Yet we are inclined to ask why Shylock, seen in the relations in which he is placed in the Merchant of Venice, arouses some doubt in our minds; he would seem to require a background which is lacking to him there. This background cannot be the romantic story of Portia and the three caskets, or of the tired and melancholy Antonio. The reader is not convinced by the rapid fall of so great an adversary, who accepts the conversion to Christianity finally imposed upon him. But apart also from the particular mixture of real and imaginary, of serious and light, which we find in the Merchant of Venice, it does not appear that the characters of the strictly historical plays find the ideal complement which they should find in the plays where they appear. The reason for this is not to be found in the looseness and reliance upon chronicles for which they have so often been blamed, since this is rather a consequence or general effect of Shakespeare's attitude towards the practical life, described above. This attitude, as we have seen, lacks a definite ideal, is indeed, without passion for any sort of particular ideals, but is animated with sympathy for the varying lots of striving humanity. For this reason, it is entirely concentrated, on the one hand upon character drawing, and on the other is inclined to accept somewhat passively the material furnished by the chronicles and histories. On the one hand it is all force and impetus, while on the other it lacks idealisation and condensation. The marvelous Hotspur appears in the play, in order that he may confirm the glory of youthful Prince Hal, that is to say, that he may provide a curious anecdote of what was or appeared to be the scapegrace youth of a future sage sovereign; that is, he is not fully represented. Coriolanus runs himself into a blind alley; and even if the poet portrays with historical penetration, the patricians and plebeians of Rome, it would be vain to seek in the play for the centre of gravity of his feelings, of his predilictions, or of his aspirations, because both Coriolanus, the tribunes and his adversaries are looked upon solely as characters, not as parts and expressions of a sentiment that should justify one or other or both groups. Finally, Falstaff is sacrificed, because, like Hotspur, he has been used for the purpose of enhancing the greatness of the future Henry V; for this reason, he declines in prestige from the first to the last scenes of the first part of Henry IV, not to speak of the Merry Wives of Windsor, where we find him reduced to being a merely farcical character, flouted and thrashed. And when his former boon companion, Prince Hal, now on the throne, answers his advances, familiar and confidential as in the past, with hard, cold words, we do not admire the new king for his seriousness, because we are sensible of a lack of aesthetic harmony. Aesthetically speaking, Falstaff did not deserve such treatment, or at least Henry V, who inflicts it upon him, should not be given the credit of possessing an admirable moral character, which he does not possess, for it cannot be maintained that he is a great man, lofty in heart and mind, when he shows us that he has failed to understand Falstaff, and to grant him that indulgence to which he is entitled, after so lengthy a companionship. Falstaff's friends know that poor Sir John, although he has tried to put a good face on his cruel reception by his young friend, is unconsolable in the face of this inhuman estrangement, this chill repulse:
"The king hath run bad humours in the knight,
His heart is fracted and corroborate."
And Mistress Quickly, although a woman of bad character and a procuress, shows that she possesses a better heart and a better intellect than the great king, when she attends the dying Sir John with feminine solicitude. The narrative, of which we had occasion to quote the first phrase above, continues in the following pitiful strain:
"'A parted even just between twelve and one, even at the turning of the tide: for after I saw him fumble with the sheets, and play with flowers and smile upon his fingers ends, I knew there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and 'a babbled of green fields. 'How now, Sir John,' quoth I, 'what, man! be o' good cheer.' So 'a cried out 'God, God, God,' three or four times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him 'a should not think of God; I hoped there was no need to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet. So 'a bade me lay more clothes on his feet: I put my hand into the bed and felt them, and they were as cold as any stone; then I felt to his knees, and so upward and upward, and all was as cold as any stone." And since the friends of the tavern have heard that he raved of sack, of his favourite sweet sack, Mistress Quickly confirms that it was so; and when they add that he raved of women, she denies it, thus defending in her own way the chastity of the poor dead man.
4
THE TRAGEDY OF GOOD AND EVIL
The three aspects, with which we have hitherto dealt, compose what may be called the lesser Shakespeare, in contradistinction to the greater Shakespeare, of whom we are about to speak. By "lesser," we do not wish to suggest that the works thus designated are artistically weak and imperfect, because there are among them some true masterpieces, nor that they are less perfect by comparison with others, because every true work of art is incomparable and contains in itself its proper perfection. What is intended to be conveyed is that they are "less complex," in the same way as the sentiment of a mature or an old man is distinguished by complexity of experiences from that of a young man, which is not for that reason less genuine. There are major and minor works in this sense in the production of poets and of all artists; and in this sense the greater works themselves of the various historical epochs stand to one another in the relation of greater or less richness, although each one is an entire world and each is most beautiful and incomparable in itself. In the case of Shakespeare, the distinction has already been approximately made by the common accord of readers and critics. It is among things accepted and we have acted upon this assumption.
Whoever, for example, passes from the most excellent "historical plays" to Macbeth, is immediately sensible, not only of the diversity, but also of the greater complexity, proper to the new work which he has begun to study. In the former, we find a vision that might be described in general terms, as psychological or practical; in the latter, the vision is wider, it seems to be almost philosophical, yet it does not exclude the particular psychological or practical vision of the former, but includes it within itself. In the historical plays, we find individuals, powerful yet limited, as we find them when we consider the social competition and the political struggles of the day; in the great plays, the characters are more than individuals; they represent eternal positions of the human spirit. In the former, the plot hinges upon the acquisition or loss of a throne, or of some other worldly object; in the latter, there is also this external gain or loss, but over and above it the winning or losing of the soul itself, the strife of good and evil at the heart of things.
Evil: but if this evil were so altogether and openly, if it were altogether base and repugnant, the tragedy would be finished before it had begun. But evil was called greatness for Macbeth: that greatness, which the fatal sisters had prophesied to him and the destined course of events immediately begins to bestow, pointing out to him that all the rest is both near and certain, provided that he does not remain passive, but extends his hand to grasp it. It shines before Macbeth, as a beautiful and luminous idea shines before an artist, assuming for this warlike and masterful man, the form of power, supreme, sovereign power. Shall he miss the mark? Shall he fail of the mission of his being? Shall he not harken to the call of Destiny? The idea fascinates him: nothing now is but what is not in his eyes; it also fascinates and draws along with it his wife, his second self, who has instantly and with yet more irresistible violence, thrown herself into the non-existing, which creates itself and already exists.