Part 3 (1/2)
Have I succeeded in making clear what I feel about the Shakespearean att.i.tude? At bottom, it is absolutely sceptical. Deep yawns below Deep; and if we cannot read ”the writing upon the wall,” the reason may be that there is no writing there. Having lifted a corner of the Veil of Isis, having glanced once into that Death-Kingdom where grope the roots of the Ash-Tree whose name is Fear, we return to the surface, from Nadir to Zenith, and become ”superficial”--”out of profundity.”
The infinite s.p.a.ces, as Pascal said, are ”frightful.” That way madness lies. And those who would be sane upon earth must drug themselves with the experience, or with the spectacle of the experience, of human pa.s.sion. Within this charmed circle, and here alone, they may be permitted to forget the Outer Terror.
The n.o.ble spirit is not the spirit that condescends to pamper in itself those inflated moods of false optimistic hope, which, springing from mere physiological well-being, send us leaping and bounding, with such boisterous a.s.surance, along the sunny road. Such pragmatic self-deception is an impertinence in the presence of a world like this.
It is a sign of what one might call a philosophically ill-bred nature. It is the indecent ”grat.i.tude” of the pig over his trough. It is the little yellow eye of sanctified bliss turned up to the G.o.d who _”must_ be in His Heaven” if _we_ are so privileged. This ”never doubting good will triumph” is really, when one examines it, nothing but the inverted prostration of the helot-slave, glad to have been allowed to get so totally drunk! It bl.u.s.ters and swaggers, but at heart it is base and ign.o.ble. For it is not sensitive enough to feel that the Universe _cannot be pardoned_ for the cry of one tortured creature, and that all ”the worlds we shall traverse” cannot make up for the despair of one human child.
To be ”cheerful” about the Universe in the manner of these people is to insult the Christ who died. It is to outrage the ”little ones” over whose bodies the Wheel has pa.s.sed. When Nietzsche, the martyr of his own murdered pity, calls upon us to ”love Fate,” he does not shout so l.u.s.tily. His laughter is the laughter of one watching his darling stripped for the rods. He who would be ”in harmony with Nature.” with those ”murderous ministers” who, in their blind abyss, throw dice with Chance, must be in harmony with the giants of Jotunheim, as well as with the lords of Valhalla. He must be able to look on grimly while Asgard totters; he must welcome ”the Twilight of the G.o.ds.” To have a mind inured to such conceptions, a mind capable of remaining on such a verge, is, alone, to be, intellectually speaking, what we call ”aristocratic.” When, even with eyes like poor Gloucester's in the play, we can see ”how this world wags,” it is slavish and ”plebeian” to swear that it all ”means intensely, and means well.” It is also to lie in one's throat!
No wonder Shakespeare treats reverently every ”superst.i.tion,” every anodyne and nepenthe offered to the inmates of this House of the Incurable. Such ”sprinkling with holy water,” such ”rendering ourselves stupid,” is the only alternative. Anything else is the insight of the hero, or the hypocrisy of the preacher!
Has it been realized how curiously the interpreters of Shakespeare omit the princ.i.p.al thing? They revel in his Grammar, his History, his Biology, his Botany, his Geography, his Psychology and his Ethics.
They never speak of his Poetry. Now Shakespeare is, above everything, a poet. To poetry, over and over again, as our Puritans know well, he sacrifices Truth, Morality, Probability, nay! the very principles of Art itself.
As Dramas, many of his plays are scandalously bad; many of his characters fantastic. One can put one's finger in almost every case upon the persons and situations that interested him and upon those that did not. And how carelessly he ”sketches in” the latter! So far from being ”the Objective G.o.d of Art” they seek to make him, he is the most wayward and subjective of all wandering souls.
No natural person can read him without feeling the pulse of extreme personal pa.s.sion behind everything he writes.
And this pulse of personal pa.s.sion is always expressing itself in Poetry. He will let the probabilities of a character vanish into air, or dwindle into a wistful note of attenuated convention, when once such a one has served his purpose as a reed to pipe his strange tunes through. He will whistle the most important personage down the wind, lost to interest and ident.i.ty, when once he has put into his mouth his own melancholy brooding upon life--his own imaginative reaction.
And so it happens that, in spite of all academic opinion, those who understand Shakespeare best tease themselves least over his dramatic lapses. For let it be whispered at once, without further scruple. As far as _the art of the drama_ is concerned, Shakespeare is _shameless._ The poetic instinct--one might call it ”epical” or ”lyrical,” for it is both these--is far more dominant in our ”greatest dramatist” than any dramatic conscience. That is precisely why those among us who love ”poetry,” but find ”drama,” especially ”drama since Ibsen,” intolerably tiresome, revert again and again to Shakespeare. Only absurd groups of Culture-Philistines can read these ”powerful modern productions” more than once! One knows not whether their impertinent preaching, or their exasperating technical cleverness is the more annoying.
