\nThey were the works of the moralists, of the Machiavellians, of the\nTaciteans, of the councillors in the art of adroit behaviour at court,\nof the Jesuit casuists Botero and Ribadeneyra, Sanchez and Mariana,\nValeriano Castiglione and Matteo Pellegrini, Gracian and Amelot de la\nHoussaye, Balzac and Naud\u00e9e, Scioppio and Justus Lipsius. They might\nbe described as comprizing a complete and conspicuous section of the\nLibrary of the Manzonian Don Ferrante, the \"intellectual\" of the\nseventeenth century.\n\nSuch literature as this and the history of the time itself have been\nmore than once given as the source of the poetical inspiration proper\nto Corneille, and indeed they appear spontaneously in the mind of\nanyone acquainted with the particular mode of thought and of manners\nthat have prevailed during the various epochs of modern society. It\nis therefore unpleasant to find critics intent on fishing out other\norigins for it, in an obscure determinism of race and religion, almost\nas if disgusted with the obvious explanation, which is certainly the\nonly true one in this case, pointing out for instance in Corneille \"an\nenergy that comes from the north,\" that is to say from the Germany that\nproduced Luther and Kant, or from the country that was occupied for a\ntime by their forefathers the Normans, those Scandinavian pirates who\ndisembarked under the leadership of Rollo (if this fancy originated\nwith Lema\u00eetre, they all repeat it); or they discover the characteristic\nof his poetry in the subtlety and litigious spirit of the Norman, and\nin the lawyer and magistrate whose functions he fulfilled.\n\nThe customary association of his ideal with the theory of Descartes is\nalso without much truth. Chronological incompatibility would in any\ncase preclude derivation or repercussion from this source, the utmost\nthat could be admitted being that both possessed common elements, since\nthey were both descended from a common patrimony of culture, namely\nthe stoical morality already mentioned, and from the cult of wisdom in\ngeneral. In Descartes, as later in Spinoza, the tendency was towards\nthe domination of the passions by means of the intellect or the pure\nintelligence, which dissipates them by knowing and thinking them,\nwhile with Corneille the domination was all to be effected by means of\nan effort of the will.\n\nThe historical element in the ideal of Corneille does not mean that its\nvalue was restricted to the times of the author and should be looked\nupon as having disappeared with the disappearance of those customs and\ndoctrines, because every time expresses human eternal truth in its\nforms that are historically determined, laying in each case especial\nstress upon particular aspects or moments of the spirit. The idea of\nthe deliberative will has been removed in our day to the second rank,\nindeed it has almost been lost in the background, under the pressure\nof other forces and of other more urgent aspects of reality. Yet it\npossesses eternal vigour and is perpetually returning to the mind and\nsoul, through the poets and philosophers and through the complexities\nof life itself, which make us feel its beauty and importance. The\nhistory of the manners, of the patriotism, of the moral spirit, of\nthe military spirit of France, bears witness to this, for one of its\nmainstays in the past as in the present has been the tragedies of\nCorneille. The heroic, the tragic Charlotte Corday gave reality in her\nown person to one of Corneille's characters, so full of will power\nand ready for any enterprise: she was one of those _aimables furies,_\nnourished like the tyrannicides of the Renaissance on the _Lives_ of\nPlutarch, whom her great forefather had set on paper with such delight.\n\nIt is inconceivable that such heroines as she, sublime in their\nmeditated volitional act, should have been audaciously classed and\nconfounded with those weak and impulsive beings extolled by the\nphilosophers and artists of the will for power, from Stendhal to\nNietzsche, who freely sought their models among the degenerates of the\ncriminal prisons.\n\nThe whole life of Corneille, the whole of his long activity, was\ndominated by the ideal that we have described, with a constancy\nand a coherence which leaps to the eye of anyone who examines the\nparticulars. As a young man, he touched various strings of the lyre,\nthe tragedy of horrors in the manner of Seneca (_M\u00e9d\u00e9e,_) eccentric\ncomedy in _L'Illusion comique,_ the romantic drama of adventures and\nincidents in _Clitandre,_ the comedies of love; but we already find\nmany signs in these works and especially in the comedies, of the\ntendency to fix the will in certain situations, as will for a purpose\nand choice. After his novitiate (in which period is to be comprehended\nthe _Cid,_ which is rather an attempt than a realisation, rather a\nbeginning than an end) he proceeded in a straight line and with over\nincreasing resolution and self-consciousness. It is due to a prejudice,\nborn of extrinsic or certainly but little acute considerations, that\nan interval should be placed between the _Cid_ and the later works,\nthough this was done by Schlegel, by Sainte-Beuve and by many others,\nboth foreigners and French. They deplored that Corneille should have\nabandoned the Spanish mediaeval and knightly style, so in harmony\nwith his generous, grandiose and imaginative inclinations, so full of\npromise for the romantic future, and should have restricted himself to\nthe Graeco-Roman world and to political tragedy. It is impossible (as\nwe have shown in passing), to assert the originality and the beauty of\nthe _Cid,_ when it is compared with and set in opposition to the model\noffered to Corneille by Guillen de Castro. Now if there is not to be\nfound beauty, there is certainly to be found a sort of originality in\nthe personality of Corneille, who eats into the popular epicity of the\nmodel and substitutes for it the study of deliberative situations. The\nharmonious versification of these explains in great part the success\nwhich the play met with in a society accustomed to debate \"questions\nof love\" (as they had been called since the period of the troubadours\nat the Renaissance), and those of honour and knighthood, of challenges\nand duels. But on the other hand, the reason of its success was also\nto be found in what persisted scattered here and there of the ardour\nand tenderness of the original play, which moved the spectators and\nmade them love Chim\u00e8ne: \"_Tout Paris pour Chimene a les yeux de\nRodrigue._\" Yet these words of tenderness and strong expressions,\nthough beautiful in themselves, show themselves to be rather foreign\nto the new form of the drama, and there is some truth in the strange\nremark of Klein: that \"there is not enough Cidian electricity, enough\nmaterial for electro-dramatic shocks in that atmosphere full of the\nexhalations of the _antichambre,_ to produce a slap in the face of\nequally pathetic force and consequence\" with the _bofetada_ which\nCount Lozano applied to the countenance of the decrepit Diego Laynez\nin the Spanish drama. And there is truth also in the judgment of the\nAcademy, that the subject of the _Cid_ is \"defective in the essential\npart\" and \"lacking in verisimilitude\"; of course not because it was\nso with Guillen de Castro, or that a subject, that is to say, mere\nmaterial, can be of itself good or bad, verisimilar or the reverse,\npoetic or unpoetic, but because it had become defective and discordant\nin the hands of Corneille, who elaborated and refined it. Rodrigue,\nJimena the lady Urraca, are simple, spontaneous, almost childlike\nsouls, in the mould of popular heroes. Chim\u00e8ne and Rodrigue and the\nInfanta are reflective and dialectical spirits, and since their novel\npsychological attitude does not chime well with the old-fashioned\nmanner of behaviour, Rodrigue and the father sometimes appear to be\ncharlatans, Chim\u00e8ne sometimes even a hypocrite, the Infanta insipid and\nsuperfluous. Also, when Corneille returned to the \"Spanish style,\" in\n_Don Sanche d'Aragon,_ he charged it with reflections and ponderations\nand deliberative resolutions, without aiming at the picturesque, as the\nromantics did later, but at dialectic and subtlety. It must however be\nadmitted that all this represents a superiority, if viewed from another\nangle: but this superiority does not reside in the artistic effect\nobtained; it is rather mental and cultural and represents a more\ncomplex and advanced humanity.