William
Shakespeare
Four
Tragedies:
Hamlet
Othello
King
Lear
Macbeth
Penguin
Classics, Paperback [1994].
12mo. 951 pp. Introduction and
Notes to all plays by the editors,
except Hamlet:
Introduction by Anne Barton.
Hamlet edited by T. J.
B. Spencer.
Othello edited by Kenneth
Muir.
King
Lear and Macbeth edited by G. K.
Hunter
These editions first
published in the New Penguin Shakespeare, 1967-80.
Contents
The
Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark
Introduction
Further Reading
An Account of the Text
Hamlet
Act I, Scenes 1-5
Act II, Scenes 1-2
Act III, Scenes 1-4
Act IV, Scenes 1-7
Act V, Scenes 1-2
Othello
Introduction
Further Reading
An Account of the Text
The Songs
Othello
Act I, Scenes 1-3
Act II, Scenes 1-3
Act III, Scenes 1-4
Act IV, Scenes 1-3
Act V, Scenes 1-2
King
Lear
Introduction
Further Reading
An Account of the Text
Words and Music in King Lear
King
Lear
Act I, Scenes 1-5
Act II, Scenes 1-4
Act III, Scenes 1-7
Act IV, Scenes 1-7
Act V, Scenes 1-3
Macbeth
Introduction
Further Reading
An Account of the Text
Words for the Songs in Macbeth
Macbeth
Act I, Scenes 1-7
Act II, Scenes 1-3
Act III, Scenes 1-6
Act IV, Scenes 1-3
Act V, Scenes 1-6
=================================================
It seems that, so far as it
can be assessed, at the turn of the seventeenth century Shakespeare reached a
kind of artistic peak. The four tragedies collected in this massive Penguin
Classics edition all seem to have been written during the first five or six
years of the new century, and in the order they are arranged here.
Shakespearean authorities also tell me that all four plays are definitely among
Shakespeare's finest creations. So it seems like an excellent place to start a
serious exploration of the Bard of Avon. But first be aware that:
Spoilers
ahead!
I cannot give a better advice
to Shakespeare newcomers than to beware of learning plot details of plays they
haven't read yet. I am not going to make ludicrous claims that this is the best
Shakespeare can offer you, but he is certainly a better dramatist than is
generally recognized. By this I mean his ability to supply dramatically
effective stories that keep you on the edge until the end. The sublime beauty
and the profound philosophical depth of the poetry are all very well, but they
are not enough to make theatre. Shakespeare knew that very well indeed. It's
often been said that today he would be writing screenplays. It is true, of
course, and it is neither as startling nor as perceptive as it might seem at
first glance. Do you think Wagner would be writing for the concert hall today?
Not a chance: he would be writing for the screen. It pays better, too!
Such time-travel jokes are
pretty pointless but they do serve one fine purpose. They remind us that no
great writer ever wrote without wanting to be read, or staged and acted in the
dramatist's case. It is a tremendous historical irony, and a very sad comment
on our age, that Shakespeare's plays, so highly regarded today, were not even
considered worth printing at the time of their writing. Anyway, let's have a
look at these four tragedies.
======================================================
Othello
The Characters in the Play
Othello, a Moor, General in
the Venetian army
Desdemona, his wife
Cassio, his Lieutenant
Iago, his Ancient
Emilia, wife of Iago
Bianca, mistress of Cassio
Roderigo, in love with
Desdemona
The Duke of Venice
Brabantio, a Venetian
Senator, Desdemona's Father
Gratiano, his brother
Lodovico, his kinsman
Montano, Governor of Cyprus
Senators of Venice, Gentlemen
of Cyprus, Musicians, Officers, A Clown in Othello's household, A Herald, A
Sailor, A Messenger, Soldiers, attendants, and servants
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
What I have to say about Othello I have said it about the
separate edition of the play in the Penguin Popular Classics series. Several
notes about the differences between the two editions will suffice here.
The editorial work of Kenneth
Muir is far more extensive than that of G. B. Harrison. Both his notes and his
introduction are, with few exceptions, informative, illuminating and
stimulating. The differences between the two texts are minor. They mostly deal
with spelling, Mr Muir's being the more modernized version, though occasionally
there may be slight differences in the words themselves (chiefly in the oaths)
or the regularity of the lines. In Mr Muir's edition there is one scene more
than in Mr Harrison's: II.2. has been split into II.2. and II.3., but the texts
are virtually identical. Comparative reading is interesting but the play is
pretty much the same in both cases.
The only really serious
difference between both editions is the punctuation. In this respect, the texts
are vastly different indeed. This is a matter that everybody should decide for
his- or herself, reading aloud favourite passages from both versions. Mr
Harrison claims that his text is closer than usual to what was spoken in
Shakespeare's own theatre and that may well be true. For my part, however, Mr
Muir's punctuation allows for better rhythm and more expressive delivery; it's
easier on the eye, too.
Actually, there are some
intriguing differences in the notes as well – and here Mr Muir is not always
notably superior. Apt example is one of the most controversial stage directions
in the play: Cassio's kissing Emilia (on the lips) in II.2. The stage direction
itself occurs only in Mr Muir's edition, while Mr Harrison mentions it in his
notes. In both cases, in the very next line, Iago makes it clear that the kiss
was on the lips and that he, apparently, is amused by the occasion. Mr Muir
tells us only that such kissing was common courtesy at the time, but Mr
Harrison suggests that this is a sign of familiarity and signifies that Cassio
considers himself of a higher social rank than Iago.
===============================================================
Hamlet
The Characters in the Play
Ghost of Hamlet, lately King
of Denmark
Claudius, his brother, now
King of Denmark
Gertrude, Queen of Denmark,
widow of the late King and now wife of his brother Claudius
Hamlet, son of the late King
Hamlet and of Gertrude
Polonius, counsellor to the
King
Laertes, son of Polonius
Ophelia, daughter of Polonius
Reynaldo, servant of Polonius
Horatio, friend of Prince
Hamlet
Voltemand, Cornelius,
Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, Osrick, A Lord, Gentlemen: members of the Danish Court
Francisco, Barnardo,
Marcellus: soldiers
Two Messengers
A Sailor
Two Clowns, a gravedigger and
his companion
A Priest
Fortinbras, Prince of Norway
A Captain, a Norwegian
English Ambassadors
First Player,
Second Player,
Third Player,
Fourth Player,
Lords, attendants, players,
guards, soldiers, followers of Laertes, sailors
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hamlet is a monster. On
the one hand, Anne Barton tells me that it is, by a wide margin, Shakespeare's
longest play. Looking at those 5 acts, 20 scenes and more than 3700 lines, I
can well believe it. On the other hand, the sheer popularity of the play is
intimidating. I see it repeatedly described as "Shakespeare's best",
"one of the most quoted works in the English literature", "one
of the most influential works ever written", etc. It is amazing to find so
many familiar phrases in Hamlet's lines: "Frailty, thy name is woman"
(I.2.146), "To be, or not to be" (of course, III.1.56), "slings
and arrows of outrageous fortune" (III.1.58), "conscience does make
cowards of us all" (III.1.83) and many others. The most disappointing of
these discoveries was that the famous "Something is rotten in the state of
Denmark
Now, all this is very
fascinating but I don't particularly care about it, or at least I will do my
best not to care. Scholars may argue where exactly to place "To be, or not
to be" and critics may hail this and the other soliloquies as the most
profound stuff ever written. That's their own business. My objective here is
much more modest: to formulate as clearly as possible what Hamlet means to me as a newcomer to Shakespeare who is rather
anxious to explore what's considered the playwright's best.
On the whole, my experience
with Hamlet has been like my previous
encounters with Shakespeare. I was prepared for something unreadable and
overrated: I actually got something compulsively readable and rather underrated.
