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.
“Thy letters,” (she says), “have transported me beyond
This ignorant present, and I feel now
The future in the instant.”
The idea, for her, is visible to the eye, it is “the golden circle,” which “fate and metaphysical aid,” appear already to have placed upon her brow. The two tremble together, as at the springs of being, in the abode of the mysterious Mothers. They are both doers and sufferers in a process of things, in the appearance of a new greatness: they tremble in that experience, at that creative moment of daring, which demands resolute dedication of the whole man.
But the obstacle towards the realisation of their daring plan, is not a material obstacle, nor is it the cowardice that sometimes attacks the bravest; it is a good of a different sort, not less vigorous, but of a more lofty quality, gentle and serene, planted in the heart of Macbeth and called by the name of loyalty, duty, justice, respect for the being of others, human piety. Thus he feels himself thrown at once into confusion by the idea that has flashed before him, so great is the savage desire, which it has set alight in his breast, and such on the other hand the reverence which the other idea inspires into his deeper being, and against which he prepares for a desperate struggle. The supernatural challenge keeps undulating in his mind, now divine, now diabolical: cannot be ill, cannot be good. But his wife, in whom the power of desire displays itself as absolute and whose determination of will is rectilinear, knowing not struggle or only struggles speedily and completely suppressed, his wife, is ready to take his place, when he shows his weak side, or at the moments of his vacillation. In the logical clarity of vision that comes to her as the result of the clearness of view with which she contemplates the achievement of her end, she has discovered an element of danger. It is concealed in the “milk of human kindness,” circulating in the blood of Macbeth, whereby he would attain to greatness, without staining himself with crime. Having discovered the cause of the weakness, she applies the remedy. This does not consist in making a frontal attack upon his moral consciousness, or by negating it, but in exciting or strengthening the will for action, the will pure and simple, taking pleasure in itself alone, by making it feel the necessity of expressing in action what seems to it to be beautiful and delightful, and by making it ashamed of not knowing how to remain at the level of the desire which it has encouraged, of the plan that it has formed. Macbeth holds back troubled, because, though he is as bold as man can be in facing danger, he yet feels that the deed now required of him would take away from him the very character of man; but for his wife, that deed would make of him more than a man. The sophistry of the will, to the aid of which comes the conquering seduction of desire, exercises its irresistible action and the deed is accomplished.
It is accomplished, but with it, as Macbeth says to himself, nothing is accomplished or concluded: the same atrocious discord, which appeared with the first thought of the crime, and which has accompanied its preparation and execution, continues to act, and Macbeth is never able to get the better of it, being incapable both of achieving insensibility to the pricks of conscience and at the same time of repentance. He persists in his attitude of the first moment, drunk with greatness, devoured with remorse. He neither can nor will go back, and does go forward; but he goes forward, increasing both the terms of the discord, the sum of his crimes, and the torment of his conscience. No way of salvation opens itself before him: neither the complete redemption of the good, nor the opposite redemption of the completeness of evil; neither the tears that relieve the ferocious soul, nor absolute hardening of the heart. If he had to blame anything for his course of crimes and torments, he would blame life itself, that fitful fever, that stupidity of life, which is
“a tale
told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing.”
And if there is any image that attracts him from time to time, filling him with the suavity of desire, it is that of sleep, and beyond that, the great final, dissolving sleep, which Duncan, whom he has slaughtered, already enjoys. Thus Macbeth consumes himself, and his other self, his wife, consumes herself also, in a different way, because what was in him an implacable call, to which he could do violence, but could not suppress, presents itself to his wife as the fascinating idea had presented itself to her, in sensible images, and therefore as an obscure rebellion of nature. For this reason, the woman from whose hand the dagger had fallen, when she faced the sleeping Duncan, who seemed to her to be her father, wanders in the night, vainly seeking to remove from her small hands the nauseating odour of blood, which, it seems to her, still clings to them. Both are already dead, before they die, owing to these bitter, long, continuous, internal shocks and corrosions. Macbeth receives the news of the death of her who was his wife, of her whom he had loved and who loved him, with the desolate coldness of one who has renounced all particular affections, and the life of the affections themselves. Yet he will not die like a “Roman fool,” he will not slay himself, but will provoke death in battle, still seeking, not death, but victory. For even in his last moments, the internal conflict in him has not ceased, even in those instants, the impulse for greatness rules him and urges him on. To kill himself would be to admit that he was wrong, and he does not admit to himself that he was wrong or right: his tragedy lies in this incapacity to hold himself right or wrong; it is the tragedy of reality contemplated at the moment of conflict and before the solution has been obtained. Therefore he dies austerely, representing a sacred mystery, covered with religious horror.