\n\nThus the _Cid_ is to be looked upon as really a work of transition,\na transition to the _Horace,_ which has seemed to a learned German,\nto be substantially the same as the _Cid,_ the _Cid_ reconstructed\nafter the censures passed upon it by his adversaries and in the\nAcademy, which Corneille inwardly felt to be, in a certain measure\nat any rate, just. But another prejudice creates a gap between what\nare called the four principal tragedies, the _Cid,_ the _Horace,_\nthe _China_ and the _Polyeucte_--\"the great Cornelian quadrilateral\"\neulogised by P\u00e9guy in rambling prose,--and the later tragedies, as\nthough Corneille had changed his method in these and begun to pursue\nanother ideal, \"political tragedy.\" Setting aside for the time being\nthe question of greater or lesser artistic value, it is certain that\nhe never really changed his method. In the _Horace,_ there is no\nsuggestion of the ferocious national sanctity of a primitive society,\nin the _Cinna,_ there is no trace of the imagined tragedy of satiety\nor of the _lassitude,_ which the sanguinary Augustus is supposed to\nhave experienced. The _Polyeucte_ does not contain a shadow of the\nfervour, the delirium, the fanaticism, of a religion in the act of\nbirth, but as Schlegel well expressed it, \"a firm and constant faith\nrather than a true religious enthusiasm.\" In the four tragedies above\nmentioned, _le c\u0153ur_ is not supreme, any more than _l'esprit_ is\nsupreme in the later tragedies, but \"political tragedy\" is present more\nor less in all of them, in the intrinsic sense of a representation\nof calculations, ponderations and resolutions, and often too in the\nmore evident sense of State affairs. He pursues these and suchlike\nforms of representation, heedless, firm and obstinate, notwithstanding\nthe disfavour of the public and of the critics, who asked for other\nthings. They divest themselves of extraneous elements and attain to\nthe perfection at which they aimed. This may be observed in one of the\nvery latest, the _Pulch\u00e9rie._ The author congratulated himself upon its\nhalf-success or shadow of success, declaring that \"it is not always\nnecessary to follow the fashion of the time, in order to be successful\non the stage.\" Just previously, he was pleased with Saint-\u00c9vremond\nfor his approbation of the secondary place to be assigned to love in\ntragedy, \"for it is a passion too surcharged with weaknesses to be\ndominant in a heroic drama.\" Voltaire was struck with this constancy\nto the original line of development, for he felt bound to remark at\nthe conclusion of his commentary, not without astonishment and in\nopposition to the current opinion, that \"he wrote very unequally,\nbut I do not know that he had an unequal genius, as is maintained by\nsome; because I always see him intent, alike in his best and in his\ninferior works, upon the force and the profundity of the ideas. He is\nalways more disposed to debate than to move, and he reveals himself\nrich in finding expedients to support the most ungrateful of arguments,\nthough these are but little tragic, since he makes a bad choice of his\nsubjects from the _Oedipe_ onwards, where he certainly does devise\nintrigues, but these are of small account and lack both warmth and\nlife. In his last works he is trying to delude himself.\" But Corneille\ndid not delude himself; rather he knew himself, and he himself the\nauthor was a personage who had deliberated and had made up his mind,\nonce and for all.\n\nThe vigour of this resolution and the compactness of the work which\nresulted from it, are not diminished, but are rather stressed by\nthe fact that Corneille possessed other aptitudes and sources of\ninspiration, which he neglected and of which he made little or no\nuse. Certainly, the poet who versified the delicious _Psyche,_ in\ncollaboration with Moli\u00e8re, would have been able, had he so desired,\nto enter into the graces of those \"_doucereux_\" and \"_enjou\u00e9s,_\" whom\nhe despised. There are witty, tender and melancholy poems among his\nmiscellaneous works, and in certain parts of the paraphrase of the\n_Imitation_ and other sacred compositions, there is a religious fervour\nthat is to seek in the _Polyeucte._ His youthful comedies contain a\npower of observation of life, replete with passionate sympathy, which\nforeshadows the coming social drama. We refer especially to certain\npersonages and scenes of the _Galerie du Palais,_ of the _Veuve_ and\nof the _Suivante;_ to certain studies of marriageable girls, obedient\nto the resolve of their parents, and to mothers, who still carry in\ntheir heart how much that submission cost them in the past and do\nnot wish to abuse the power which they possess over their daughters.\nThere are also certain tremulous meetings of lovers, who had been\nseparated and are annoyingly interrupted by the irruption of prosaic\nreality in the shape of their relations and friends (\"_Ah! m\u00e8re, s\u0153ur,\nami, comme vous m'importunez!_\") and certain odious and painful\npsychological cases, like that of Amaranthe, the poor girl of good\nfamily, who is made companion of the richer girl, not superior to her\neither in attractiveness, or spirit, or grace, or blood. She envies\nand intrigues against her, attempts to carry off her lover and being\nfinally vanquished, hurls bitter words at society and distils venomous\nmaledictions.\n\n_\"Curieux,\" \"\u00e9tonnant,\" \"\u00e9trange,\" \"paradoxal,\" \"d\u00e9concertant,\"_ are\nthe epithets that the critics alternately apply to the personage\nof Alidor, in the _Place Royale,_ and Corneille himself calls him\n\"_extravagant_\" in the examination of his work that he wrote later.\nAll too have held that uncompromising lover of his own liberty to be\nvery \"Cornelian\" or \"pure Cornelian,\" who although in love, is afraid\nof love, because it threatens to deprive him of his internal freedom.\nHe therefore tries to throw the woman he loves and who adores him,\ninto the arms of others, by stratagem. Failing in this endeavour, and\nbeing finally abandoned by the lady herself, who decides to enter a\nconvent, instead of sorrowing or at least being mortified at this, he\nrejoices at his good fortune. Indeed, Corneille, despite the tardy\nepithet of _\"extravagant,\"_ which he affixes to this personage,\ndoes not turn him to ridicule in the comedy, nor does he condemn or\ncriticise him. On the contrary, in the dedicatory epistle, addressed to\nan anonymous gentleman, who might be the very character in question,\nhe approves of the theory, which Alidor illustrates. \"I have learned\nfrom you\"--he writes--\"that the love of an honest man must always be\nvoluntary; that he must never love in one way what he cannot but love;\nthat if he should find himself reduced to this extremity, it amounts\nto a tyranny and the yoke must be shaken off. Finally, the loved one\nmust have by so much the more claim to our love, in so far as it is\nthe result of our choice and of the loved one's merit and does not\nderive from blind inclination imposed upon us by a heredity which we\nare unable to resist.\" But the disconcertion and perplexity caused\nby the play in question, have their origin in this; that Corneille\nhad not yet succeeded in repressing and suppressing the spontaneous\nemotions, and therefore throws his ideal creation into the midst of a\nthrong of beings, whose limbs are softer, their blood warmer and more\ntumultuous, who love and suffer and despair, like Ang\u00e9lique. This would\nrender that ideal personage comic, ironical and extravagant, if the\npoet did not for his part think and feel it to be altogether serious. A\nsubtle flaw, therefore, permeates every part of the play, which lacks\nfusion and unity of fundamental motive. This is doubtless a grave\ndefect, but a defect which adds weight to the psychological document\nthat it contains, proving the absolute power which the ideal of the\ndeliberative will was acquiring in Corneille.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\nTHE MECHANISM OF THE CORNELIAN TRAGEDY\n\n\nThe ideal of the deliberative will, then, formed the real, living\n_passion_ of this man devoid of passions; for no one that lives can\nwithhold himself from passion: he is only able to change its object by\npassing from one to the other. The judgment that holds Corneille to\nbe an intrinsically prosaic, ratiocinatory and casuistical genius is\ntherefore to be looked upon as lacking of penetration. Had he been a\ncasuist, it seems clear that he would have composed casuistical works.