His spirit was so many-sided, so universal, that it was able to take all forms and perfectly to fit itself to each, so that he always gives us a consistent character. His personages are individuals whose every word agrees with every other they have spoken, and while the spirit which moves in them is Shakespeare, he is all, yet no one of them.
“The water unchanged in every case,
Doth take on the figure of the vase.”
He does not consciously go to work to fashion a character, nor does he ask himself what that character shall say under the given circumstances, but his soul, being capable of all, takes on for the time the form of the character, and then speaks the things which are most natural to itself in that form. So entirely is this the case, that a comparison of the way in which one of his personages conducts himself under different circumstances, is sure to amaze us as we discover the fine touches by which the unity of the character is preserved. Goethe’s characters grow—are in a state of becoming. Shakespeare’s are grown: they are crystallized. The problem with Goethe is, the development of a character through growth; Shakespeare’s: given a certain character and a certain collision, how will the given character demean itself? The common man with an effort could tell what he himself would have done under such and such circumstances, but Shakespeare could have done all things, and grasping one side of himself he holds it, and shows it for one person, and another for another. He never confuses—never changes. The divine inspiration sways him. The power to do this, the Universal which can take on all and be all, is genius.
This is not claimed as new in any sense. I simply wish to illustrate its truth with regard to the suitors of Portia, by noticing how perfectly the feelings which each expresses after the result of his choice is apparent, are the outcome of the feelings which decided the choice.
The three sets of comments on the caskets and their mottoes, betray three entirely different men. Their minds move differently; they are actuated habitually by different motives, and the results of the same failure in Morocco and Arragon are noticeably different. They are placed in precisely the same circumstances. They are both disappointed, but observe how differently they demean themselves. Morocco wastes no words. His mood changes instantly from a doubting hope to despondency and heartfelt grief, so powerful that it deprives him of all speech. He goes at once. But Arragon speaks as if he had been deceived. First—“How much unlike art thou to Portia!” That is, I was led to suppose one thing; I have been misled. Then—“How much unlike my hopes!” but, indignation and wounded pride gaining the ascendency—“and my deservings!” He re-reads the motto, and grows more angry still. He has not been treated fairly, and at last, forgetting himself, he turns round to Portia with the fierce, direct question, “Are my deserts no better?” Portia shows her appreciation of his state of mind by her evasion, plainly intimating that he had gone too far in his manner of addressing her. His very words are rough and uncourteous in their abruptness. His question was rude because so personal. In his haste he has not even noticed the writing, which now surprises him, as, feeling her quiet rebuke, he turns back to the casket to hide his embarrassment, and he reads. During the reading he begins to be conscious that he has been angry without reason, and that he has not had control enough of himself to conceal the fact. That he is not a fool is shown by his consciousness that he has behaved like one in giving away to his temper, and as this consciousness begins to dawn on him, he is ashamed of himself for having been provoked, and desires to be gone as soon as possible. He has had a revelation of himself which is not agreeable, and he turns to depart, no longer angry with Portia, but so angry with himself that he almost forgets to bid the lady adieu. But suddenly reminded that she is there, he assumes again his usual, courtly, outside self, and half in apology for his anger and rudeness, which might have led her to suppose that he would forget his promise, half to recall himself to himself, he awkwardly ends the scene by assuring her that he means to keep his word.
Now, why should Morocco never for one instant lose his gentlemanly bearing, while Arragon so wholly forgets himself? Turn back to the comments before the choice, and we have the key at once.
In their remarks on the leaden chest we see at first how much more quickly than Morocco, Arragon rushes at conclusions. The former becomes at once thoughtful, and does not pass by even that unattractive metal without careful pausing. After reading all three mottoes once, he reads slowly the inscription on the leaden casket again, and begins to repeat it a second time. He feels thoroughly how much depends on the choice, and is self-distrustful. Finding that he can gain no suggestion from the lady, he commends himself for help to the gods before he proceeds. He is not the man to be daunted by a threat, and thinks he detects in that very threat a false ring. He is conscious of high motives, but not in vanity, and he decides, adversely, giving a reason. But Arragon, before surveying the whole ground, decides at once about the first he sees, and the summary way in which he dismisses all consideration of the leaden casket, savors strongly of self-esteem. There is a sort of bravado in the sudden words without a moment’s pause: “You shall look fairer ere I give or hazard!” The very use of “shall” with the second person, forces into view the will of the speaker. He does not turn to Portia. He is quite capable of directing his own actions without help from any god.
As Morocco considers the silver, the principal thing that attracts his attention is its “virgin hue.” (Remark that Arragon under the same circumstances calls it a “treasure house.”) He again begins thoughtfully to repeat; and again mark the self-distrust. There is an exquisitely delicate touch of this in—
“If thou be’st rated by thy estimation,