In Macbeth, the good appears only as revenge taken by the good, as remorse, punishment. It is not personified. The amiable king Duncan glides along on the outside of things, unsuspectful of betrayals, without an inkling of what is passing in the mind of Macbeth, whom he has rewarded and exalted. The honest Macduff, reestablisher of peace and justice, is a warrior pitted against a warrior. Lady Macduff and her son are innocent victims, who flee the knife of the murderers in vain. The boy with his childish logic expresses his wonderment that the good in the world does not choke the evil and replies to his mother, who says that the honest man must do justice upon wicked men and traitors: “Then the liars and swearers are fools; for there are liars and swearers enow to beat the honest men and hang up them....”
In King Lear, that tempestuous drama, which is nothing but a sequence of betrayals and horrible torments, goodness is impersonated and takes the name of Cordelia, shining in the midst of the tempest, as when the sky is dark and we look, not upon the darkness, but upon the single star that is scintillating there.
An infinite hatred for deceitful wickedness has inspired this work: egoism pure and simple, cruelty, perversity, arouse repugnance and horror, but do not directly lead to that tremendous doubt as to the non-existence of goodness, or still less as to its not being recognisable and separable from its contrary, since that moral deceit, which takes the appearance of rectitude, generosity, loyalty, and when it has realised its purpose, discovers itself as impure cupidity, aridity, hardness of heart, which alone were present throughout. Poor humanity, which has thus allowed itself to be deceived, enters into such a fury, when it has discovered its illusion, both against itself and against the world that has permitted so atrocious an illusion or delusion, as to reach the point of madness. And humanity goes by the name of King Lear, proud, imperious, full of confidence in himself and in his own power and strength of judgment, quite sure that others will agree with his wishes, all the more so, since he is their benefactor and they owe him, not only obedience, but duty and gratitude. King Lear is a creation of pity and of sarcasm: pitiful in his cries of injured pride, of old age deserted, in the shadow of the madness that is falling upon him. He has been sarcastically, though sorrowfully, realised by his creator, because he was mad before he became mad, and the clown who keeps him company, has been and is more serious and clear-sighted than he. But the creative impulse of Shakespeare goes so deeply into the heart of reality, or rather it creates so great a reality, that he neglects everything suggestive of the obvious, vulgar side of things, as seen from an average and mediocre point of view. King Lear assumes gigantic proportions in his sorrow, in his madness, in his piteousness, in his sarcasm, because the passion that shakes him is gigantic. The figures of the two deceitful daughters who are opposed to him, are also gigantic, especially Goneril, to whom Regan, who is somewhat the younger, gives relief. Goneril’s are the guiding mind and the initiating will; she it is, who first counsels and instructs her sister, who first faces and dominates her father, and who first recognises her own equal in the iron will of the evil Edmund, loving him and despising her own husband, so weak in his goodness, strives with her sister for the loved one, finally slaying her sister and immediately afterwards, herself. Regan has here and there a fugitive moment, not of piety, but of hesitation and almost of suggestion, and shows herself to be the less strong, just because she always allows herself to be led by the other. Each of them, although both are thus powerfully individuated, express the same force of egoism without scruples, untamed and extreme in its boundlessness. Their personalities are concentrated, felt and expressed, with the whole-hearted hatred of an expert.