\nNor did he lack of requests and encouragement in that direction in the\nliterature that was admired and sought after in his time. Instead,\nhowever, of acceding to them, he dwelt ever in the world of poetry\nand was occupied throughout his life, up to his seventieth year, with\nthe composition of tragedies. He was not a casuist, although he loved\ncasuistry: these two things are as different as the love for warlike\nrepresentations and accounts of wars and the being actually a soldier,\nthe perpetual dwelling of the imagination upon matters of business,\ncommerce and speculation (like Honor\u00e9 de Balzac for instance), and\nbeing really a man of business. Nor can his gift be described as merely\nthat of a didactic poet, although he often gives a dissertation in\nverse, because he was not inspired with the wish to teach, but rather\nto admire and to present the power and the triumphs of the free will\nfor admiration. Those philologists who have patiently set to work to\nreconstruct Corneille's conception of the State into a _Staatsidee_\nhave not understood this. Corneille's conception of the State, of\nabsolute monarchy, of the king, of legitimacy, of ministers, of\nsubjects, and so on, were not by any means in him political doctrine,\nbut just forms and symbols of an attitude of mind, which he caressed\nand idolised.\n\nThe enquiry as to the nature and degree and tone of that passion\ndiffers altogether from the fact of Corneille's powerful passionality,\nas to which there can be no doubt. The problem, that is to say, is,\nwhether passion, which is certainly a necessary condition for poetry,\nwas so shaped and found in him such compensations and restraints as\nto yield itself with docility to poetry and to give it a fair field\nfor expression. It is well known that the sovereign passion, the pain\nthat renders mute, the love that leads to raving, impede the dream of\nthe poet, they impede artistic treatment, the cult of perfect form\nand the joy in beauty. There is too a form of passion, which has in\nit something of the practical: it is more occupied with embodying\nits favourite dreams, in order to obtain from them stimulus and\nincentive, than with fathoming them poetically and idealising them in\ncontemplation.\n\nIt seems impossible to deny that something of this sort existed in\nthe case of Corneille, for as we read his works, while we constantly\nreceive the already mentioned impression of seriousness and severity,\nthere is another impression that is sometimes mingled with these and\nsuggests the disquieting presence of men firmly fixed and rooted\nin an ideal. When faced with his predilection for deliberation and\nresolution, the figure of the Aristophanic Philocleon sometimes returns\nto the memory. This Philocleon was a \"philoheliast,\" that is to say\nhe was the victim of a mania for judging, \u03c4\u03bf\u1f54 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\u03bd. His son\nlocked him up, but he climbed out of window, in order to hasten to the\ntribunal and satisfy his vital need of administering justice!\n\nThe consequences of this excess of practical passionality in the case\nof Corneille, of its exclusive domination in him, was that he either\ndid not love or refused to allow himself to love anything else in the\nworld, and lost interest in all the rest of life. He did not surpass\nit ideally, in which case he would have remained trembling and living\nin its presence, although it was combated and suppressed, but he drove\nit out or cut it off altogether. He acted as one, who for the love of\nthe human body, should eliminate from his picture, landscape, sky,\nair, the background of the picture, upon and from which the figure\nrises and with which it is conj nected, although separated from it\nin relief, and should limit himself to the delineation of bodies and\nattitudes of bodies. Corneille, having abolished all other forms\nof life, found nothing before him but a series of situations for\ndeliberation, vigorously felt, warmly expressed, sung with full voice,\nand illustrated with energetic yet becoming gestures.\n\nWhat tragedy, what drama, what representation, could emerge from such a\nlimitation of volitional attitudes? How could the various tonalities\nand affections and so the various personages, unite and harmonise\namong themselves with all their shades and gradations? The bridge\nthat should give passage to this full and complete representation was\nwanting or had been destroyed. All that was possible was a suite of\ndeliberative lyrics, of magnificent perorations, of lofty sentiments,\nsometimes standing alone, sometimes also taking the form of a duet\nor a dialogue, a theory of statues, draped in solemn attitudes, of\nenormous figures, rigid and similar as Byzantine mosaics. Here and\nthere a writer such as Lanson has to some extent had an inkling of this\nintrinsic impossibility when, writing about the _Nicom\u00e8de,_ he remarked\nthat Corneille \"in his pride at having founded a new kind of tragedy,\nwithout pity or terror, and having admiration as its motive, did not\nperceive that he was founding it upon a void; because the tragedy will\nbe the less dramatic, the purer is the will, since it is defeats or\nsemi-defeats that are dramatic, the slow, difficult victories of the\nwill, incessant combats.\" But he held on the other hand that Corneille\nhad once constructed, in _Nicom\u00e8de,_ a perfect tragedy, on the single\ndatum of the pure will, _par un coup de g\u00e9nie_; but this was the\nonly one that ever could be written, the reason that it could not be\nrepeated being \"that all the works of Corneille are dramatic, precisely\nto the extent that the will falls short in them of perfection and in\nvirtue of the elements that separate it from them.\" The beauty, he\nsays, of the _Cid,_ of _Polyeucte_ and of _Cinna_, \"consists in what\nthey contain of passion, cooperating with and striving against the will\nof the heroes.\" But \"strokes of genius\" are not miracles and they do\nnot make the impossible possible and the other dramas of Corneille that\nwe have mentioned do not differ substantially from the _Nicom\u00e8de,_ for\nin them passionate elements are intruded and felt to be out of harmony\n(as in the _Cid_), or they are apparent and conventional.\n\nApparent and conventional: because the lack of the bridge for crossing\nover forbade Corneille to construct poetically out of volitional\nsituations representations of life, to which they did not of themselves\nlead. It did not however prevent another kind of construction, which\nmay be called intellectualistic or practical. He deduced other\nsituations and other antitheses from the volitional situations and\ntheir antitheses that he had conceived, and thus he formed a sort of\nsemblance of the representation of life. At the same time he reduced it\nto the dimensions of the drama that he was originating mentally, partly\nthrough study of the ancients and above all Seneca, partly from the\nItalian writers of tragedy of the sixteenth century, partly from that\nof the Spanish writers and of his French predecessors, but not without\nconsulting, following or modifying the French and Italian casuists and\nregulating the whole with his own sense for theatrical effect and for\nthe forms of it likely to suit the taste of the French public of his\nday.\n\nThis structure of tragedy, with its antitheses and parallelisms, its\nexpedients for accelerating and arresting and terminating the action\nhas been qualified with praise or blame as possessing great \"logical\"\nperfection. Logic, however, which is the life of thought, has nothing\nto do with the balancing and counter-balancing of mechanical weights,\nwhose life lies outside them, in the head and in the hand that has\nconstructed and set them in motion. It has been also compared to\narchitecture and to the admirable proportions of the Italian art of the\nRenaissance. But here too, we must suspect that the true meaning of\nthe works thus characterised escapes us, for attention is paid only to\nthe external appearance of things, in so far as it can be expressed in\nmathematical terms. We have said exactly the same thing, without having\nrecourse to logic or to architecture, when we noted that the structure\nof Corneille's tragedies did not derive from within, that is, from his\ntrue poetical inspiration, but rose up beside it, and was due to the\nunconscious practical need of making a canvas or a frame upon which to\nstretch the series of volitional situations desired by the imagination\nof the poet. Thus it was poetically a cold, incoherent, absurd thing,\nbut practically rational and coherent, like every \"mechanism.