No, of course I don't think it is the greatest work in English, nor do I think
Shakespeare is the greatest writer in that language. Neither any single work
nor any single writer should be degraded by such cheap accolades. Shakespeare
himself, I am sure, would not have taken his modern fame seriously. He might
have been offended. But more probably he would have been amused.
The play is by no means
perfect. It has some dull moments and it has some, indeed many, issues that
remain quite unresolved after the final curtain. Above all, there is a
tantalising, and often perplexing, ambiguity about the central character. My
overall impression, however, is of a superbly crafted piece of theatre that
deals with many serious issues. It will not answer any profound philosophical
questions. Great literature is not supposed to do that anyway. It is you who
should do it for yourself. The best that a great writer can do is to make you
think harder than ever before on such questions. That Shakespeare does.
Unlike Othello or Romeo and Juliet,
the action in Hamlet takes place over
longer periods of time, weeks and even months, and this may be one of the
reasons why it is not quite satisfactory as a structure. The plot depends a
little too heavily on eavesdropping, some scenes are unduly extended with
material of whose importance I fail to be convinced (e.g. Hamlet's ranting to
the players and to Guildenstern and Rosencrantz in II.2. and III.2., or the
exquisite but inappropriate comedy with the two gravediggers that opens V.2.),
and the mass slaughter in the finale is just a trifle too lurid. Four corpses
in four pages tends to turn a tragedy into a comedy. I also expected the
critical play within the play (III.2.) to be dramatically more effective; as it
is, it gives the impression of something that was written in haste and remained
rather unfinished, or unpolished if you like.
Despite all that, Hamlet makes for a surprisingly dramatic
read. The second act and the beginning of the third are almost painfully dull,
but after III.2., one of the longest and most important scenes, there is no
slowing down until the holocaust in the end.
I can well see why nearly
every actor, including many ill-qualified ones, is only too eager to play the
Prince of Denmark. Hamlet is a most fascinating creature, full of
contradictions. Much like, broadly speaking, Philip Carey in Somerset
In the end, somewhat
surprisingly, I find myself overwhelmed with sympathy for the Prince. Much as I
sometimes want to shake him by the shoulders and cry into his face "Get a
grip, man!", I often find it much easier to identify with Hamlet's
uncertain mind, a bizarre mixture of integrity, cowardice, nihilism, morbidity,
nobility, madness. So, let's have a look inside Hamlet's head, as revealed in
his relationships with the other characters as well as in his famous
soliloquies.
First of all, it must be said
that Hamlet is no fool. In fact, he is well educated, having just returned from
the university of
Wittenberg
The soliloquy in which
Hamlet, after reflecting how drama mirrors life, decides to set a ''Mousetrap''
for his uncle is very rich in self-disparaging remarks, one more apt than the
other: ''O what a rogue and peasant slave am I!'' (II.2.147), ''A dull and
muddy-mettled rascal'' (II.2.164). Please note that this is no pose. There is
no one else on the stage for Hamlet to pretend. I wonder how many people can
look inside themselves with such degree of honesty. Hamlet goes even further,
mocking himself how ''most brave'' his lack of determination is:
O, vengeance!
Why, what an ass
am I! This is most brave,
That I, the son of
a dear father murdered,
Prompted to my
revenge by heaven and hell,
Must like a whore
unpack my heart with words
And fall a-cursing
like a very drab,
A stallion!
[II.2.579-585]
It is striking how accurately
Hamlet describes some of the other characters, too. ''Thou wretched, rash,
intruding fool, farewell!'' (III.4.83) suits Polonius perfectly. It's also
notable that sometimes he reveals himself, unwittingly, in conversations with
others. It is a superb touch of irony that Hamlet, while discussing the drunken
habits of the Danes, should make an acute analysis of his own personality. It
might even be that he is aware of the irony, but thinks, rightly, that Barnardo
and Marcellus wouldn't grasp the relationship and he doesn't mind if Horatio
does. Not for nothing did Laurence Olivier start his classic movie version with
these lines:
So oft it chances
in particular men
That - for some
vicious mole of nature in them,
As in their birth,
wherein they are not guilty,
Since nature
cannot choose his origin,
By the o'ergrowth
of some complexion,
Oft breaking down
the pales and forts of reason,
Or by some habit
that too much o'er-leavens
The form of
plausive manners - that these men,
Carrying, I say,
the stamp of one defect,
Being nature's
livery or fortune's star,
His virtues else,
be they as pure as grace,
As infinite as man
may undergo-
Shall in the
general censure take corruption
From that
particular fault.
[I.4.23-36]
In fact, Olivier even went as
far as declaring the above to be the essence of all of Shakespeare's tragic characters: Hamlet, Macbeth, Lear,
Othello, Richard (Shylock if you like). This is surely an over-simplification.
But it's worth considering.
Not the least important, nor
the least attractive, feature of Hamlet is his sardonic sense of humour, often
expressed by subtle puns and allusions. The very first words of his, prompted
by the King's ''my son'' and brilliantly summing-up Hamlet's predicament,
immediately establish the Prince as a sharp-tongued fellow: ''A little more
than kin, and less than kind!'' Hamlet also has an enviable ability to make
quips. Favourite examples include a rebuke of Polonius' complain that the
prologue is too long – ''It shall to the barber's, with your beard.''
(II.2.497) – and a daring reply to his uncle who asks where (the now dead)
Polonius is. Hamlet replies that he is at supper but ''Not where he eats, but
where he is eaten.'' (IV.3.19), and a little later adds ''In heaven. Send
thither to see. If your messenger find him not / there, seek him i' th' other
place yourself.'' (IV.3.32-34). My favourite example of comedy within the
tragedy must be Hamlet's blindly slaying of Polonius, hidden behind the arras
(III.4.28-29).
Queen: What thou
hast done?
Hamlet: Nay, I
know not. Is it the king?
Last but not least, when
Hamlet is in the mood for talking dirty, the poor Ophelia is left almost
speechless. I am grateful to the editor for pointing out to me that ''country
matters'' actually means ''sexual intercourse''. Now that's magnificent:
Hamlet: Lady,
shall I lie in your lap?
Ophelia: No, my
lord.
Hamlet: I mean, my
head upon your lap?
Ophelia: Ay, my
lord.
Hamlet: Do you
think I meant country matters?
Ophelia: I think
nothing, my lord.
Hamlet: That's a
fair thought to lie between maids' legs.
[III.2.121-128]
On the other hand, Hamlet's
inability to make up his own mind is pathological. His complete lack of
resolution, his simply outstanding incapacity to take any responsibility, often diminish my sympathy to nearly
non-existent levels.
In his first soliloquy
(I.2.129-158) we see Hamlet distraught by what must be a serious predicament:
his father's dead body is still warm, yet his uncle, a ''satyr'' to
''Hyperion'' compared to the old king, has already married his mother. For some
rather inscrutable reason the new King and the old Queen insist on Hamlet's
staying in court, rather than returning to his studies in Wittenberg
Then follows, naturally
enough, Hamlet's second soliloquy (I.5.92-109), which is a passionate ranting
that he would fulfil his father's request and revenge his death. What do you
think Hamlet does next? He decides ''To put an antic disposition on'' (I.5.172),
in simpler words: to pretend he is crazy in order (presumably) not to be
discovered that he has any suspicions. Being a theatre lover and apparently an
adept dramatist himself, in his third soliloquy (II.2.547-603) Hamlet decides,
with furious passion yet rather sensibly, that he must have something more
substantial than a mere Ghost, and the theatre is the perfect weapon for the
purpose:
I have heard
That guilty
creatures sitting at a play
Have by the very
cunning of the scene
Been struck so to
the soul that presently
They have
proclaimed their malefactions.
