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_ This does not mean that Shakespear was cruel: evidently he was not;
but it was not cruelty that made Jupiter reduce Semele to ashes: it
was the fact that he could not help being a god nor she help being a
mortal. The one thing Shakespear's passion for the Dark Lady was not,
was what Mr Harris in one passage calls it: idolatrous. If it had
been, she might have been able to stand it. The man who "dotes yet
doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves," is tolerable even by a spoilt
and tyrannical mistress; but what woman could possibly endure a man
who dotes without doubting; who _knows_, and who is hugely amused at
the absurdity of his infatuation for a woman of whose mortal
imperfections not one escapes him: a man always exchanging grins with
Yorick's skull, and inviting "my lady" to laugh at the sepulchral
humor of the fact that though she paint an inch thick (which the Dark
Lady may have done), to Yorick's favor she must come at last. To the
Dark Lady he must sometimes have seemed cruel beyond description: an
intellectual Caliban. True, a Caliban who could say
Be not afeard: the isle is full of noises
Sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears; and sometimes voices,
That, if I then had waked after long sleep
Will make me sleep again; and then, in dreaming,
The clouds, methought, would open and shew riches
Ready to drop on me: that when I wak'd
I cried to dream again.
which is very lovely; but the Dark Lady may have had that vice in her
ears which Cloten dreaded: she may not have seen the beauty of it,
whereas there can be no doubt at all that of "My mistress' eyes are
nothing like the sun," &c., not a word was lost on her.
And is it to be supposed that Shakespear was too stupid or too modest
not to see at last that it was a case of Jupiter and Semele?
Shakespear was most certainly not modest in that sense. The timid
cough of the minor poet was never heard from him.
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme
is only one out of a dozen passages in which he (possibly with a keen
sense of the fun of scandalizing the modest coughers) proclaimed his
place and his power in "the wide world dreaming of things to come."
The Dark Lady most likely thought this side of him insufferably
conceited; for there is no reason to suppose that she liked his plays
any better than Minna Wagner liked Richard's music dramas: as likely
as not, she thought The Spanish Tragedy worth six Hamlets. He was not
stupid either: if his class limitations and a profession that cut him
off from actual participation in great affairs of State had not
confined his opportunities of intellectual and political training to
private conversation and to the Mermaid Tavern, he would probably have
become one of the ablest men of his time instead of being merely its
ablest playwright. One might surmise that Shakespear found out that
the Dark Lady's brains could no more keep pace with his than Anne
Hathaway's, if there were any evidence that their friendship ceased
when he stopped writing sonnets to her. As a matter of fact the
consolidation of a passion into an enduring intimacy generally puts an
end to sonnets.
That the Dark Lady broke Shakespear's heart, as Mr Harris will have it
she did, is an extremely unShakespearian hypothesis. "Men have died
from time to time, and worms have eaten them; but not for love," says
Rosalind. Richard of Gloster, into whom Shakespear put all his own
impish superiority to vulgar sentiment, exclaims
And this word "love," which greybeards call divine,
Be resident in men like one another
And not in me: I am myself alone.
Hamlet has not a tear for Ophelia: her death moves him to fierce
disgust for the sentimentality of Laertes by her grave; and when he
discusses the scene with Horatio immediately after, he utterly forgets
her, though he is sorry he forgot himself, and jumps at the proposal
of a fencing match to finish the day with. As against this view Mr
Harris pleads Romeo, Orsino, and even Antonio; and he does it so
penetratingly that he convinces you that Shakespear did betray himself
again and again in these characters; but self-betrayal is one thing;
and self-portrayal, as in Hamlet and Mercutio, is another. Shakespear
never "saw himself," as actors say, in Romeo or Orsino or Antonio. In
Mr Harris's own play Shakespear is presented with the most pathetic
tenderness. He is tragic, bitter, pitiable, wretched and broken among
a robust crowd of Jonsons and Elizabeths; but to me he is not
Shakespear because I miss the Shakespearian irony and the
Shakespearian gaiety. Take these away and Shakespear is no longer
Shakespear: all the bite, the impetus, the strength, the grim delight
in his own power of looking terrible facts in the face with a chuckle,
is gone; and you have nothing left but that most depressing of all
things: a victim. Now who can think of Shakespear as a man with a
grievance? Even in that most thoroughgoing and inspired of all
Shakespear's loves: his love of music (which Mr Harris has been the
first to appreciate at anything like its value), there is a dash of
mockery. "Spit in the hole, man; and tune again." "Divine air! Now
is his soul ravished. Is it not strange that sheep's guts should hale
the souls out of men's bodies?" "An he had been a dog that should
have howled thus, they would have hanged him." There is just as much
Shakespear here as in the inevitable quotation about the sweet south
and the bank of violets.
I lay stress on this irony of Shakespear's, this impish rejoicing in
pessimism, this exultation in what breaks the hearts of common men,
not only because it is diagnostic of that immense energy of life which
we call genius, but because its omission is the one glaring defect in
Mr Harris's otherwise extraordinarily penetrating book. Fortunately,
it is an omission that does not disable the book as (in my judgment)
it disabled the hero of the play, because Mr Harris left himself out
of his play, whereas he pervades his book, mordant, deep-voiced, and
with an unconquerable style which is the man. _
Read next: PREFACE TO THE DARK LADY OF THE SONNETS: The Idol of the Bardolaters
Read previous: PREFACE TO THE DARK LADY OF THE SONNETS: Gaiety of Genius
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