\"\nThis word is not pronounced here for the first time owing to our\nirreverence, but is to be found among those who have written about\nCorneille and have felt themselves unable to refrain from referring\nto his _\"m\u00e9canique th\u00e9\u00e2trale\"_ and to the \"_syst\u00e8me ferm\u00e9_\" of his\ntragedies, where _\"s'op\u00e8re par un jeu visible de forces, la production\nd'un \u00e9tat d\u00e9finitif appel\u00e9 d\u00e9nouement.\"_\n\nWhen this has been stated, it is easy to see that anyone who examines\nthis assemblage of thoughts and phrases with the expectation of\nfinding there a soft, rich, sensuous and passionate representation of\nlife, full of throbs, bedewed with tears, shot through with troubles\nand enjoyments, such as are to be found in Shakespearean drama and\nalso in Sophoclean tragedy, is disappointed, and thereupon describes\nCorneille's art as false, whereas he should perhaps describe his own\nexpectation as false. But it is strange to find, as counterpoise to\nthat delusion, the attempt to demonstrate that the apparatus is not\nan apparatus, but flesh and blood, that the frame is not a frame\nbut a picture, like one of Titian's or Rembrandt's, and now setting\ncomparisons aside, that the pseudo-tragedy and the pseudo-drama\nof Corneille is pure drama or tragedy, that his intellectualistic\ndeductions, his practical devices, are lyrical motives and express the\ntruth of the human heart. Such, however, is the wrong-headedness of\nthe criticisms that we have reviewed above. The mode of procedure is\nto deny what is evident, for example that Corneille argues through the\nmouths of his characters, instead of expressing and setting in action\nhis own mode of feeling, in such a way as the situations would require,\nwere they poetically treated. Faguet answers Voltaire's remarks upon\nthe famous couplet of Rodogune: _\"Il est des n\u0153uds secrets, il est des\nsympathies...\"_ to the effect that \"the poet is always himself talking\nand that passion does not thus express itself,\" by saying that people\nare accustomed to express themselves in this way, that is to say, in\nthe form of general ideas, when they are calm, as though the question\ncould be settled with an appeal to the reality of ordinary life,\nwhereas on the contrary it is a question of poeticity, that is to say,\nof the tragic situation, which by its own nature, excludes _couplets_\nin certain cases, however well turned they be.\n\nYet the very same critics, who are thus guilty of sophistry in their\nattempts to defend Corneille, are capable of observing on another\noccasion that if not all, at any rate many or several of Corneille's\ntragedies are \"melodramas,\" and that the author tended more and more\nto melodrama, in the course of his development or decadence, as we\nmay like to call it. Perhaps in so saying, they are making a careless\nuse of the word \"melodrama,\" and mean by it a drama of intrigue, of\nsurprises, of shocks and of recognitions. If on the contrary they\nhave employed it in its true sense, or if their tongue has been\ninstinctively more correct than their thought, since \"melodrama\" means\nprecisely a melodrama, that does not exist for itself, but for the\nmusic, and is a canvas or frame, they have again declared the extrinsic\ncharacter of the Cornelian tragedy.\n\nAnother confirmation of this character of the tragedies is to be found\nin that suspicion of I comicality, which lurks so frequently in the\nbackground as we read them, and occasionally makes itself clearly\naudible in the course of development of their pseudo-tragic action. It\nhas been asked whether the _Cid_ were a tragedy or a comedy and inquiry\nhas resulted in no satisfactory answer being arrived at, because\ninvoluntary comicality is present there, akin to what is to be found\nin certain of the pompous and emphatic melodramas of Metastasio. It\nis true that Don Diego's reply to the king has been cited as sublime,\nwhen he does not wish the new duel to take place at once, in order\nthat the Cid may have a little rest, after the great battle that he\nhas won against the Moors, which he has described triumphantly and at\ngreat length: \"_Rodrigue a pris haleine en vous la racontant!_\" But\nare we then to regard as sinful the smile that gradually dawns upon\nthe lips of those who are not pledged to admire at all costs? And\nconsider the case of the furious Emilia, who at the end of the _Cinna_\ngets rid in the twinkling of an eye, of all the convictions anchored\nin her breast, of that hatred that burned her up, much in the same\nmanner as a stomach-ache disappears upon the use of a sedative, and\ndeclares that she has all of a sudden become the exact opposite of what\nshe was previously? _\"Ma haine va mourir, que j'ai cru immortelle;\nelle est morte et ce c\u0153ur devient sujet fid\u00e8le, Et prenant d\u00e9sormais\ncette haine en horreur, L'ardeur de vous servir succ\u00e8de \u00e0 sa fureur.\"_\nAnd Curiace, who finds himself in such a situation as to deliver\nthe following madrigal to his betrothed: \"_D'Albe avec mon amour\nj'accordais la querelle; je soupirais pour vous, en combattant pour\nelle; Et s'il fallait encor que l'on en vint aux coups, Je combattrais\npour elle en soupirant pour vous.\"?_ But we will not insist upon this\ndescent into the comic, for it is not always to be avoided, being a\nnatural effect of the \"mechanicity\" of the Cornelian drama and is for\nthe rest in conformity with the theory which explains the comic as\n_\"l'automatisme install\u00e9 dans la vie et imitant la vie\"_ (Bergson).\n\nAnother form of the comic, discoverable in him, must also be insisted\nupon; but this is not involuntary and blameworthy, but coherent and\npraiseworthy. The form in question is that which led to the comedy\nof character and of costume, to psychological and political comedy.\nBruneti\u00e8re even said between jest and earnest: \"The _Cid, Horace,\nCinna_ and _Polyeucte,_ give me much trouble. Were it not for these\nfour, I should say that Corneille is fundamentally and above all a\ncomic poet, and an excellent comic poet; and this is perfectly true;\nbut how are we to say it, when the _Cid, Horace, Cinna_ and _Polyeucte_\nare there? These four tragedies embarrass me exceedingly!\" And he\nproceeds to note and illustrate the \"family scenes\" scattered among\nhis tragedies, the prosaic and conversational phraseology, which so\ndispleased Voltaire, and the complete absence in some of them of tragic\nquality, even of the external sort, that is, scenes of blood and death,\nand the prevalence of the ethical over the pathetic representation,\nin the manner of the comedy of Menander and of Terence. Despite all\nthis, his definition of Corneille as a comic poet will be admired as\nacute and ingenious, but will never carry conviction as being true:\nnone of those tragedies is a comedy, because none is accentuated in\nthat manner. For the same reason that Corneille could not attain to the\npoetical representation of life, because he was not able to pass beyond\nthe one-sidedness of his ideal, by merging it in the fulness of things,\nhe was unable to present the comic or ethical side of them, because\nhe did not pass beyond the spectacle of life and so of his ideal, by\nviewing it _sub specie intellectus,_ in its external and internal\nlimitations. The attempt to do so in the Alidor of the _Place Royale_\nhad not been successful, and it never was successful, even assuming\nthat he attempted it. He did not indeed attempt it, and the ethos\nthat so often took the place of the pathos in the structure of his\ntragedies, was itself a natural consequence of their mechanicity. Owing\nto this, when they had lost the guidance of the initial poetic motive,\nthey often fluctuated between emphasis and cold observation, between\neloquence and prose, between stylisation of the characters and certain\nrealistic determinations.