For murder, though
it have no tongue, will speak
With most
miraculous organ. I'll have these players
Play something
like the murder of my father
Before mine uncle.
I'll observe his looks.
I'll tent him to
the quick. If he but blench,
I know my course.
The spirit that I have seen
May be a devil,
and the devil hath power
T' assume a
pleasing shape, yea, and perhaps
Out of my weakness
and my melancholy,
As he is very
potent with such spirits,
Abuses me to damn
me. I'll have grounds
More relative than
this. The play's the thing
Wherein I'll catch
the conscience of the King.
[II.2.586-603]
It is notable that the Prince
has absolutely no idea what he would do if the king did prove guilty. When this duly happens, what do you think Hamlet
does next? The answer is absolutely nothing – except his usual specialty of
evasive, opaque, obscure, confused reflections. Not deeds or actions or even
plans, but just that: thoughts. And there is a superb irony here, an irony I
already learn to expect in Shakespeare. Just some fifty lines after the above
quote, when Hamlet openly questions the veracity of the Ghost, we, the
audience, have our first proof that Claudius is indeed guilty of his brother's
death, as clearly expressed in his short soliloquy (III.1.50-54). But never
mind that. For there follows an even more exquisite irony.
After the critical scene
(III.2.) with the inset play, Hamlet has a superb opportunity to kill his
uncle. While on his way to Gertrude's closet, he glimpses Claudius on his
knees, praying for his sins, altogether an excellent target for some sword
practice. What do you think Hamlet does? Why, he soliloquies, of course! This
is his fifth monologue (III.3.73-96) as well as one of the most suspenseful
scenes in the whole play. Hamlet, of course, does nothing, and his excuses are
characteristically vague, not to say stupid. If I kill him now, the Dane
reflects wisely, his soul would go straight to Heaven, ''Why, this is hire and
salary, not revenge.'' (III.3.79). Such a spineless creature! The sheer
dramatic genius of Shakespeare shines brightly in the last two lines of this
scene. They belong to Claudius, Hamlet having apparently left the stage, and
they make it clear that his prayers had been quite unsuccessful.
My words fly up,
my thoughts remain below.
Words without
thoughts never to heaven go.
In other words, Hamlet
needn't have worried. He might have cut his uncle's throat without his soul
going anywhere near Heaven. It really does take a dramatic genius to finish a
scene like that.
As for Hamlet himself, in his
last soliloquy (IV.4.32-66) he continues to agonize over the weakness of the
human nature, finishing in grand style (my emphasis): “My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!” It is by no means
unimportant that all three killings Hamlet does commit until the final scene
are of victims he doesn't see because they are either behind the arras
(Polonius) or far away in England (Rosencrantz and Guildenstern). When he
finally does kill Claudius, face to face, he knows he has been poisoned and
will be dead soon.
Yet to condemn the Prince of
Denmark for his lack of character is only too easy. And pointless. After all,
what could Hamlet do? Kill Claudius and take the throne? Yes, certainly. But
imagine what kind of king he would be! Why becoming a king only to have
Fortinbras knocking spots off you? Hamlet knows only too well that he would
never make half as good a king as his father did. No matter what he chooses to
do, he is doomed. On the one hand, he is quite unfit by temperament to be king
and, on the other hand, his own inactivity and cowardice, not to mention his
mother's betrayal with his Cain-like uncle, torture him more painfully than
anything else. Perhaps the only thing that Hamlet could possibly have done in
order to save himself was to go somewhere far away from Denmark
There is, perhaps, a deeper
reason for Hamlet's essential incompatibility with this world. I have
deliberately left out above his most celebrated soliloquy: ''To be, or not to
be'' (III.1.56-89). You know, these thirty lines are very much like Newton
To be, or not to
be - that is the question;
Whether 'tis
nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and
arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms
against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing
end them.
[III.1.56-60]
So far as the Dane is
concerned, the answer is a resounding ''not to be''. In this soliloquy Hamlet's
nihilism, pessimism and morbidity reach their absolute peak. This is a most
unhealthy state of mind, to be sure, but if that's what you are, if that's the
way your mind has developed, you don't have much choice. Hamlet looks around
and is horrified by the world he sees, a world that can be ended once and for
all with a ''bare bodkin'':
For who would bear
the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's
wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of
despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of
office, and the spurns
That patient merit
of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself
might his quietus make
With a bare
bodkin?
[III.1.70-76]
What stops Hamlet from
committing suicide is what stop us all, myself included, who have the same
mental defect: a deep, deeper than anything, fear of this ''consummation /
devoutly to be wished'' [III.1.63-64]. Yes, it is tempting. Yet here is another
nagging question for which there is no answer. What happens afterwards? Either
you simply cease to be – forever: a horrifying enough notion – or something
else which, being unknowable, is every bit as frightening:
To sleep –
perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub!
For in that sleep
of death what dreams may come
When we have
shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us
pause. There's the respect
That makes
calamity of so long life.
[III.1.65-69]
Who would these
fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat
under a weary life,
But that the dread
of something after death,
The undiscovered
country, from whose bourn
No traveller
returns- puzzles the will,
And makes us
rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others
that we know not of?
Thus conscience
does make cowards of us all,
[III.1.76-83]
Most people, no doubt
including many who have read Hamlet,
never ask themselves questions like ''To be, or not to be''. Their lives are
purely instinctive and, to continue echoing Somerset Maugham, theirs may be the
greater wisdom. I envy those people for whom the answer is definitely ''to
be'', who consider their lives worth living and death not worth bothering
about. Didn't Spinoza once say that the free man thinks of nothing less than of
death? True. Hamlet is not that kind of man, nor am I. And this is what, above
all, makes Shakespeare's Hamlet such
a shattering experience for me.
Now let's get down from those
rarefied planes of metaphysical speculation.
There are other extenuating
circumstances as regards Hamlet's endless vacillating. To begin with, the only
piece of "evidence" about his uncle's guilt he has, apart from his
own suspicions, are the dubious words of the Ghost or his uncle's leaving the
play in the middle, obviously deeply shaken. Both of these are, to say the
least, circumstantial. How exactly does one stab in the back a man during his
prayer on such grounds? Not until the end of the play (IV.7.) did Hamlet learn
about some of the dark sides of the King's character, as he intercepted the
letter that asks the British to secure his own death. But even then Hamlet
can't really be sure that Claudius committed fratricide. It seems to me that,
despite his deeply disturbed mind, Hamlet's refusal to take his revenge does
say something about the nobility and the humanity of his character.
We, of course, know only too
well that Claudius is guilty as hell. Whether he had seduced Gertrude while the
old Hamlet was still alive remains elusive (we have only the Ghost's testimony
for that), but his two soliloquies made it clear that he did commit fratricide.
The reasons for this, as so much in the play, remain unclear. The most likely
explanation, it seems to me, is that Claudius did indeed seduce Gertrude, or at
least lusted for her while she was married to his brother. I can't see why he,
and not Hamlet, should be elected king after his brother’s death. The editor is
silent on the matter. Does it make any sense rushing into a questionable
marriage with your sister-in-law soon after your brother's death if the kingdom
is what you really want? The editor doesn't tell me that, either.
There is about the King the
same duality of character that makes Hamlet so fascinating. The significant
difference is that the case of Claudius is black-and-white, far removed from
Hamlet's intensely grey mind. The King's decision to kill his nephew, including
his chilling plotting with Laertes (IV.7.), are perfectly understandable. After
all, the play that Hamlet has arranged, in addition to making it clear that the
Prince knows of the fratricide, is as clear a threat to the King's life as
anything. In ''The Murder of Gonzago'' it is the nephew who slays the ruler.