Yet we come to think that in this tragedy the inspiration of love—of immense love—is equal to or greater than the inspiration of hate. Perhaps intensity of hatred, making more intense the attraction of goodness, helped to create the figure of Cordelia, which is not a symbol or allegory of abstract goodness, but is all compact of goodness, of a need for purity, for tenderness, for adoration, which has here thrown its real and unreal appearance, an appearance which has poetical reality. Cordelia is goodness itself in its original well-spring, limpid and shining as it gushes forth: she represents moral beauty and is therefore both courageous and hesitating, modest and dignified, ready to disdain contests, where they are of no avail, but also ready to fight bravely, when to do so is of service. Hers is a true and complete goodness, not simply softness, mildness and indulgence. Words have been so misused for purposes of deceit that she has almost abandoned that inadequate means of communication: she is silent, when speech would be vain or would set her truthfulness on the same level as the lies of others. But since she has clear knowledge and a fine sense of her own self and its contrary, she does not allow herself to be confused or enticed by false splendours. “I know you what you are,” she says, looking her sisters in the eyes, as she takes leave of them. And since goodness is also sympathetic intelligence, she understands, pardons and lovingly assists her old father, so unjust and so wanting in understanding toward herself. And since goodness cannot adopt the form of blind passion, even in the act of defence and offence, and even when it refuses to tolerate evil, is forced to bow to the law of severe resignation, which governs the world, and thus entrusts her with its best duty, so Cordelia does not burst into a rage against the wickedness of her sisters, when she hears how King Lear has been driven out and despised, but at once resigns herself to patience in the affliction, “like,” as says one who has seen her at that moment, to
“Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears
Were like a better day.”
There are other personages in the play, who affirm the reality of good against the false assertion of it: the pure and faithful Kent, the loyal though unintelligent Gloucester, the brave Edgar, the weak but honest Duke of Albany, the husband of Goneril, who says:
“Where I could not be honest,
I never yet was valiant.”
Finally the perfidious Edmund, when he sees himself near death, hastens to accomplish a good action and to pay homage to virtue. But all these belong to the earth: Cordelia is on the earth, earthly herself and mortal, but she is made of celestial substance, of purest humanity, which is therefore divine. It has occurred to me to compare her with the Soul, whom Friar Jacob likened to the only daughter and heiress of the King of France, and whom her father, for that he loved her infinitely, had adorned “with a white stole,” and her fame flew “to every land.”
No greater spiritual triumph can be conceived than that of Cordelia, throughout the drama, from the first scene to the last, although she first appears as denied and rejected by her father, and later, when she comes with arms to the aid of the unfortunate Lear against the infernal sisters and the treacherous Edmund, is conquered, thrown into prison and there strangled by the hangman. Why? Why does not goodness triumph in the material world? And, why, thus conquered, does she increase in beauty, evoke ever more disconsolate desire, until she is finally adored as something sacred? The tragedy of King Lear is penetrated throughout with this unexpressed yet anguished interrogation, so full of the sense of the misery of life. The king, acquiring new sensibility in his madness, as though a veil had been withdrawn from before his eyes, sees and receives for the first time in himself, suffering humanity, weeping and trembling, like a child, defenceless, ill-treated. The fool, who accompanies him, sings, along with much else, his prophecy to the effect that when calumnies cease, when kings are punished, and usurers and thieves give up their trade, then all the kingdom of Albion will be in great confusion. But the sorrow of sorrows is that of Lear, when, having found Cordelia, he dreams of being ever after at her side, adoring, and sees the prison transformed into a paradise: they will sing, he will kneel before her, they will pray, and tell one another ancient tales. But she is brutally slain before his eyes and her dead body lies in his arms, as he vainly strives to reanimate it, and he too dies, uttering the last cry of desperation:
“Thou’lt come no more,
Never, never, never, never!—”
