Ariosto, Shakespeare and Corneille

by Benedetto Croce

THE ART OF SHAKESPEARE

The motives of Shakespeare's poetry having been described, there is no occasion for the further question as to the way in which he has made of them concrete poetry, in other words, as to the form he gave to that affective content. Form and content cannot be separated from one another and considered apart. For this reason, everything remarked of Shakespeare's poetry, provided that it is something real and well observed, must be either a repetition applied to Shakespeare of the statement as to the characteristics, that is to say, the unique character of all poetry, or a description in language more or less precise, beneath the title of "formal characteristics," of what constituted the physiognomy of the sentiment or sentiments of Shakespeare, thus returning to that determination of motives, of which we have treated above. Still less can we engage in an enquiry as to the technique of Shakespeare, because the concept of technique is to be altogether banished from the sphere of aesthetic criticism, technique being concerned solely with the practical purposes of extrinsication, such as for poetry would be the training of a reciter's voice, or the making of the paper and the type, with which it is printed. There is no trade secret in Shakespeare, which can be communicated, no "part" that "can be taught and learned" (as has been maintained); in the best sense "technique" has value as a synonym of artistic form and in that way returns to become part of the dilemma above indicated.

Easy confirmation of this fact is to be found in any one of the many books that have been written on the "form" or on the "technique" of Shakespeare. Take for example the most intelligent of all, that by Otto Ludwig, written with much penetration of art in general and of Shakespearean art in particular, which contains the words that have been censured above. There we read, that in Shakespeare "everything is individualised, and at the same time idealised, by means of loftiness and power: every speech accords with the sentiment that has called it forth, every action with the character and situation, every character and situation depends upon every other one, and both upon the individuality of the time; every speech and every situation is yet more individualised by means of time and place, even by means of natural phenomena; in such a way that each one of his plays has its own atmosphere, now clearer, now more dark."

But of what poetry that is poetry cannot this individuated idealisation be affirmed or demanded? We read in the same volume that Shakespeare "is never speculative, but always holds to experience, as Shylock to the signature on the bond." But what poetry that is poetry ever does abandon the form of the sensible for the concept or for reasoning? The "supreme truth" of every particular of the representation is praised, but this does not exclude the use of the "symbolical," that is, of particulars which are not found in nature, but mean what they are intended to mean, and "give the impression of the most persuasive reality, although, indeed precisely because, not one word of them can be said to be true to nature." With such a statement as this, the utmost attained is a confutation of the pertinacious artistic heresy as to imitation of nature. We find "Shakespearean totality" exalted, by means of which "a passion is like a common denominator of the capital sum, and the capital sum becomes in its turn the general denominator of the play." This "totality" is clearly synonymous with the lyrical character, which constitutes the poetry of every poem, including those that are called epic and dramatic, or narrative, and those in the form of dialogue. We find here too that nearly all the tragedies assume in a sense the "form of a sonata," which contains in close relation and contrast the theme, the idea of the hero and the counter-theme, and in the passages aforesaid develops the motives of the theme with "harmonious and contrapuntal characteristics" and "in the third part resumes the whole theme in a more tranquil manner, and in tragedy in a parallel minor key." But this imaginary technical excellence is nothing but the "musical character" of all art, which, like the "lyrical character," is certainly worth insisting upon as against the materially figurative and realistic interpretation of artistic representations. Analogous observations avail as to the "ideality" of "time" and "place," which Ludwig discovers in Shakespeare, and which are to be found in every poem, where rhythm and form obey rules, which are by no means arithmetical or geometrical, but solely internal and poetic. They also avail against all the other statements of Ludwig and other critics as to typicity, impersonality, constancy of characteristics, which is also variability, and the like. These are all similes or metaphors for poetry, which is unique. It is true that some of these things are noted, just with a view to differentiate Shakespeare from other poets, and therefore assume a proper individual meaning, when we take truth as being the particular Shakespearean truth, his vision of things, and the sense which he reveals for the indivisible tie between good and evil existing in every man; for "impersonality," his attitude of irresolute but energetic dialectic, and so on; but in certain other cases, it is not a question of the form of Shakespeare, but, as has been said, of his own sentiment and of his motives of inspiration.