The dramatic contrast with the King's rather friendly, almost affectionate, attitude
in the beginning of the play is very effective. The same is true for the
characters on the whole: Hamlet never dares act until he is on the verge of
death; Claudius acts immediately after he is provoked, especially after the
Prince slays that patent eavesdropper Polonius.
By the way, the councillor of
the King is not without charm himself. You have to admire the stupendous amount
of common sense he imparts to his son before he leaves for France
And these few
precepts in thy memory
Look thou
character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Give thy thoughts
no tongue,
Nor any
unproportioned thought his act.
Be thou familiar,
but by no means vulgar.
Those friends thou
hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them unto
thy soul with hoops of steel.
But do not dull
thy palm with entertainment
Of each
new-hatched, unfledged courage. Beware
Of entrance to a
quarrel. But being in,
Bear't that
th’opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man
thine ear, but few thy voice.
Take each man's
censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit
as thy purse can buy,
But not expressed
in fancy; rich, not gaudy;
For the apparel
oft proclaims the man,
And they in France
Are of a most
select and generous chief in that.
Neither a borrower
nor a lender be,
For loan oft loses
both itself and friend,
And borrowing
dulleth edge of husbandry.
This above all: to
thine own self be true,
And it must
follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not
then be false to any man.
[I.3.58-80]
It is difficult to imagine
that there may exist a man on this planet who cannot profit in one way or
another from following at least some of these ''precepts''. It's also diverting
to learn (III.4.) that in his youth Polonius was an actor and even played
''Julius Caesar'', a nice ironic touch as regards his death in the very next
scene. The verbosity so typical for him is rather amusing; as the editor tells
us, in a rare flash of wit, Polonius' first lines are typical: he takes 33
words to say ''yes''.
Yet, for all of his apparent
wisdom, Polonius is a fool. He is totally taken in by Hamlet's feigned madness
(II.2.) and he continues to believe until the end that the sole reason for this
is Ophelia's rejection (on his advice) of the Prince's advances. It never
passes Polonius' mind that Hamlet may be troubled by trifles like incest and
adultery. It is interesting to speculate whether the councillor knows of the King's
crime. There is nothing in the play – or if there is, it went above my head –
to suggest that he does. This effectively makes Polonius less of a fool. Also, there is no evidence that there ever was any
friendship between the Prince and the Prime minister. So it is hardly
surprising that Polonius should stick to the easiest explanation of Hamlet's
bizarre behaviour. To arrange his murder while doing his favourite thing –
eavesdropping – was a masterful stroke of Shakespearean irony.
In passing it may be noted
that the Ghost is a very fishy subject. That's perhaps not something unusual
for a ghost, but it's disappointing that his nature – whether by Shakespeare's
deliberate intention or by his fault – is never fully explained. That he is the
old Hamlet is certain enough. But he can be neither seen nor heard by his
former wife (III.4.), and to the rest of the characters who do see and
recognise him (Horatio, Marcellus, Barnardo) he never speaks a word. The oath
in the end of I.5. is the only place (except the Closet Scene of course) when
the Ghost speaks in the presence of somebody else but Hamlet. But the words of
Horatio – ''O day and night, but this is wondrous strange!'' (I.5.164.) – do
not necessarily indicate that he can hear the old king; he may be referring to
Hamlet's speaking apparently to the air. So it seems most probable, if
decidedly strange, that the Ghost, though real enough to be visible at least to
some of the characters, is not very talkative.
I am inclined to believe that
his words materialize only inside Hamlet's head as a kind of vivid imagery of
his suspicions. Not for nothing, perhaps, does the Prince exclaim ''O, my
prophetic soul'' (I.5.40) when it becomes clear who slew his father.
Fascinatingly enough, Hamlet's only basis for such remarkably correct suspicion
is the fact that his mother married his uncle rather in haste (a mere month as
abundantly clear from the first soliloquy) after the old king's death. It might
also be relevant to note that the Ghost explicitly demands of Hamlet not to
plot against his mother. I surmise the only reason for his appearance during
the Closet Scene two acts later is to prevent his son, now beside himself, from
disobeying his command.
Another fishy point of
contention is Hamlet's frequent harping on incest. Either I am missing
something here or "incest" had a different meaning in Elizabethan
times; if the latter, I wish the editor had warned me. We do have Hamlet's
words that ''man and wife is one flesh'' (IV.3.) but they seem to be either
more devoid of brains than is usual for him or they lean to some obscure
convention of the times. For incest between Claudius and Gertrude is, of
course, not possible at all. Adultery, yes. But to have incest there must be a
blood relationship, preferably a close one. There is no such thing here.
Claudius is Gertrude's brother-in-law.
This is a legal relationship, not a blood one. This accusation seems to be
Hamlet's chief objection to his mother's behaviour, with adultery and hurried
marriage firmly on second place. He mentions it in his very first soliloquy and
never tires of repeating it throughout the whole play, often including
Claudius. The Ghost, too, speaks of incest in I.5.
To say the least, this incest
obsession is a trifle strange. Even though I do not share "Freudian"
or "Oedipal" interpretations of Hamlet's relationship with the Queen,
they may still play some part in his attitude. Opinions have ranged from
Olivier's somewhat blatant pro-Oedipal kisses in his movie to Asimov's complete
rejection in his Guide. I would rather view Hamlet's incestuous ramblings as
part of his personal weakness, rather than as being motivated by some
unconscious desire for his mother. This does not fit really well with his
cerebral make-up, yet it might have something to do with his madness (the real
and subtle form of it, not the ''antic disposition'').
Hamlet's relationships with
the two female characters in the play are, perhaps, the most perplexing of all.
The fact that the parts of both Gertrude and Ophelia are at best sketchy
doesn't help the matter either. Hamlet himself hardly comes out of both
confrontations with unstained conscience. His treatment of Ophelia is
absolutely abominable. In III.1. he rejects her in a pretty brutal fashion, and
in III.2. he constantly uses her as a scapegoat while he is really angry with
his mother. Even Gertrude herself hardly deserves the vitriol she gets in
III.4., the justly famous "Closet Scene". But, of course and as
always, the things are not that simple. It is certainly significant that in
both cases there is in the end something very much like reconciliation, no
matter that, again in both cases, it's too late for it.
Don't you believe anybody who
tells you that there is a love story or any kind of romance between Hamlet and
Ophelia. There was something like
that, but by the time the play opens it is completely over, presumably because
the shock of his father's death and his mother's second marriage had disturbed
Hamlet's amorous disposition too much. What is one to make of his confused
"I loved thee once" and then, four lines later (!), "I loved
thee not"? I really don't know. Perhaps it is not worth exploring this
direction.
Ophelia, after all, is not a
character. She is a pawn, blatantly used by her eternally scheming father for
demonstrating Hamlet's "antic disposition". Despite her most
affecting madness, I cannot bring myself to be especially sorry for her.
Hamlet's feelings, however, might well have been much deeper. Nothing else
could explain his outburst at the funeral (V.1.), with the bold declaration to
Laertes that 40 000 brothers can't equal his love for Ophelia. Or maybe he just
feels guilty? It is never made clear why
the girl goes crazy in the first place. I suspect that it was Hamlet's brutal
treatment, and not her father's violent death, that was instrumental in that.