They may well congratulate themselves on being different from Shakespeare. They are extremely different. They are, indeed, nothing but his old enemies, the Puritans, ”translated,” like poor Bottom, and wearing the donkey's head of ”art for art's sake” in place of their own simple foreheads.
Art for art's sake! The thing has become a Decalogue of forbidding commandments, as devastating as _those Ten._ It is the new avatar of the ”moral sense” carrying categorical insolence into the sphere of our one Alsatian sanctuary!
I am afraid Shakespeare was a very ”immoral” artist. I am afraid he wrote as one of the profane.
But what of the Greeks? The Greeks never let themselves go! No!
And for a sufficient reason. Greek Drama was Religion. It was Ritual. And we know how ”responsible” ritual must be. The G.o.ds must have their incense from the right kind of censer.
But you cannot evoke Religion ”in vacuo.” You cannot, simply by a.s.suming grave airs about your personal ”taste,” or even about the ”taste” of your age, give it _that consecration._
Beauty? G.o.d knows what beauty is. But I can tell you what it is not.
It is not the sectarian anxiety of any pompous little clique to get ”saved” in the artistic ”narrow path.” It is much rather what Stendhal called it. But he spoke so frivolously that I dare not quote him.
Has it occurred to you, gentle reader, to note how ”Protestant” this New Artistic Movement is? Shakespeare, in his aesthetic method, as well as in his piety, had a Catholic soul. In truth, the hour has arrived when a ”Renaissance” of the free spirit of Poetry in Drama is required. Why must this monstrous shadow of the Hyperborean Ibsen go on darkening the play-instinct in us, like some ugly, domineering John Knox? I suspect that there are many generous Rabelaisian souls who could lift our mortal burden with oceanic merriment, only the New Movement frightens them. They are afraid they would not be ”Greek” enough--or ”Scandinavian” enough.
Meanwhile the miserable populace have to choose between Babylonian Pantomimes and Gaelic Mythology, if they are not driven, out of a kind of spite, into the region of wholesome ”domestic suns.h.i.+ne.”
What, in our hearts, we natural men desire is to be delivered at one blow from the fairies with weird names (so different from poor t.i.tania!), and from the three-thousand ”Unities!” What ”poetry” we do get is so vague and dim and wistful and forlorn that it makes us want to go out and ”buy clothes” for someone. We veer between the abomination of city-reform and the desolation of Ultima Thule.
But Shakespeare is Shakespeare still. O those broken and gasped-out human cries, full of the old poignancy, full of the old enchantment!
Shakespeare's poetry is the extreme opposite of any ”cult.” It is the ineffable expression, in music that makes the heart stop, of the feelings which have stirred every Jack and Jill among us, from the beginning of the world! It has the effect of those old ”songs” of the countryside that hit the heart in us so shrewdly that one feels as though the wind had made them or the rain or the wayside gra.s.s; for they know too much of what we tell to none! It is the ”one touch of Nature.” And how they break the rules, these surpa.s.sing lines, in which the emotions of his motley company gasp themselves away!
It is not so much in the great speeches, n.o.ble as these are, as in the brief, tragic cries and broken stammerings, that his unapproachable felicity is found. ”Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, the G.o.ds themselves throw incense.” Thick and fast they crowd upon our memory, these little sentences, these aching rhythms! It is with the flesh and blood of the daily Sacrifice of our common endurance that he celebrates his strange Ma.s.s. Hands that ”smell of mortality,” lips that ”so sweetly were forsworn,” eyes that ”look their last” on all they love, these are the touches that make us bow down before the final terrible absolution. And it is the same with Nature. Not to Shakespeare do we go for those pseudo-scientific, pseudo-ethical interpretations, so crafty in their word-painting, so cunning in their rational a.n.a.lysis, which we find in the rest. A few fierce-flung words, from the hot heart of an amorist's l.u.s.t, and all the smouldering magic of the noon-day woods takes your breath. A sobbing death-dirge from the bosom of a love-lorn child, and the perfume of all the ”enclosed gardens” in the world shudders through your veins.
And what about the ancient antagonist of the Earth? What about the Great Deep? Has anyone, anywhere else, gathered into words the human tremor and the human recoil that are excited universally when we go down ”upon the beached verge of the salt flood, who once a day with his embossed froth the turbulent surge doth cover?”
John Keats was haunted day and night by the simple refrain in Lear, ”Canst thou not hear the Sea?”