\n\nThis hybridism, which has sometimes led to the belittling of Corneille\nto the level of a poet of observation and of comicality, has more often\nled, from another point of view, to his being increased in stature and\nimportance, to his being belauded and acclaimed as possessing \"romantic\ntendencies,\" or as a \"French Shakespeare,\" although but \"a Shakespeare\nin trammels.\" There is really nothing whatever in him of the romantic,\nin the conception, that is to say, and in the sentiment of life; and\nthere is less than nothing in him of Shakespeare, whose work had\nits origins in a far wider and certainly a very different sphere\nof spiritual interests. But since \"romanticism\" and \"Shakespeare\"\nperhaps stand here simply for poetry, it must be admitted that he is a\npoet, who does not explain himself fully, or explains himself badly,\nwithout the liberty, the sympathy, the abandonment of self necessary\nfor poetry. He harnesses his inspiration to an apparatus of actions\nand reactions, of parallelisms and of conventions, which may be well\ndescribed as \"trammels,\" when compared with poetry.\n\nBut they are in any case trammels which he sets in his own way,\ntrammels which he creates and fixes in his soul and are not imposed\nupon him by the rules, conventions and usages, which were in vogue\nat the time he wrote, as is erroneously maintained, coupled with\nlamentations as to the unfavorable period for the writing of poetry,\nwhich fell to his lot. What poet can be trammeled from without? The\npoet sets such obstacles aside, or he passes through them, or he goes\nround them, or he feigns to bow to them, or he does bow to them, but\nonly in secondary matters that are almost indifferent. For this reason,\ndisputes and doctrines as to the three unities, as to the characters\nof tragedy, as to the manner of obtaining the catharsis or purgation,\nhave considerable importance for anyone investigating the history of\naesthetic and critical ideas, of their formation, growth and progress,\nby means of struggles that seem to us now to be ridiculous, though\nthey were once serious; but they have no importance whatever as an\nelement in the judgment of a poem. Corneille did not rebel against the\nso-called rules, because he did not feel any need for rebellion; he\naccepted or accustomed himself to them, because, having treated tragedy\nmechanically, it suited him, or did him no harm, to take heed of the\nmechanical rules, laid down by custom and literary and theatrical\nprecepts.\n\nFor this reason, his method of theatrical composition was not only\nsusceptible of being tolerated, but even of pleasing and receiving the\npraise, the applause and the admiration of the contemporary public,\nwhich did not seek in them the joy of poetic rapture, but a different\nand more or less refined pleasure, answering to its spiritual needs and\naspirations. It could later and can now prove insupportable, because\nthe delight of a certain period in dexterity, expedients and clever\ndevices, in the fine phrases of the courtier, in certain actions that\nwere the fashion, in the gallantries of pastoral and heroic romance,\nin epigrams, antitheses and madrigals, are no longer our delights.\nPassionate or realistic art, as it is called, flourishes everywhere,\nin place of the old scholastic, academic and court models. But for us,\neverything that concerns Corneille's composition and the technique of\nhis work is indifferent, since we are viewing the problem from the\npoint of view of poetry. We shall not therefore busy ourselves with\ndiscriminating those parts of it that are well from those that are\nill put together, nor his clever from his unsuccessful expedients,\nhis well-constructed \"scenes\" from those that suffer from padding,\nhis \"acts\" that run smoothly from those that drag, the more from the\nless happy \"endings,\" as is the habit of those critics, who nourish a\nsuperstitious admiration for what Flaubert would have called _\"l'arcane\nth\u00e9\u00e2tral.\"_ We care nothing for the canvas, but only for what of\nembroidery in the shape of poetry there is upon it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nTHE POETRY OF CORNEILLE\n\n\nThe poetry of Corneille, or what of poetry there is in him, is all to\nbe found in the lyrical quality of the volitional situations, in those\ndebates, remarks, solemn professions of faith, energetic assertions of\nthe will, in that superb admiration for one's own personal, unshakable\nfirmness. Here it is that we must seek it, not in the development of\nthe dramatic action or in the character of the individual personages.\nFor it is only an affection for life, that is to say, penetration of\nit in all its manifestations, which is capable of generating those\nbeings, so warm with passion, who insinuate themselves into us and take\npossession of our imagination, who grow in it and eventually become so\nfamiliar to us that we seem to have really met them: the creations of\nDante, of Shakespeare, or of Goethe. Certainly, Corneille's lyricism,\nwhich seems to be exclusive and one-sided, would not be lyricism and\npoetry, if it were really always exclusive and one-sided and although\nit cannot give us drama in the sense we have described, owing to its\ndriving away the other passions, yet it does not succeed in doing so\nin such a complete and radical manner that we fail to perceive their\nfermentation, however remote, in those severe and vigorous assertions\nof the will. The loftiness itself of the rhythm indicates the high\nstandard of the vital effort, which it represents and expresses. To\ncontinue the illustration above initiated, Corneille's situations may\nbe drawings rather than pictures, or pictures in design rather than\nin colour; but these pictures also possess their own qualities as\npictures, they too are works of love and must not be confounded with\ndrawings directed to intellectual ends, with illustration of real\nthings, or concepts with prosaic designs.\n\nAnd indeed everyone has always sought and seeks the flower of the\nspirit of Corneille, the beauty of his work, in single situations, or\n\"places.\" The commentators who busy themselves with the exposition and\nthe d\u00e9gustation of his works have but slight material for analysis of\nthe sort that is employed by them in the case of other poets, whose\nfundamental poetic motive furnishes a basis for the rethinking of\nthe characters and of their actions. Here on the contrary they feel\nthemselves set free from an obstruction, when they pass to the single\npassages, and at once declare with Faguet, one of the latest _\"Il y a\nde beaux vers \u00e0 citer\"_ The actors too, who attempt to interpret his\ntragedies in the realistic romantic manner, fail to convince, while\nthose succeed on the other hand who deliver them in a somewhat formal\nstyle. In thus listening to the intoned declamations of the monologues,\nexhortations, invectives, sentiments and _couplets,_ one feels oneself\ntransplanted into a superior sphere, exactly as happens with singing\nand music.\n\nCorneille's characters are not to be laid hold of in their full and\ncorporate being. It is but rarely that they allow us a glimpse of their\nhuman countenance, or permit us to catch some cry of scorn, and then\nrapidly withdraw themselves into the abstract so completely that we\ndo not succeed in taking hold of even a fold of their fleeting robes,\nalthough a long-enduring echo of their lightning-like speech remains in\nthe soul. The old father of the Horatii strengthens his sons in their\nconflict between family affection and their imperious duty to their\ncountry, with the maxim: _\"Faites votre devoir et laissez faire aux\nDieux.\"_ The youthful Curiace murmurs with tears in his voice, to the\nyouthful Horace, his friend and brother-in-law _\"Je vous connais encore\net c'est ce qui: me tue,\"_ but Horace is as inflexible as a syllogism,\nhaving arrived at the conclusion that the posts assigned to them in the\nfeud between Rome and Alba have made enemies of them, and therefore\nthat they must not know one another in future. Curiace, when at last\nhe has become bitterly resigned to their irremediable separation and\nhostility, exclaims: _\"Telle est n\u00f4tre mis\u00e8re_ ...\"--Emilia, another\nbeing with nerves like steel springs, reveals her proud soul in a\nsingle phrase; when Maximus suggests flight to her, she exclaims as\nshe faces him, in a cry that is like a blow: _\"Tu oses m'aimer et tu\nn' oses mourir!