Gertrude is a more
sympathetic character, if very scantily drawn. It is interesting that in the
Closet Scene she makes no attempt to defend herself against Hamlet's torrent of
abuse. Then again, what does she have to apologize for? The whole problem –
adultery, hasty marriage, incest – is mostly in Hamlet's mind, not in the
events, most of which are unsubstantiated enough anyway. What seems certain,
and what speaks in favour of Gertrude, is that she probably doesn't know
anything about the fratricide. It is not that her surprise at Hamlet's mention
of it is genuine, but earlier in the play (II.2.56-57) she makes the perfectly
accurate diagnosis of her son's mental disease: ''I doubt it is no other but the
main, / His father’s death and our o'erhasty marriage.'' She tells this to the
King alone, and there is no reason why she should not add at least an allusion
to the murder of the old Hamlet had she been aware of it. Last but not least,
she finally yields to Hamlet's uncompromising requests: ''Assume a virtue, if
you have it not.'' (III.4.161). (The editor tells me that ''assume'' here means
''acquire'', but the modern meaning ''to pretend to have a particular quality''
suits the occasion so much better!)
In short, Shakespeare's Hamlet does deserve its fabulous fame.
It should be required reading for every thinking creature, unless one has some
strong aversion to drama, which is unlikely considering how much it resembles
life. I suspect it should also be a ''required seeing'' for everybody who
enjoys the paper version. Since I have never seen the play on the stage, I have
to rely on the cinema.
==============================================================
King
Lear
The Characters in the Play
Lear, King of Britain
Gonerill, Lear's eldest
daughter
Regan, Lear's second daughter
Cordelia, Lear's youngest
daughter
Duke of Albany, husband of
Gonerill
Duke of Cornwall, husband of
Regan
King of France
Duke of Burgundy
Earl of Kent, later disguised
as Caius
Earl of Gloucester
Edgar, son of Gloucester
Edmund, bastard son of Gloucester
Oswald, Gonerill's steward
Lear's Fool
Three Knights
Curan, gentleman of Gloucester
Gentlemen
Three Servants
Old Man, a tenant of Gloucester
Two Messengers
Doctor, attendant of Cordelia
A Captain, follower of Edmund
Herald
Two Officers
Knights of Lear's train,
servants, soldiers, attendants, gentlemen
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
King
Lear is certainly the most complex of the four tragedies. At 3217 lines, it
is significantly shorter than Hamlet.
Yet it contains six scenes more, and the range of characters and the intricacy
of the plot are greater. The first reading may be rather baffling, but once one
gets familiar with the broad outlines, it becomes more and more rewarding.
Although the structure is
quite sprawling, there is very little superfluous material that could be cut
without some loss. I was amazed to read suggestions that the omission of Gloucester
The antiphonally
placed voices of the three madmen – lunatic King, court fool, feigned Bedlam –
weave the obsessive themes of betrayal, demoniac possession, and injustice into
the most complex lyric structure in modern drama.
The scene is nevertheless
among the most important in the play. The charade with the mock trial is as
amusing as it is significant for Lear's amazing transformation from childishly
vain and decrepit old man into enlightened symbol of human suffering. It's
charming – and a little chilling – to observe that none of the three key
players in this scene is what he seems. The Fool is not at all foolish; indeed
he is just about the smartest fellow onstage. Edgar is of course disguised as a
halfwit, though he is so moved by Lear's pitiful condition that he nearly
betrays himself in the end. And the madness of Lear is a curiously illuminating
one. It's really a healing process.
Much like the tragedy of the
Dane, King Lear is a family drama
with but a faint streak of politics in the background. The significant
difference is that the family element is much more prominent here. The fallout
between Lear and his daughters has a fine counterpoint in the one between Gloucester
Despite the nearly
overwhelming abundance of characters, and despite the fact that even minor ones
like Cordelia, Cornwall, Albany and Oswald have considerable importance for
the plot, the title of the play is appropriate. King Lear is certainly the main
character. It is his folly in the very first scene (I.1.) that generates all
subsequent developments. Is it folly or is it merely senility? I firmly believe
it is the former. At first glance, the king's folly seems to be our old and
quite possibly eternal adversary: vanity. But there is perhaps something more.
The poor old Lear is actually hungry for affection, not flattery. And he is so
desperate to be loved, that he is completely unable to see through Regan's and
Gonerill's blatant hypocrisy. That's why, of course, he is enraged beyond
reason when Cordelia refuses to participate in the show.
The fascinating thing about
Lear is that his development as a character is extraordinary yet masterfully
delayed. In the first two acts he is an infantile old man fond of pranks and
overreacting. Even when he is rejected by both of his daughters – more brutally
by Gonerill (I.4.) but equally firmly by Regan (II.4.) – it is difficult to
sympathise with his outrageous curses. After all, the girls may have some
right: it must be very difficult to have the quarrelsome old man living with
you, and there is no reason to suppose that his hundred knights are less
profligate than suggested by Gonerill. When he is locked out in the storm
(II.4.), it is by his own accord, rather than by some special cruelty of his
daughters.
In spite of the splendid
rhetoric that opens Act III – ''Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow!''
– the most important events come afterwards. I think it is the meeting with the
Poor Tom that's critical. The role of the Fool as Lear's last link with sanity
is of utmost importance, to be sure, but by this time he has largely fulfilled
his purpose. But in Poor Tom Lear meets with complete misery, misery
untarnished by glamour or romance. In combination with his communion with
nature – first during the storm, later with the crown of flowers on his head –
this experience detaches Lear from his personal unhappiness and finally
transforms him into something much larger, something that transcends all things
earthly.
Lear from Acts IV and V is a
possessor of an altogether different mentality than the one in Act III, who in
turn is way removed from the buffoonish creature in the first two acts. The
catharsis is perhaps a little too sudden, not unlike Albany Gloucester
As far as Act IV is concerned,
Lear appears only in the last scene of it (IV.7.), but this is his reunion with
Cordelia: undeniably one of the most affecting moments in the play. The king
has some trouble recognising his own daughter, but he no longer has any
illusions about himself. ''I am a very foolish fond old man'' (IV.7.60), he
describes himself, and when a reference to his kingdom is made, he snaps ''Do
not abuse me.'' (IV.7.77). He frankly admits that Cordelia has every reason to
hate him, as opposed to her sisters who have none, and if she has poison for
him he will drink it. It is much to Cordelia's credit that she forgives him
without any delay. The scene somehow manages to be deeply moving without
degenerating into sentimentality.
The climax of the
Lear-Cordelia relationship, and the climax of the whole play, is reached in
V.3. It starts, anti-climactically enough, with their going together to prison,
having just lost the battle against Edmund. Then follows Shakespeare's
trademark slaughter in the end, but just when we think that all of the bad guys
are dead (Edmund, Gonerill, Regan) and the Good will prevail after all, enters
Lear carrying the dead Cordelia and crying ''Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are
men of stone.'' (V.3.255). As it turns out, Lear had killed Edmund's assassin,
but not in time to save his daughter. The only slight spark of light to relieve
the almost unbearable tragedy of the final scene is the fact that Lear,
apparently, dies under the happy impression that his daughter is still alive:
And my poor fool is
hanged! No, no, no life!
Why should a dog,
a horse, a rat, have life,
And thou no breath
at all? Thou'lt come no more;
Never, never,
never, never, never.
Pray you undo this
button. Thank you, sir.
Do you see this?
Look on her! Look, her lips!
Look there! Look
there!
[V.3.303-7.]
The rest of the characters
form an admirable gallery of great diversity and superb vividness. They all are
involved in some of the subplots, but most of them also play important parts in
Lear's personal odyssey.
From the rich crop of
villains, Edmund takes the cake. What a magnetic fellow! As all villains in
Shakespeare, or at least as the best of them, Edmund is anything but simple.
(He is certainly far more interesting a bastard than Don John from Much Ado About Nothing.) In his
soliloquy on ''bastardy'' (I.2.1-22), Edmund appeals for equal treatment of
bastards and the so called legitimate sons: a most humane appeal indeed. It is
true that modern genetics do not in the least support his notion that bastards,
conceived in ''lusty stealth of nature'', are any the better than their
legitimate counterparts, but neither does science suggest the opposite.