In one case only is it possible to separate form from content and to consider it in itself; that is to say, when the rhetorical method is applied to Shakespeare or to any other artist. This consists in separating form from content and making of it a garment, which becomes just nothing at all without the body with which it grew up, or gives rise to pure caprice and to the illusion that anyone can appropriate and adopt it to his own purposes. In romantic parlance (for there existed a romantic manner of speech) what was known as a mixture of comic and tragic, of prose and verse, what was called the "humorous, the grotesque, the fanciful," such as apparitions of mysterious and supernatural beings, and again the method that Shakespeare employed in production of his plays, his manner of treating the conflict and determining the catastrophe, the way in which he makes his personages speak, the quality and richness of his vocabulary, were enumerated as "characteristics of his art," things that others could employ if they wished to do so, and indeed they were so employed, with the poor results that one can imagine. This is the source of the anticritical terminology employed for Shakespeare and other poets, which discovers and magnifies his "ability," his "expedients," his "conveying of the necessary information without having the air of doing so," as though he were a calculator or constructor of instruments with certain practical ends, not a divine imagination. But enough of this.

Certainly, it would be possible to take one of the plays of Shakespeare, or all of them, one after the other, and having exposed their fundamental motive (this has been done), to illustrate their aesthetic coherence and to point out the delicacy of treatment, bit by bit, scene by scene, accent by accent, word by word. In Macbeth, for instance, might be shown the robust and potent unity of the affective tragical representation, which bursts out and runs like a lyric, all of a piece, everywhere maintaining complete harmony of parts, and each scene seeming to be a strophe of the poem, from its opening, with the sudden news of Macbeth's victories, and the joy and gratitude of the old king, immediately followed by the fateful meeting with the witches and by the kindling of the voracious desire, against which Macbeth struggles; down to the coming of the king to the castle, where ambush and death await his unsuspecting confidence; then the scene darkens, the murder takes place on that dread night, and Macbeth becomes gradually involved in a crescendo of crimes, up to the moment when the terrible tension ends in furious combat and the slaying of the hero. King Duncan, when he arrives at the gate of the castle, serene and happy as he is, in the event which has given peace to his kingdom, lingers to enjoy the delicate air and to admire the amenity of the spot. Banquo echoes him, and abandons himself to innocent pleasure, in whole-hearted confidence, repeating that delicious little poem about the martlet, which has suspended everywhere on the walls of the castle its nest and fruitful cradle,

"This guest of summer,
The temple-haunting martlet,"

whose presence he has always observed, implies that the "air is delicate." In the whole of that quiet little conversation, we feel sympathy for the good old man, we shudder for what is coming and are sensible of the piteous wrong in things. When Macbeth crosses swords with Macduff, he remembers the last words of the witches' prophecy, which he believes to be favourable to himself; but when it becomes suddenly evident that Macduff it is, who shall slay him, he shudders and bursts out as before, with: "I will not fight with thee." This ejaculation reveals the violence of the shock and an instinctive movement of the will to live, which would elude its destiny. And we can pause at any part of Othello, for instance, at the moment when Desdemona intercedes for Cassio, with the gentleness and coquetry of a woman in love, who knows that she is loved, and talks like a child, who knows it has the right to be a little spoilt; or at the moment when Desdemona is in the act of being slain, when she does not break into the complaints of innocence calumniated, nor assumes the attitude of a victim unjustly sacrificed, but like a poor creature of flesh and blood that loves life, loves love, and with childish egoism has abandoned her father for love, and now breaks out into childish supplications, trying to postpone and to retard death, at least for a few moments.

"O, banish me, my lord, but kill me not!...
Kill me to-morrow; let me live to-night!...
But half an hour!...
But while I say one prayer!"