\"_ She is perhaps more deeply wounded here in her pride\nas a woman, who fails to receive the tribute of heroism, which she\nexpects, than in her moral sentiment. The noble Sur\u00e9na holds it an\neasy thing, a thing of small moment, to give his life for his lady: he\nwishes \"_toujours aimer, toujours souffrir, toujours mourir!_\"; and\nAntiochus, in _Rodogune,_ when he discovers that he is surrounded with\nambushes, decides to die and in doing so directs his thought to the\nsad shade of his brother, who has been slain in a like manner: \"_Cher\nfr\u00e8re, c'est pour moi le chemin du tr\u00e9pas_...\"; and Titus feels himself\npenetrated with the melancholy of the fleeting hour, the sense of human\nfragility:\n\n    Oui, Flavian, c'est affaire \u00e0 mourir.\n    La vie est pen de chose; et t\u00f4t ou tard qu'importe\n    Qu'un tra\u00eetre me l'arrache, ou que l'\u00e2ge l'emporte?\n    Nous mourrons a toute heure; et dans le plus doux sort\n    Chaque instant de la vie est un pas vers la mort.\n\nWords expressive of death are always those whose accent is clearest\nand whose resonance is the most profound with Corneille. It is perhaps\nas well to leave the _Moi_ of Medea and the _Qu'il mourrait_ of the\nold Horace to the admirative raptures of the rhetoricians; but let us\nrepeat to ourselves those words of the sister of Heraclius (in the\n_Heraclius_), mortified by fate, ever at the point of death and ever\nready to die:\n\n    Mais \u00e0 d'autres pensers il me faut recourir:\n    Il n'est plus temps d'aimer alors qu'il faut mourir....\n    $/\n\nAnd again:\n\n    Crois-tu que sur la foi de tes fausses promesses\n    Mon \u00e2me ose descendre \u00e0 de telles bassesses?\n    Prends mon sang pour le sien; mais, s'il y faut mon c\u0153ur,\n    P\u00e9risse H\u00e9raclius avec sa triste s\u0153ur!\n\nAnd when she stays the hand of the menacing tyrant suddenly and with a\nword:\n\n     ... Ne menace point, je suis pr\u00eate a mourir.\n\nOr, finally, those sweetest words of all, spoken by Eurydice in the\n_Sur\u00e9na_:\n\n    Non, je ne pleure pas, madame, mais je meurs.\n\nThese dying words form as it were the extreme points of the resolute\nwill, of the will, fierce _usque ad mortem._ But the others, in which\nthe volitional situations are fixed and developed and determination to\npursue a certain course is asserted, are, as we have said, the proper\nand normal expression of the poetry of Corneille, which can be fully\nenjoyed, provided that we do not insist upon asking whether they are\nappropriate in the mouths of the personages, who should act and not\nanalyse and define themselves, or whether they are or are not necessary\nfor the development of the drama. Their poetry consists of just that\nanalysis, that passionate self-definition, that arranging of the folds\nof their own decorous robes, that sculpturing of their own statues.\n\nLet us examine a few examples of it, taking them from the least known\nand the least praised tragedies of Corneille, for it is perhaps time\nto have done with the so-called decadence or exhaustion of Corneille,\nwith his second-childhood (according to which, some would maintain that\nhe returned to his boyish, pre-Cidian period in his maturity), and\nwith the excessive and to no small extent affected and conventional\nexaltation of the famous square block of stone representing the four\nfaces of honour (the _Cid_), of patriotism _(Horace),_ of generosity\n_(Cinna)_ and of sanctity _(Polyeucte)._ There is often in those four\nmost popular tragedies a certain pomposity, an emphasis, an apparatus,\na rhetorical colouring, which Corneille gradually did away with in\nhimself, in order to make himself ever more nude, with the austere\nnudity of the spirit. It was perhaps not only constancy and coherence\nof logical development, but progress of art on the road to its own\nperfection, which counselled him to abandon too pathetic subjects. In\nany case, unless we wish to turn the traditional judgment upside down,\nwe must insist that those four tragedies, like those that followed\nthem, are not to be read by the lover of poetry otherwise than in an\nanthological manner, that is to say, selecting the fine passages where\nthey are to be found, and these occur in no less number and in beauty\nat least equal in the other tragedies also, some of which are more and\nsome less theatrically effective.\n\nPulch\u00e9rie is the last and one of the most marvellous Cornelian\ncondensations of force in deliberation. She thus manifests her mode of\nfeeling to the youthful L\u00e9on whom she loves:\n\n    Je vous aime, L\u00e9on, et n'en fais point myst\u00e8re:\n    Des feux tels que les miens n'out rien qu'il faille taire.\n    Je vous aime, et non point de cette folle ardeur\n    Que les yeux \u00e9blouis font ma\u00eetresse du c\u0153ur;\n    Non d'un amour con\u00e7u par les sens en tumulte,\n    A qui l'\u00e2me applaudit sans qu'elle se consulte,\n    Et qui, ne concevant que d'aveugles d\u00e9sires,\n    Languit dans les faveurs et meurt dans les plaisirs:\n    Ma passion pour vous g\u00e9n\u00e9reuse et solide,\n    A la vertu pour \u00e2me et la raison pour guide,\n    La gloire pour objet et veut, sous votre loi,\n    Mettre en ce jour illustre et l'univers et moi.\n\nHere we have clearly the lyricism of a soul which has achieved complete\npossession of itself, of a soul overflowing with affections, but\nknowing which among them are superior and which inferior, and has\nlearned how to administer and how to rule itself, steering the ship\nwith a steady and experienced hand through treacherous seas, and\nfeeling its own nobility to lie in just what others would call coldness\nand lack of humanity. Note the expressions _\"folle ardeur\"_ and _\"sens\nen tumulte\"_ and the contempt, not to say the disgust, with which they\nare uttered and the hell that is pointed out as lying in that soul\nwhich allows itself to be carried away _\"sans qu' elle se consulte.\"_\nNote too the vision of the sad effeminacy of those affections, so blind\nand so egotistic, which consume and corrupt themselves in themselves,\nand how he enhances it by contrast with her own rational passion, so\n_\"g\u00e9n\u00e9reuse et solide,\"_ with those solemn words of _\"vertu,\"_ of\n_\"raison,\"_ of _\"gloire,\"_ and the final apotheosis, which lays at the\nfeet of the man she loves and loves worthily, her person and the whole\nworld.\n\nAnd Pulch\u00e9rie, when she has been elected empress, again takes counsel\nwith herself and recognises that this love of hers for L\u00e9on is still\ninferior, not yet sufficiently pure, and decides to slay it, in order\nthat it may live again as something different, as something purely\nrational:\n\n    L\u00e9on seul est ma joie, il est mon seul d\u00e9sir;\n    Je n'en puis choisir d'autre, et je n'ose le choisir:\n    Depuis trois ans unie \u00e0 cette ch\u00e8re id\u00e9e,\n    J'en ai l'\u00e2me \u00e0 toute heure en tous lieux obs\u00e9d\u00e9e;\n    Rien n'en d\u00e9tachera mon c\u0153ur que le tr\u00e9pas,\n    Encore apr\u00e8s ma mort n'en r\u00e9pondrai-je pas,\n    Et si dans le tombeau le ciel permet qu'on aime,\n    Dans le fond du tombeau je l'aimerai de m\u00eame.\n    Tr\u00f4ne qui m'\u00e9blouis, titres qui me flattez,\n    Pourriez-vous me valoir ce que vous me co\u00fbtez?\n    Et de tout votre orgueil la pompe la plus haute\n    A-t-elle un bien \u00e9gal \u00e0 celui qu'elle m'\u00f4te?\n\nShe thus concedes to human frailty the relief of a lament, such a\nlament as can issue from her lips, full of strength and charged with\nresolution in passion, but at the same time noble, measured and\ndignified. After this, she follows the direction of her will with\ninexorable firmness. L\u00e9on shall not be her spouse, because her choice\nmust be and seem to be dictated by the sole good of the State, and fall\nupon a man whom she will not love with love, but who will be for Rome\nan emperor to be feared and respected. A conflict had been engaged\nbetween one part of herself and another, between the whole and a part,\nand she has again subjected the part to the whole and has assigned to\nit its duty, that of obedience.\n\n    Je suis imp\u00e9ratrice et j'\u00e9tais Pulch\u00e9rie.\n    De ce tr\u00f4ne, ennemi de mes plus doux souhaits,\n    Je regarde l'amour comme un de mes sujets;\n    Je veux que le respect qu'il doit \u00e0 ma couronne\n    Repousse l'attentat qu'il fait sur ma personne;\n    Je veux qu'il m'ob\u00e9isse, au lieu de me trahir;\n    Je veux qu'il donne \u00e0 tous l'exemple d'ob\u00e9ir;\n    Et, jalouse d\u00e9j\u00e0 de mon pouvoir supr\u00eame,\n    Pour l'affermir sur tous, je le prends sur moi-m\u00eame.