Edmund's prose soliloquy on
astrology (I.2.118-132) is strikingly modern. Its uncompromising rationality is
indeed badly needed today. It is frightening that there are still people who
seriously believe in such rubbish. Edmund's brutally blunt words are worth
quoting:
This is the
excellent foppery of the world, that when we are sick in fortune – often the
surfeits of our own behaviour – we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the
moon, and stars, as if we were villains on necessity, fools by heavenly
compulsion, knaves, thieves, and treachers by spherical predominance,
drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforced obedience of planetary
influence; and all that we are evil in by a divine thrusting-on. An admirable
evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition to the charge of a
star. My father compounded with my mother under the Dragon's tail, and my
nativity was under Ursa Major, so that it follows I am rough and lecherous.
Fut! I should have been that I am had the maidenliest star in the firmament
twinkled on my bastardizing.
Edmund is also by far the
smartest and most dangerous of all villains in the play. Being exceptionally
handsome, he seduces both Gonerill and Regan, shrewdly summing up the
situation: ''Neither can be enjoyed / If both remain alive.'' (V.1.58-59). In
addition to the banishment of his half-brother and his blind father, it is
Edmund, too, who orders the murders of Cordelia and Lear, succeeding on both
occasions (if only indirectly in the second one), and again summarising
brilliantly his motives: ''for my state / Stands on me to defend, not to
debate.'' (V.1.68-69).
It should be noted that
Edmund is something of a humorist and he by no means lacks courage. Upon
learning about the deaths of Gonerill and Regan (the former poisoned the latter
and then committed suicide), the now wounded and dying Edmund demonstrates
again his superb succinctness: ''I was contracted to them both. All three / Now
marry in an instant.'' (V.3.226-7). Shortly after that, Edmund even makes a
genuine attempt to redeem at least partly his crimes – ''some good I mean to do
/ Despite of mine own nature (V.3.241-2) – by telling Edgar about his indirect
assassination of Lear and Cordelia. An officer is sent away immediately, but it
is too late for Cordelia, and, in a way, it is too late for Lear also.
Cordelia is the minor
character with by far the greatest weight on her shoulders. She appears in only
four scenes (I.1., IV.4., IV.7., V.3.), yet it is her rejection of hypocrisy in
the first scene that precipitates the plot and it is her death that turns it
into a true tragedy. She is altogether a delightful and very likable creature.
In the beginning she demonstrates remarkable boldness and candour, not only by
refusing to express her love in words (an impossible task anyway), but by
declaring that her love for her father extends to no more than her duty. What's
more, when she marries, her husband will take away at least half of that love.
Even Lear himself is kind of impressed, initially at least:
Lear: So young,
and so untender?
Cordelia: So
young, my lord, and true.
[I.1.106-7.]
But when Cordelia learns
about the civil-war-like conditions between her sisters and her father, she
immediately comes to his help. Indeed, it says a great deal about her character
that in the beginning the King of France takes her for a wife without any
dowry, Lear having declared ''Thy truth then be thy dower!'' (I.1.108) and the
avaricious Duke of Burgundy having withdrawn his marriage offer. The King of
France is presumably quite rich enough not to need any dowry, but that's not
the point. It was the custom and the fact that it's broken suggests that the
Frenchman is aware that there is something special about Cordelia. Thus we gain
a fine indirect insight into her character, probably founded on events that
happened before the beginning of the play.
Finally, there are the Fool
and Edgar, both of them already discussed as regards their crucial rendezvous in
Act III. Here I would like to add a few quotations from the Fool's remarkably
pregnant replies. Not for nothing does Lear regard him with unabashed
affection. And Kent
Lear: Dost thou
call me fool, boy?
Fool: All thy
titles thou hast given away; that thou was born with.
[I.4.146-9.]
Note that the Fool addresses
the King with the rather informal ''thou''. This is normally used for friends
and subordinates. It's quite extraordinary to see it applied to a king. In the
first scene Kent does the same, apparently trying a kind of ''shock therapy''
(in the memorable words of the editor) in order to convince the king that the
banishment of Cordelia is a very wrong thing to do. At any rate, it pays to
read the Fool's lines carefully. When I mentioned briefly above the Fool's role
as Lear's last link with sanity, something of which the king is surely aware if
only unconsciously, I meant exchanges like this:
Fool: The reason
why the seven stars are no more than seven is a pretty reason.
Lear: Because they
are not eight?
Fool: Yes, indeed.
Thou wouldst make a good fool.
[…]
Fool: If thou wert
my fool, nuncle, I'd have thee beaten for being old before thy time.
Lear: How's that?
Fool: Thou
shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.
[I.5.33-41.]
All in all, King Lear is a spectacular dramatic
achievement. A vast canvas of characters drawn with depth and individuality on
the one hand, and dealing with the eternal themes of old age, familial tensions
and lust for power on the other, the play can hardly fail to be of interest to
pretty much everybody. For my part, it will bear a great deal of rewarding
re-reading (not especially euphonious, this alliteration, but no matter).
================================================================
Macbeth
The Characters in the Play
Duncan, King of Scotland
Malcolm, Donalbain: his sons
Macbeth, Thane of Glamis,
later of Cawdor, later King of Scotland
Banquo, Macduff, Lennox,
Ross, Menteth, Angus, Cathness: Thanes of Scotland
Fleance, Banquo's son
Seyward, Earl of
Northumberland
Young Seyward, his son
Seyton, Macbeth's
armour-bearer
Son of Macduff
Lady Macbeth
Wife of Macduff
A Captain, An English Doctor,
A Scottish Doctor, A Porter, An Old Man, Gentlewoman attendant on Lady Macbeth,
Three Weird Sisters, Three Other Witches, Hecat, Apparitions, Three Murderers,
Other Murderers, Lords, Gentlemen, Officers, Soldiers, Attendants, Messengers
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Macbeth is not really a
play. It's a screenplay. It should
not be staged at all. It should be filmed. For one thing, it is full of
supernatural elements (witches, ghosts, apparitions) that modern cinema can
explore in a truly magnificent way. For another, its 23 scenes and (about) 2100
lines are superbly organized to provide an action story with many exciting
moments; many of the scenes, indeed, are so short that resemble movie stills.
The whole play can be turned into a script with minimal cutting and
re-arranging. Of course the cast and the director must be first-class. I am
dismayed to note how few notable movie versions of Macbeth there are. But more about them anon.
I often hear Macbeth described as Shakespeare's
darkest play and now I see why. There is some relentless grimness that pervades
the whole work. Coleridge was perfectly right that the opening scene, full of
witches and thunder, serves only one purpose and this is to set the atmosphere
of the whole play. Even the stage directions are often disturbing: ''Enter
Ghost'', ''Enter Murderers''. Yes, it's a bloody play, too, with four murders
on the stage (Macbeth, Macduff's son, Banquo, Seyward's son) and nobody knows
how many offstage but at least five are referred to in the text (Duncan, his two
servants, Macduff's wife, Lady Macbeth). The only comic relief in the whole
play is the lively prose of the talkative Porter in the beginning of II.3. He
is a welcome relief, indeed, and he has some amusing reflections about the
momentous effects of alcohol:
Lechery, sir, it
provokes and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the
performance: therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with
lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off;
it persuades him, and disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand to:
in conclusion, equivocates him in a
sleep, and giving him the lie, leaves him.
[II.3.27-33.]
Despite its tight
organization, the play may well survive some cuts, indeed it would benefit from
them. The scene with Hecate's tedious song (III.5.) is so completely
unnecessary that it must have been either a later interpolation or a deliberate
catering to the taste of King James. Pretty much the same is true for the
pastiche in the beginning of the scene with the visions (IV.1.); apparently the
King was nuts about witches. The only other episode which seems to me unduly
extended is the conversation between Malcolm and Macduff (IV.3.). Who cares
about these fellows? They are not characters. They are stage conventions.
