Posted on 10/19/2002 8:19:30 AM PDT by dighton
Lear is one of the minority of Shakespeare’s plays that are unmistakably about something. As Tolstoy justly complains, much rubbish has been written about Shakespeare as a philosopher, as a psychologist, as a “great moral teacher,” and what-not. Shakespeare was not a systematic thinker, his most serious thoughts are uttered irrelevantly or indirectly, and we do not know to what extent he wrote with a “purpose” or even how much of the work attributed to him was actually written by him. In the sonnets he never even refers to the plays as part of his achievement, though he does make what seems to be a half-ashamed allusion to his career as an actor. It is perfectly possible that he looked on at least half of his plays as mere pot-boilers and hardly bothered about purpose or probability so long as he could patch up something, usually from stolen material, which would more or less hang together on the stage. However, that is not the whole story. To begin with, as Tolstoy himself points out, Shakespeare has a habit of thrusting uncalled-for general reflections into the mouths of his characters. This is a serious fault in a dramatist, but it does not fit in with Tolstoy’s picture of Shakespeare as a vulgar hack who has no opinions of his own and merely wishes to produce the greatest effect with the least trouble. And more than this, about a dozen of his plays, written for the most part later than 1600, do unquestionably have a meaning and even a moral. They revolve round a central subject which in some cases can be reduced to a single word. For example, Macbeth is about ambition, Othello is about jealousy, and Timon of Athens is about money. The subject of Lear is renunciation, and it is only by being wilfully blind that one can fail to understand what Shakespeare is saying.
Lear renounces his throne but expects everyone to continue treating him as a king. He does not see that if he surrenders power, other people will take advantage of his weakness: also that those who flatter him the most grossly, i.e. Regan and Goneril, are exactly the ones who will turn against him. The moment he finds that he can no longer make people obey him as he did before, he falls into a rage which Tolstoy describes as “strange and unnatural,” but which in fact is perfectly in character. In his madness and despair, he passes through two moods which again are natural enough in his circumstances, though in one of them it is probable that he is being used partly as a mouthpiece for Shakespeare’s own opinions. One is the mood of disgust in which Lear repents, as it were, for having been a king, and grasps for the first time the rottenness of formal justice and vulgar morality. The other is a mood of impotent fury in which he wreaks imaginary revenges upon those who have wronged him. “To have a thousand with red burning spits come hissing in upon ‘em!,” and:
It were a delicate stratagem to shoe
A troop of horse with felt: I’ll put’t in proof;
And when I have stol’n upon these sons-in-law,
Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!
Only at the end does he realize, as a sane man, that power, revenge and victory are not worth while:
No, no, no, no! Come, let’s away to prison . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . and we’ll wear out
In a wall’d prison, packs and sects of great ones
That ebb and flow by th’ moon.
But by the time he makes this discovery it is too late, for his death and Cordelia’s are already decided on. That is the story, and, allowing for some clumsiness in the telling, it is a very good story.
But is it not also curiously similar to the history of Tolstoy himself? There is a general resemblance which one can hardly avoid seeing, because the most impressive event in Tolstoy’s life, as in Lear’s, was a huge and gratuitous act of renunciation. In his old age, he renounced his estate, his title and his copyrights, and made an attempt — a sincere attempt, though it was not successful — to escape from his privileged position and live the life of a peasant. But the deeper resemblance lies in the fact that Tolstoy, like Lear, acted on mistaken motives and failed to get the results he had hoped for. According to Tolstoy, the aim of every human being is happiness, and happiness can only be attained by doing the will of God. But doing the will of God means casting off all earthly pleasures and ambitions, and living only for others. Ultimately, therefore, Tolstoy renounced the world under the expectation that this would make him happier. But if there is one thing certain about his later years, it is that he was not happy. On the contrary he was driven almost to the edge of madness by the behaviour of the people about him, who persecuted him precisely because of his renunciation. Like Lear, Tolstoy was not humble and not a good judge of character. He was inclined at moments to revert to the attitudes of an aristocrat, in spite of his peasant’s blouse, and he even had two children whom he had believed in and who ultimately turned against him — though, of course, in a less sensational manner than Regan and Goneril. His exaggerated revulsion from sexuality was also distinctly similar to Lear’s. Tolstoy’s remark that marriage is “slavery, satiety, repulsion” and means putting up with the proximity of “ugliness, dirtiness, smell, sores,” is matched by Lear’s well-known outburst:
But to the girdle do the gods inherit,
Beneath is all the fiends’;
There’s hell, there’s darkness, there’s the sulphurous pit,
Burning, scalding, stench, consumption . . . etc., etc.
And though Tolstoy could not foresee it when he wrote his essay on Shakespeare, even the ending of his life — the sudden unplanned flight across country, accompanied only by a faithful daughter, the death in a cottage in a strange village — seems to have in it a sort of phantom reminiscence of Lear.
Of course, one cannot assume that Tolstoy was aware of this resemblance, or would have admitted it if it had been pointed out to him. But his attitude towards the play must have been influenced by its theme. Renouncing power, giving away your lands, was a subject on which he had reason to feel deeply. Probably, therefore, he would be more angered and disturbed by the moral that Shakespeare draws than he would be in the case of some other play — Macbeth, for example — which did not touch so closely on his own life. But what exactly is the moral of Lear? Evidently there are two morals, one explicit, the other implied in the story.