\n\nThus love is subjected to the mind, or as it used to be expressed in\nthe language of the time, which was of Stoic origin, to the \"hegemonic\npotency.\" She would desire to raise her youthful beloved to the\nlofty level of her intent, by removing him from the sphere of weak\nlamentations and assuring his union with herself in a mystic marriage\nof superior wills. What contempt is hers for sentimentalism, which\nwishes to insinuate itself where it is not wanted, for \"tears,\" for\n\"the shame of tears\"!\n\n    La plus ferme couronne est bient\u00f4t \u00e9branl\u00e9e\n    Quand un effort d'amour semble l'avoir vol\u00e9e;\n    Et pour garder un rang si cher \u00e0 nos d\u00e9sirs\n    Il faut un plus grand art que celui des soupirs.\n    Ne vous abaissez pas \u00e0 la honte des larmes;\n    Contre un devoir si fort ce sont de faibles armes;\n    Et si de tels secours vous couronnaient ailleurs,\n    J'aurais piti\u00e9 d'un sceptre achet\u00e9 par des pleurs.\n\nWhen we read such verses as these, our breast expands, as it does\nwhen we are in the company of men whose gravity of word and deed\ninduce gravity, whose superiority over the crowd makes you forget\nthe existence of the crowd, transporting you to a sphere where\nthe non-accomplishment of duty would appear, not only vile, but\nincomprehensible. On another occasion our admiration is about to\nshroud itself in pity, but soon shines forth again and displays itself\ntriumphant, as in the young princess Hiedion of the _Attila,_ who is\naccorded to the abhorred king of the Huns by a treaty of peace--were\nshe to refuse the union, immeasurable calamities would fall upon her\nfamily and people. She too observes a sorrowful attitude but hers is an\nerect and combative sorrow:\n\n    Si je n'\u00e9tais pas, seigneur, ce que je suis,\n    J'en prendrais quelque droit \u00e0 finir mes ennuis:\n    Mais l'esclavage fier d'une haute naissance,\n    O\u00f9 toute autre peut tout, me tient dans l'impuissance;\n    Et, victime d'\u00e9tat, je dois sans reculer\n    Attendre aveuglement qu'on daigne m'immoler.\n\nThe heart trembles and restrains itself at the same moment before\nthat _\"esclavage fier,\"_ that proud and sarcastic _\"qu'on daigne\nm'immoler\"_ the victim has already scrutinised the situation in\nwhich she finds herself, the duty which is incumbent upon her, the\nprospect of vengeance which opens itself before her and her race, and\nhas already conceived her terrible design. In like manner with Queen\nRodolinde in the _Pertharite,_ when she is solicited and implored\nby the usurper Grimoalde, who wished to espouse her and promises\nto declare himself tutor to her son and to make him heir to the\nthrone,--suspecting that in this way he will deprive her of the honour\nof marriage faith and may then put her son to deatii--she decides upon\na horrible course of action, proposing to him that he should put her\nson to death on the spot:\n\n    Puisqu'il faut qu'il p\u00e9risse, il vaut mieux t\u00f4t que tard;\n    Que sa mort soit un crime, et non pas un hazard;\n    Que cette ombre innocente \u00e0 toute heure m'anime,\n    Me demande \u00e0 toute heure une grande victime;\n    Que ce jeune monarque, immol\u00e9 de ta main,\n    Te rende abominable \u00e0 tout le genre humain;\n    Qu'il t'excite par tout des haines immortelles;\n    Que de tous tes sujets il fasse des rebelles.\n    Je t'\u00e9pouserai lors, et m'y viens d'obliger,\n    Pour mieux servir ma haine et pour mieux me venger,\n    Pour moins perdre des v\u0153ux contre ta barbarie,\n    Pour \u00eatre \u00e0 tous moments ma\u00eetresse de ta vie,\n    Pour avoir l'acc\u00e8s libre \u00e0 pousser ma fureur,\n    Et mieux choisir la place o\u00f9 te percer le c\u0153ur.\n    Voil\u00e0 mon d\u00e9sespoir, voil\u00e0 ses justes causes:\n    A ces conditions, prends ma main, si tu l'oses.\n\nHer husband Pertharite, who had been believed to be dead, is alive:\nhe returns and is made prisoner by Grimoalde, and Rodolinde, fearing\nruin, decides to avenge him or to perish with him. But he sees the\nsituation in which he finds himself with his consort in a different\nlight objectively: he sees it as a conquered king, who bows his head\nto the decision of destiny, recognises the right of the conqueror and\nholds ever aloft in his soul the idea of regal majesty. So he asserts\nit with firmness and serenity, going beyond all personal feelings, in\norder that he may consider only what appertains both to the rights and\nduties of a king:\n\n    Quand ces devoirs communs out d'importunes lois,\n    La majest\u00e9 du tr\u00f4ne en dispense les rois;\n    Leur gloire est au-dessus des r\u00e8gles ordinaires,\n    Et cet honneur n'est beau que pour les c\u0153urs vulgaires.\n    Sit\u00f4t qu'un roi vaincu tombe aux mains du vainqueur,\n    Il a trop m\u00e9rit\u00e9 la derni\u00e8re rigueur.\n    Ma mort pour Grimoald ne peut avoir de crime:\n    Le soin de s'affermir lui rend tout l\u00e9gitime.\n    Quand j'aurai dans ses fers cess\u00e9 de respirer,\n    Donnez-lui votre main sans rien consid\u00e9rer;\n    Epargnez les efforts d'une impuissante haine,\n    Et permettez au Ciel de vous faire encor reine.\n\nThe courageous and sagacious Nicom\u00e8de speaks kingly words of a\ndifferent sort, well calculated to arouse him and make him lift up his\nhead, to the vacillating father, who wishes to content both Rome and\nthe queen, establish agreement between love and nature, be father and\nhusband:\n\n    --Seigneur, voulez-vous bien vous en fier \u00e0 moi?\n    Ne soyez l'un ni l'autre.--Et que dois-je \u00eatre?--Roi.\n    Reprenez hautement ce noble caract\u00e8re.\n    Un v\u00e9ritable roi n'est ni mari ni p\u00e8re;\n    Il regarde son tr\u00f4ne, et rien de plus. R\u00e9gnez;\n    Rome vous craindra plus que vous ne la craignez.\n    Malgr\u00e9 cette puissance et si vaste et si grande,\n    Vous pouvez d\u00e9j\u00e0 voir comme elle m'appr\u00e9hende,\n    Combien en me perdant elle esp\u00e8re gagner,\n    Parce qu'elle pr\u00e9voit que je saurai r\u00e9gner.\n\nLet us listen also for a moment to the Christian Theodora, who has been\ngranted the time to choose between offering incense to the gods and\nbeing abandoned to the soldiery in the public brothel:\n\n    Quelles sont vos rigueurs, si vous les nommez gr\u00e2ce!\n    Et que choix voulez-vous qu'une chr\u00e9tienne fasse,\n    R\u00e9duite \u00e0 balancer son esprit agit\u00e9\n    Entre l'idol\u00e2trie et l'impudicit\u00e9?\n    Le choix est inutile o\u00f9 les maux sont extr\u00eames.\n    Reprenez votre gr\u00e2ce, et choisissez vous-m\u00eames:\n    Quiconque peut choisir consent \u00e0 l'un des deux,\n    Et le consentement est seul l\u00e2che et honteux.\n    Dieu, tout juste et tout bon, qui lit dans nos pens\u00e9es,\n    N'impute point de crime aux actions forc\u00e9es;\n    Soit que vous contraigniez pour vos dieux impuissans\n    Mon corps \u00e0 l'infamie ou ma main \u00e0 l'encens,\n    Je saurai conserver d'une \u00e2me r\u00e9solue\n    \u00c0 l'\u00e9poux sans macule une \u00e9pouse impollue.\n\nShe really does _balance_ herself mentally at the parting of the ways\nplaced before her, analyses it and formulates her determination,\nrejecting as cowardly both the choice of the sacrilege and of the\nshameful punishment and casting it in the teeth of her unworthy\noppressors. It is the only answer that befits the Christian virgin,\nfirm in her determination of saving her constancy in the faith and\nmodesty, which resides not only in the will, but also in desire itself.\nThe expression of her intention has just such a tone and adopts just\nthe formulae of a theologian speaking by her mouth--_\"le consentment,\"\n\"l'\u00e9poux sans macule,\" \"l'\u00e9pouse impollue.\"_\n\nIn _Theseus_ of the _Oedipe_ the poet himself protests against a\nconception that menaces the foundation of his spirit itself, because it\noffends the idea of free choice and makes unsteady the consciousness\nthat man has of being able to determine upon a line of conduct\naccording to reason. He is protesting against the ancient idea of fate,\nor rather against its revival in modern form, as the Jansenist doctrine\nof grace:\n\n    Quoi! la n\u00e9cessit\u00e9 des vertus et des vices\n    D'un astre imp\u00e9rieux doit suivre les caprices,\n    Et Delphes, malgr\u00e9 nous, conduit nos actions\n    Au plus bizarre effet de ses pr\u00e9dictions?