This is true for all
characters except the Macbeths. And, of course, it should be expected. To
depict a character in drama is hard enough. To depict two, and their whole
degradation, in mere 2000 lines is a towering achievement. The Macbeths, apart
from their deeds, are very likeable couple. They share everything, including
their ultimate fate, and support each other with all possible means. Two things
fascinate me about them: the fluctuations in their relationship and the
different ways by which they end their single journeys in this world.
In the beginning Lady Macbeth
takes the upper hand. It is she, after receiving the faithful letter from her
husband, who plans Duncan
The raven himself
is hoarse
That croaks the
fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements.
Come, you spirits
That tend on
mortal thoughts, unsex me here
And fill me from
the crown to the toe top-full
Of direst cruelty.
Make thick my blood;
Stop up the access
and passage to remorse,
That no
compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell
purpose, nor keep peace between
The effect and it.
Come to my woman's breasts
And take my mill
for gall, you murdering ministers,
Wherever, in your
sightless substances,
You wait on
nature's mischief. Come, thick night,
And pall thee in
the dunnest smoke of hell,
That my keen knife
see not the wound it makes,
Nor heaven peep
through the blanket of the dark
To cry, 'Hold,
Hold!'
[I.5.36-52.]
The witches are cheerful and
harmless creatures by comparison. Yet it must be mentioned that the Lady is
pretty disingenuous here. She masterminds everything, that's true, but she
commits no murder herself. So she needn't have worried about ''my keen knife
see not the wound it makes''. Nevertheless, after the murder she acts coolly
and with remarkable composure, much unlike Macbeth's distress. (Even his
condition, however, is nothing like ''ecstasy of moral hysteria'', as
idiotically described by the editor; Macbeth is horrified more on physical
grounds, I think, rather than on moral ones.) When he refuses to go back and
leave the bloody daggers where they should be, the Lady shows her ''undaunted
mettle'':
Infirm of purpose!
Give me the
daggers. The sleeping and the dead
Are but as
pictures. 'Tis the eye of childhood
That fears a
painted devil. If he do bleed,
I'll gild the
faces of the grooms withal,
For it must seem
their guilt.
[II.2.53-58.]
Much has been made of the pun
here, how inappropriate to the situation is and so on. The editor here supplies
a much more interesting insight, quoting one Cleanth Brooks; for Lady Macbeth
''guilt is something like gilt – one can wash it off or paint it
on.'' If I may add, the pun fits superbly the Lady's famous Sleepwalking Scene
(V.1.) where she tried, pathetically and unsuccessfully, to wash the imaginary
blood from her hands – and the guilt from her already deranged mind.
With the progress of the
play, the condition of Lady Macbeth steadily deteriorates. She discovers that
ambition taken to extremes becomes self-destructive. There is a short soliloquy
in the beginning of III.2. which eloquently conveys her anxiety. It's in sharp contrast
with Macbeth's overbearing and over-confident, indeed arrogant, attitude as
King of Scotland. But his wife knows better:
Nought's had,
all's spent,
Where our desire
is got without content.
'Tis safer to be
that which we destroy
Than by
destruction dwell in doubtful joy.
[III.2.4-7.]
Nevertheless, the Lady still
stands by her husband. In the chilling scene with Banquo's ghost (III.4.), a
weird mixture of comedy and tragedy, she takes the comical part by trying to
convince the guests that her husband regularly behaves like that. Apparently
the royal family could get away with it. But the Lady continues to be haunted
by the bloody deed they had committed. By the time of the Sleepwalking Scene
(V.1.) she is completely mad; in the next scene she commits suicide offstage.
Her incoherent ramblings are not easy to forget:
Out, damned spot! Out,
I say! - One: two: why then, 'tis time to do't. – Hell is murky! - Fie, my
lord, fie! A soldier and afeard? – What need we fear who knows it, when none
can call our power to accompt? – Yet who would have thought the old man to have
had so much blood in him?
[V.1.34-9.]
Both Macbeths finally lose
their grip of reality, which is of course prerequisite of madness, but the
truly amazing thing is the different ways by which they do that. While Lady
Macbeth is haunted by bloody memories, Macbeth himself is obsessed by
completely irrational visions of a glorious future. Naturally, he doesn't
commit suicide. Yet in the end of the play, though driven by different forces
than his wife, he becomes mad, too.
In the beginning Macbeth is
timid and refuses to take seriously his wife's dark plans. ''We will speak
further'' (I.5.69), he evades the matter. Later he brings some objections, but
note that these deal, not with pangs of conscience, but with the danger of
failure: ''If we should fail?'' (I.7.59). Lady Macbeth has, of course, no
problem demolishing such weak arguments. Despite further hesitations in his
famous ''Dagger Monologue'' (II.1.33-64.), Macbeth finally cuts Duncan
Macbeth's crime is aggravated
by a number of circumstances. Firstly, Duncan
appears to be a good king, so any ideas of saving Scotland Duncan
Those suspicions are the
beginning of Macbeth's end. As every usurper, he discovers that, if not your
conscience (which doesn't bother him in the least), the constant fear of being
overthrown will finally take its toll. This leads to the murders of Banquo
(III.3.) and the family of Macduff (IV.2.); the latter manages to escape in England
Banquo is a somewhat
superfluous character, but Shakespeare has made a marvellously effective use of
him. He accompanies Macbeth from the very beginning with the Weird Sisters, so
it stands to reason that he does suspect his ambition and the planned
assassination; when Macbeth wishes him ''Good repose the while!'' in the fatal
night, he replies (ironically?) ''Thanks, sir: the like to you'' (II.1.29-30).
In addition to his highly effective ghost appearances, Banquo also has the
honour to supply the most accurate description of the Witches. If only Macbeth
had listened to it more carefully:
But 'tis strange;
And oftentimes to
win us to our harm,
The instruments of
darkness tell us truths;
Win us with honest
trifles, to betray's
In deepest
consequence.
[I.3.121-5.]
Macbeth's chief defect of
character is, of course, the lust for power. It is typically insatiable: thane
of Glamis is not enough, nor is thane of Cawdor. But there is another defect
that shouldn't be neglected. This is Macbeth's superstitious nature. He keeps
repeating, especially towards the end, the two most important prophesies of the
witches: that the Birnam wood would never come to Dunsinane, and that no man
that's born of woman shall kill him. This seems to ensure his invisibility. It
never occurs to Macbeth that these lovely messages, if not exactly untrue (for
the Weird Sisters cannot lie), may be highly misleading.
Macbeth's downfall is a
chilling spectacle. Already in III.2., soon after he has become king, the
vastly changed attitude to his wife, so different than the warmth of the
earlier acts, indicates that his mind is already profoundly disturbed.
Thereafter the tension escalates violently: Banquo's ghost, the escape of
Fleance, the news from England
Doctor:
Not so sick, my
lord,
As she is troubled
with thick coming fancies
That keep her from
her rest.
Macbeth:
Cure her of that.
Canst thou not
minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the
memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the
written troubles of the brain,
And with some
sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuffed
bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon
the heart?
Doctor:
Therein the
patient
Must minister to
himself.
[V.3.36-46, slight
mislineation above.]
In this feverish condition,
Macbeth often has striking flashes of lucidity. They are not only clad in some
of the most gorgeous poetry in the whole play (perhaps in the whole of
Shakespeare?), but they also offer a candid self-analysis of his present state
of mind as well as a merciless summing-up of his life. It is in these moments
that Macbeth becomes a real tragic character, and I understand many great
people (Verdi, for one) described this play as one of the greatest tragedies
ever written:
I have lived long
enough: my way of life
Is fallen into the
sere, the yellow leaf;
And that which
should accompany old age,
As honour, love,
obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to
have; but, in their stead,
Curses, not loud, but
deep, mouth-honour, breath,
Which the poor
heart would fain deny and dare not.
