Outside the region of public affairs the intricate combinations of device and accident which formed the staple of the Italian novel were familiar enough to Shakespeare. They were plastic in his hands, assuming a farcical aspect in ‘The Merry Wives of Windsor,’ a purely comic one in the higher sense of comedy in Portia’s caskets and her secret expedition to Venice, and a serio-comic one in ‘Twelfth Night,’ though in spirit, as Mr. Masefield has finely observed, that is the most English of the great comedies; while in Iago the same instrument sounds the deepest of tragic notes. I do not count the catastrophe of Shylock in ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ where all reason, justice, and probability are violated with a superb audacity that never fails to carry the spectator on a magic flood of illusion in even a passable performance. Therefore I see no need to set down Shakespeare’s eschewing of diplomacy to personal ignorance or indifference. It is true that he did not consort much with ambassadors or secretaries of state, neither were state papers accessible in print as they now are. But the very simplest explanation seems like to be the right one, that such material would not serve his turn. The game of diplomacy, being mostly played with pens and ink, and a leisurely game in those days, was not presentable to an audience. Exchange of dispatches and notes may make good reading for posterity, but is not good stuff for actors; and Shakespeare’s business was to produce acting stage-plays, which is an elementary truth forgotten by too many commentators.
Turn we then to the more bustling field of war. If anyone expects to find a general moral judgment about war in Shakespeare he will be disappointed. Shakespeare, like Justinian—a person to whom it would be hard to find any other resemblance in him—accepts war among the inevitable facts of life. Princes and nations fight, and arms are the natural profession of a gentleman. One of man’s seven ages, according to Jaques, is to be a soldier, ‘full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard’; and we are told that Bassanio was a soldier, seemingly because otherwise something would be lacking to him, for nothing turns on it. The reasons for making war, be they better or worse, are as a rule not too plainly bad to be plausible to the common understanding; a fair mark, it may be, for satirical quips, but that is not the main business. What really matters is that war must needs come in the dramatist’s way if he presents histories ancient or modern, and offers not only stirring incidents but precious occasions for developing every kind of character. Without the field of Shrewsbury we should not know Falstaff as we do know him; it gives us the exact measure of his braggadocio and the full wealth of the measureless ironical humour which he turns freely on himself, being resolved, since he may be no better than he is, to make himself out rather worse. He is the very contrary of that actual braggart who, having no humour, bragged sincerely and was a valiant man notwithstanding, Benvenuto Cellini.—One might fall to wondering what Shakespeare would have made of Benvenuto, had he ever heard of him; but the perpetual trouble with Shakespeare, as with the Oxford English Dictionary, is that at every turn one is tempted to stray and browse in by-ways.—Accordingly it was very well for a solemn Byzantine emperor, and his learned assessors who added the precepts of the Church to the Roman lawyers’ humane Stoic tradition, to deprecate war in set terms, along with slavery, as a lamentable departure from the ideal rule of natural reason, though in fact inveterate by the common custom of mankind: but a Renaissance playwright, who would be no dramatist without his share of unreasonable human nature, could hardly wish himself deprived of the material that war furnished him both for action and rhetoric. Such lines as
‘The royal banner and all quality,
Pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war’
explain better than any commentary why the military pageant of history had a warm place in an Elizabethan actor-manager’s professional affections. Shakespeare would have liked to display it better. The Chorus in ‘Henry V.’ apologises for the ‘four or five most vile and ragged’—i.e. battered—‘foils’ which were the best the Globe Theatre’s armoury could produce for the campaign of Agincourt. Of that play there will be a word more to say anon.
Considering the need of rapid action on the Shakespearean stage, and its limited spectacular resources, it is obvious that actual warfare could be indicated only in a series of personal episodes, confining the visible symbols to a Homeric or at least a frankly medieval pattern. One might think, as far as the text went, that battles were decided by single combats; and probably those who begin to read Shakespeare young enough do think so. In ‘Henry V.’ we are told nothing of the military dispositions preceding the battle of Agincourt but the bare fact that a small and wearied English army was opposed by a larger and over-confident French one, and there is not one word about the English archery.[3] There is proof, however, though not too much, that Shakespeare had some notion of the offices of higher command in war, and could describe an episode of minor tactics not seen on the stage in a perfectly clear way. Yet it is noticeable that these proofs are not found in the historical plays. For the recognition of military science we have to go to the satirical romantic drama of ‘Troilus and Cressida,’ and for the business-like anecdote to the very late legendary play of ‘Cymbeline,’ which, for whatever reason, seems to pay less regard to stage effect than any other work of Shakespeare’s.
In the first act of ‘Troilus and Cressida’ the Greek chieftains, who conform only in the roughest way to their traditional characters, and quote Aristotle as if on purpose to show that the action has no relation even to accepted legend,[4] are discussing the state of affairs before Troy. Ulysses speaks of the discontented Ajax and his followers:—
‘They tax our policy and call it cowardice,
Count wisdom as no member of the war,
Forestall prescience and esteem no act