\n    L'\u00e2me est donc toute esclave: une loi souveraine\n    Vers le bien ou le mal incessamment l'entra\u00eene;\n    Et nous ne recevons ni crainte ni d\u00e9sir\n    De cette libert\u00e9 qui n'a rien \u00e0 choisir,\n    Attach\u00e9s sans rel\u00e2che \u00e0 cet ordre sublime,\n    Vertueux sans m\u00e9rite et vicieux sans crime.\n    Qu'on massacre les rois, qu'on brise les autels,\n    C'est la faute des dieux et non pas des mortels:\n    De toute la vertu sur la terre \u00e9pandue\n    Tout le prix \u00e0 ces dieux, toute la gloire est due:\n    Ils agissent en nous quand nous pensons agir;\n    Alors qu'on d\u00e9lib\u00e8re, on ne fait qu'ob\u00e9ir;\n    Et notre volont\u00e9 n'aime, hait, cherche, \u00e9vite,\n    Que suivant que d'en haut leur bras la pr\u00e9cipite!\n    D'un tel aveuglement daignez me dispenser.\n    Le Ciel, juste \u00e0 punir, juste \u00e0 r\u00e9compenser,\n    Peur rendre aux actions leur perte ou leur salare,\n    Doit nous offrir son aide et puis nous laisser faire....\n\nWhat indignation, what a revolt of the whole being against the thought\nthat _\"quand on d\u00e9lib\u00e8re, on ne fait qu' ob\u00e9ir\"_! How he defends the\nliberty, not only of the _\"virtus,\"_ but also of the _\"vices,\"_ the\nliberty _\"de nous laisser faire!\"_ This eloquence of the will and of\nliberty, this singing declamation, is the true lyricism of Corneille,\nintimate and substantial, and not the so-called \"lyrical pieces,\" which\nhe inserted into his tragedies here and there. These are lyrical in the\nformal and restricted scholastic sense of the term, but they are often\nas affected as the monologue of Rodrigue, which is accompanied by a\nrefrain. Others have demonstrated in an accurately analytical manner\nthat he lacks lyricism or poetry of style; that the construction of his\nphrase is logical, with its \"because,\" its \"but,\" its \"then,\" that he\nover-abounds in maxims and altogether ignores metaphor, the picturesque\nand musicality. But the same writer who has maintained this, has also\ndeclared that his poetry is to be found, if not in the coloured image\nand in the musical sound, then certainly \"in the rhythm, in the wide\nor rapid vibration of the strophe, which extends or transports the\nthought\" (Lanson): that is to say, in making this admission, he has\nconfuted his previous mean and narrow theory concerning poetry and\nlyricism. The other judgment is to the effect that Corneille is not a\npoet by style, but by the conception and meaning of his works--that\nhe is a latent poet or one who dressed up his thought in prose. But\nit is unthinkable that there should exist latent poets, who do not\nmanifest themselves in poetic form. The truth of the matter is that\nwhere Corneille felt as a poet, he expressed himself as a poet,\nwithout many-coloured metaphors, without musical trills and softnesses\nof expression, but with many maxims, many conjunctive particles,\ndeclaratory and expressive of opposition. He employed the latter\nrather than the former, because he had need of the latter and not of\nthe former. His rhythm too, which has been so much praised and owing\nto which his alexandrine rings out so differently from the mechanical\nalexandrines of his imitators, the rhetoricians, is nothing but his\nspirit itself, noble and solemn, debating and deliberating, resolute,\nunafraid and firm in its rational determinations.\n\nCorneille's keenest adversaries have always been compelled to recognise\nin him a residuum, which withstood their destructive criticism.\nVauvenargues said that \"he sometimes expressed himself with great\nenergy and no one has more loftly traits, no one has left behind him\nthe idea of a dialogue so closely compacted and so vehement, or has\ndepicted with equal felicity the power and the inflexibility of the\nsoul, which come to it from virtue. There are astonishing flashes\nthat come forth even from the disputes and upon which I commented\nunfavourably, there are battles that really elevate the heart, and\nfinally, although he frequently removes himself from nature, it must\nbe confessed that he depicts her with great directness and vigour in\nmany places, and only there is he to be admired.\" Jacobi, in an essay\nwhich is an indictment, was however, compelled to excogitate or to\nbeg for the reason of such fame; he found himself obliged to praise\nthe many vivacious scenes, the depth of discourse, the loftiness of\nexpression, to be found scattered here and there in those tragedies.\nAlthough Schiller did not care for him at all, he made an exception for\n\"the part that is properly speaking heroic,\" which was \"felicitously\ntreated,\" although he added that \"even this vein, which is not rich in\nitself, was treated monotonously.\" Schlegel was struck with certain\npassages and with the style which is often powerful and concise and De\nSanctis observed that Corneille was in his own field, when he portrayed\ngreatness of soul, not in its gradations and struggles, but \"as nature\nand habit, in the security of possession.\" A German philologist, after\nhe has run down the tragedies of the \"quadrilateral,\" judges Corneille\nto be \"a jurist and a cold man of intellect, although full of nobility\nand dignity of soul, but without clearness as to his own aptitudes, and\nwithout original creative power.\" This writer declares that \"nowhere\nin his works do we feel the breath of genius that laughs at all\nrestraints,\" but he goes on to make exception for the splendour of his\n\"language.\" It seems somewhat difficult to make an exception for the\nlanguage, precisely when discussing the question of poetical genius!\n\nNOTE. I draw attention to it in this note, because I have never seen it\nmentioned: it is to be found in the _Charactere der vornehmsten Dichter\naller Nationen.... von einer Gesellschaft von Gelehrten_ (Leipzig,\n1796), Vol. V, part I, pp. 38-138.\n\nWe certainly find monotony present in the figures that he sets before\nus, repetitions of thoughts and of schemes, analogies in the matter\nof process. A _concordantia corneliana,_ explicatory of this side of\nhis genius could be constructed and perhaps the sole reason that this\nhas not been done is because it would be too easy. Steinweg, whom we\nhave quoted above, has provided a good instance of this. But even the\nmonotony of Corneille must not be looked upon altogether as a proof of\npoverty, or a defect, but rather as an intrinsic characteristic of his\naustere inspiration, which was susceptible of assuming but few forms.\n\nI cannot better close this discussion of Corneille than with the\ncitation of a youthful page of Sainte-Beuve, which contains nothing\nbut a fanciful comparison, but this comparison has much more to say to\nus, who have now completed the critical examination of his works, than\nSainte-Beuve was himself able to say in his various critical writings\nrelative to the poet, for he there shows himself to be at one moment\ninclined to be uncertain and to oscillate, at another inclined to yield\nto traditional judgments and conventional enthusiasms. This affords\nanother proof, if such be necessary, that it is one thing to receive\nthe sensible impression aroused by a poem and another to understand\nand to explain it. \"Corneille\"--wrote Sainte-Beuve,--\"a pure genius,\nyet an incomplete one, gives me, with his qualities and his defects,\nthe impression of those great trees, so naked, so gnarled, so sad and\nso monotonous as regards their trunk, and adorned with branches and\ndark green leaves only at their summits. They are strong, powerful,\ngigantic, having but little foliage; an abundant sap nourishes them;\nbut you must not expect from them shelter, shade or flowers. They put\nforth their leaves late, lose them early and live a long while half\ndismantled. Even when their bald heads have abandoned their leaves to\nthe winds of autumn, their vital nature still throws out here and there\nstray boughs and green shoots. When they are about to die, their groans\nand creakings are like that trunk, laden with arms, to which Lucan\ncompared the great Pompey.\"\n\n\n\n\nINDEX (not retained for this text version)","title":"Ariosto, Shakespeare and Corneille","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":85994}