In the tragedy of Othello, evil takes on another face, and here the sentiment that answers to it, is not condemnation mixed with pity, not horror for hypocrisy and cruelty, but astonishment. Iago does not represent evil done through a dream of greatness, or evil for the egoistic satisfaction of his own desires, but evil for evil’s sake, done almost as though through an artistic need, in order to realise his own being and feel it strong, dominating and destructive, even in the subordinate social condition in which he is placed. Certainly, Iago, in what he says, wishes it to be believed or makes himself believe that he is aiming only at his “own advantage,” as Guicciardini would have said, and that he despises those who have different rule of conduct and manage to live honestly, the honest knaves. But the truth is that he does not obtain any material advantage for himself, and that the path he has selected was not necessary for that object and does not lead to it. Feelings of vengeance for injustices and affronts suffered lead to it still less, though at times he says they do, and wishes it to be believed or tries to believe it himself. What results from his acts is evil as an end in itself, arising from a turbid desire to prove himself superior to the rest of the world, to delude and to make it dance to the tune of his own mind, and in proof of this to bring it to ruin. The fact that he gives various reasons, with the object of justifying and of explaining his acts, demonstrates that he himself failed to understand that peculiar form of evil which possessed his spirit. None of those about him suspect him: not Othello, a simple, impetuous soldier, who understands open strife and plotting, but both in war and between one enemy and another. He is quite unable to conceive this refined and intellectual degradation. Desdemona, too, a young woman newly married, rejoicing in the happiness of realized affection and disposed to find everyone about her good and to make everyone happy, is unsuspicious, as also is Cassio, who trusts Iago, as a brave and loyal comrade, and his wife, the experienced Emilia, who knows him from long habit. The epithets of “good Iago,” of “honest Iago” ring through the whole play and are a bitter and ironical comment underlining the illusion that possesses them all. He is weaving, without reason, and as it were for amusement, a horrible web of calumnies, of moral and physical tortures and of death: a good and generous man, rendered blind and mad with jealousy and injured honour, is thus led to murder his innocent and beloved wife. Pity and terror arise together in the soul, as we see Othello poisoned drop by drop, excited, changed Into a wild beast: one feels that in Desdemona the warrior possessed all the sweetness and all the force of life, the happiness on which reposed all the rest, and that in her person he had found all that one can conceive as most noble, most gentle and most pure in the world. When he suspects that she has betrayed him, not only is he pierced with sensual jealousy, (this too there is, certainly), but injured in what he holds sacred, and therefore the death that he deals to Desdemona is not simply vengeance for the shame done him, but above all expiation and purification, as though he wished to purify the world of such impurity, and to cleanse her from a stain, which irremediably defiled her. “O, the pity of all this, Iago! O, Iago, the pity of all this!” He kisses her before he kills her, kissing his own ideal, which he lays at that moment in the sepulchre. But he still trembles with love, and perhaps hopes somehow to get her back and to be united with her forever, by means of that bloody sacrifice. Desdemona is not aware of the fury raging around her, sure as she is of her love and of Othello’s. Owing to her very innocence, she affords involuntary incentives to the jealousy of Othello and easy occasion to the artifice of Iago. Her very unconsciousness makes her fate the more moving. Such is the infamy of the crime thus accomplished against her, that the prosaic, shifty wife of Iago becomes sublime with indignation and courage, when she sees her dying, rising to poetic nobility and defying every menace. Transpierced by her husband, she falls at the side of her mistress and dying sings the willow song, which she had caught from the lips of Desdemona. Othello also dies, when the deceit has been revealed to him. The leader whom Venice had held in great honour and in whom she had reposed complete faith, charging him with commands and governments, is now nothing but a wretch deserving punishment. But in slaying himself, he returns in memory to what he was, substituting that image of himself for his present misery, and using the memory of the warrior that he was, to drive the sword deeper into his throat.
On the other hand, the rallying-point or centre of the whole play is not the ruin of the valiant Othello, not the cruel fate of the gentle Desdemona, but the work, of Iago, of that demidevil, of whom one might ask in vain, why, as Othello asked, why he had thus noosed the bodies and souls of those men, who had never nourished any suspicion of him?
“Demand me nothing; what you know, you know
From this time forth I never will speak word.”
This was the answer to the poet from that most mysterious form of evil, when he met with it, as he was contemplating the universe: perversity, which is an end and a joy to itself.