[V.3.22-8.]
I have almost
forgot the taste of fears.
The time has been
my senses would have cooled
To hear a
night-shriek, and my fell of hair
Would at a dismal
treatise rouse and stir
As life were in't.
I have supped full with horrors,
Direness, familiar
to my slaughterous thoughts,
Cannot once start
me.
[V.5.9-15.]
When he is informed that his
wife is dead, Macbeth's answer is almost painfully poignant: ''She should have
died hereafter. / There would have been a time for such a word.'' (V.3.17-8),
which I take it to mean that had she died later, he could have mourned her. In
his present condition he is no longer capable of that. This leads to his most
famous soliloquy - ''To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow'' – which has
become almost as well-known as Hamlet's ''To be, or not to be''. It is much
shorter, but its power and beauty are undeniable:
Tomorrow, and
tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this
petty pace from day to day
To the last
syllable of recorded time;
And all our
yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty
death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a
walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and
frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard
no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot,
full of sound and fury,
Signifying
nothing.
[V.5.19-28.]
Macbeth is a mighty
tragedy, no mistake about that. The fates of Macbeth and his Lady, so different
yet so alike, are pathetic. But they are conveyed with such stunning force,
with such pervasive spiritual desolation, that they never look tawdry or
melodramatic. The completely ordinary conclusion, with Malcolm's indifferent
speech, is a typical stroke of Shakespearean irony. (Cf. Horatio's final words
in Hamlet.) Malcolm would doubtless
make a much finer King of Scotland than Macbeth did. But about his rule only
boring dramas can be written, never heartrending tragedies.
PS Macbeth by Verdi and Piave.
I wish Verdi had composed
this opera at least a few years later than 1847. It falls in the end of his
middle period and it's among his finest achievements from that time. But it
does no justice to Shakespeare's original. It may be, as Deryck Cooke has
suggested, that those great tragedies simply do not translate well into opera.
And yet, had Verdi come to Macbeth 15 or 20 years later, by the time he
composed mighty masterpieces like La
Forza del Destino and Don Carlo,
it would have been a very different – and vastly superior – musical drama. It
is true that he did revise the 1847 version as late as 1865, but this revision,
though better and preferred today, is not as thorough as sometimes supposed.
The libretto is very well
constructed. It was written by Francesco Maria Piave, who was not just one of Verdi's
finest collaborators, but a man who knew how to handle great poetry: most of
the text is literal translation of Shakespeare's original. There are, of
course, many omissions of scenes and characters, but they are finely done too.
For instance, the Porter is entirely omitted and Duncan
But the music is definitely
subpar. With the exception of two great arias – Banquo's ''Come dal ciel
precipita'' (bass) and Macduff's ''Ah, la paterna mano'' (tenor) – nothing else
has gained a popular appeal. This is not exactly accidental. The only other
extraordinary achievement is Lady Macbeth's Sleepwalking Scene (Act 4, scene
3), perhaps the only moment where Verdi truly reminds us of the genius that was
to blossom fully for the first time only a few years later in Rigoletto (1851).
But the rest is entirely
forgettable. Even fine late additions like Lady Macbeth's ''La luce langue''
fail to evoke anything like the dark and mysterious atmosphere of the play, not
to mention its metaphysical dimensions. The great monologues – Macbeth's about
the dagger, the Lady's about being unsexed – are almost embarrassingly operatic
(in the worst sense of the word). Just compare with Rigoletto's ''Pari siamo''
and you will know what I mean. True, the original here is Hugo's, not
Shakespeare's, but Verdi's treatment is definitely worthy of the Bard.
Macbeth has divided the
specialists. Charles Osborne in The
Complete Operas of Verdi (1969) bluntly stated that the opera is ''worthy
to stand beside Shakespeare's'' original. Five years earlier, in the essay ''Shakespeare
on Music'', Deryck Cooke dismissed similar claims as side-effects of the ''present
Verdi craze''. Though I may be prejudiced in this respect, I'd rather agree
with the latter estimation. So would the public, it seems. Despite several
remarkable recordings, with such luminaries in the title role as Warren
==================================================
Note
on the edition.
The plays and the editorial
apparatus are exact reprints of the four separate volumes in the New Penguin
Shakespeare. There is, however, one very important difference. The text has
been reset and the notes by the editors appear, not in the end of the book, but
on the same pages as do the passages they discuss. This is extremely helpful.
To be sure, it doesn't look very pretty to have almost every page half occupied
by footnotes in minuscule font, but it's a great deal better than flipping
through hundreds of pages every few lines.
I cannot imagine why Penguin
don't reprint these reset versions in their "New Shakespeare" series
which in fact consists of the texts and notes from the old "New Penguin
Shakespeare". The only new things in these editions are the introductions
and the hideous covers, neither of which is any improvement over the old ones.
The introductions in this
volume are surprisingly superb, and I really don't see how they can be
improved. All four of them are pretty substantial pieces, some thirty to forty
pages long on the average, and they discuss the plays from every point of view:
historical background, sources, plots, characterisation, language, imagery,
etc. Needless to say, the discussions are neither comprehensive nor exhaustive:
Shakespeare wouldn't be where he is if one could tell everything about some of
his finest plays in mere thirty pages. But the essays are very well written,
lucidly and insightfully, and can be read both as introductions and as
afterwords; indeed, all four of these pieces do reward re-reading, and it's
always a pleasure to agree or disagree with the editors.
The psychological dimensions
of the characterisation are especially well captured, perceptively yet without
any outrageous meddling with amateur psychology. The historical backgrounds are
also fascinating. They are rather revealing about Shakespeare's dramatic
genius, as well as about his poetic one. He borrowed a lot from all and sundry,
yet he elaborated on that material in a thoroughly individual manner. After
all, it is not the material that really matters. It is the pattern.
I must say, however, that G.
K. Hunter is something of an exception. He is the only one of the editors who
occasionally slips into pretentious and not altogether lucid prose. He makes a
number of interesting points about both Macbeth
and King Lear, but at times I find it
hard to follow him.
The notes are, on the whole,
equally fine. They can, of course, sound rather dogmatic sometimes, but they
are nonetheless invaluable for that. And one, presumptuous as this may seem,
doesn't have to agree with everything. For example, Mr Muir's interpretation of
"Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago" as referring to the difference
in their respective social positions seems rather superficial to me; I should
think Iago means the profound difference in their natures. Never mind. The
notes are absolutely essential for everybody with as little experience of
Shakespeare as I. They clarify lots of issues: obscure words and meanings,
allusions and metaphors, cross references with other scenes or even other
plays, textual variants between the First Folio and early quartos, etc.
The ''Account of the Text''
sections consist of an introductory essay and any number of collation lists.
The former examines all known editions, how they differ from one another, and
what problems is the modern editor faced with. The latter gives the more
interesting deviations of the present text from earlier editions. As usual with
Penguin (cf David Womersley's editorial work on Gibbon's Decline and Fall), the scholarship is scrupulous, meticulous and
exhaustive almost to the point of pedantry. It is not stretching a point too
much to suggest that every comma is accounted for. Then again, Shakespeare
deserves such a treatment, and I am grateful to the Penguin editors for their
magisterial work.
The book is massive and not
especially handy, but the text, except for the footnotes of course, is printed
in an eye-friendly manner – normal font size, not too closely printed,
comfortable line spacing – that makes for an easy and pleasant read.