Shakespeare starts by assuming that to make yourself powerless is to invite an attack. This does not mean that everyone will turn against you (Kent and the Fool stand by Lear from first to last), but in all probability someone will. If you throw away your weapons, some less scrupulous person will pick them up. If you turn the other cheek, you will get a harder blow on it than you got on the first one. This docs not always happen, but it is to be expected, and you ought not to complain if it does happen. The second blow is, so to speak, part of the act of turning the other cheek. First of all, therefore, there is the vulgar, common-sense moral drawn by the Fool: “Don’t relinquish power, don’t give away your lands.” But there is also another moral. Shakespeare never utters it in so many words, and it does not very much matter whether he was fully aware of it. It is contained in the story, which, after all, he made up, or altered to suit his purposes. It is: “Give away your lands if you want to, but don’t expect to gain happiness by doing so. Probably you won’t gain happiness. If you live for others, you must live for others, and not as a roundabout way of getting an advantage for yourself.”
Obviously neither of these conclusions could have been pleasing to Tolstoy. The first of them expresses the ordinary, belly-to-earth selfishness from which he was genuinely trying to escape. The other conflicts with his desire to eat his cake and have it — that is, to destroy his own egoism and by so doing to gain eternal life. Of course, Lear is not a sermon in favour of altruism. It merely points out the results of practising self-denial for selfish reasons. Shakespeare had a considerable streak of worldliness in him, and if he had been forced to take sides in his own play, his sympathies would probably have lain with the Fool. But at least he could see the whole issue and treat it at the level of tragedy. Vice is punished, but virtue is not rewarded. The morality of Shakespeare’s later tragedies is not religious in the ordinary sense, and certainly is not Christian. Only two of them, Hamlet and Othello, are supposedly occurring inside the Christian era, and even in those, apart from the antics of the ghost in Hamlet, there is no indication of a “next world” where everything is to be put right. All of these tragedies start out with the humanist assumption that life, although full of sorrow, is worth living, and that Man is a noble animal — a belief which Tolstoy in his old age did not share.
Tolstoy was not a saint, but he tried very hard to make himself into a saint, and the standards he applied to literature were other-worldly ones. It is important to realize that the difference between a saint and an ordinary human being is a difference of kind and not of degree. That is, the one is not to be regarded as an imperfect form of the other. The saint, at any rate Tolstoy’s kind of saint, is not trying to work an improvement in earthly life: he is trying to bring it to an end and put something different in its place. One obvious expression of this is the claim that celibacy is “higher” than marriage. If only, Tolstoy says in effect, we would stop breeding, fighting, struggling and enjoying, if we could get rid not only of our sins but of everything else that binds us to the surface of the earth — including love, then the whole painful process would be over and the Kingdom of Heaven would arrive. But a normal human being does not want the Kingdom of Heaven: he wants life on earth to continue. This is not solely because he is “weak,” “sinful” and anxious for a “good time.” Most people get a fair amount of fun out of their lives, but on balance life is suffering, and only the very young or the very foolish imagine otherwise. Ultimately it is the Christian attitude which is self-interested and hedonistic, since the aim is always to get away from the painful struggle of earthly life and find eternal peace in some kind of Heaven or Nirvana. The humanist attitude is that the struggle must continue and that death is the price of life. “Men must endure their going hence, even as their coming hither: Ripeness is all” -which is an un-Christian sentiment. Often there is a seeming truce between the humanist and the religious believer, but in fact their attitudes cannot be reconciled: one must choose between this world and the next. And the enormous majority of human beings, if they understood the issue, would choose this world. They do make that choice when they continue working, breeding and dying instead of crippling their faculties in the hope of obtaining a new lease of existence elsewhere.
We do not know a great deal about Shakespeare’s religious beliefs, and from the evidence of his writings it would be difficult to prove that he had any. But at any rate he was not a saint or a would-be saint: he was a human being, and in some ways not a very good one. It is clear, for instance, that he liked to stand well with the rich and powerful, and was capable of flattering them in the most servile way. He is also noticeably cautious, not to say cowardly, in his manner of uttering unpopular opinions. Almost never does he put a subversive or sceptical remark into the mouth of a character likely to be identified with himself. Throughout his plays the acute social critics, the people who are not taken in by accepted fallacies, are buffoons, villains, lunatics or persons who are shamming insanity or are in a state of violent hysteria. Lear is a play in which this tendency is particularly well marked. It contains a great deal of veiled social criticism — a point Tolstoy misses — but it is all uttered either by the Fool, by Edgar when he is pretending to be mad, or by Lear during his bouts of madness. In his sane moments Lear hardly ever makes an intelligent remark. And yet the very fact that Shakespeare had to use these subterfuges shows how widely his thoughts ranged. He could not restrain himself from commenting on almost everything, although he put on a series of masks in order to do so. If one has once read Shakespeare with attention, it is not easy to go a day without quoting him, because there are not many subjects of major importance that he does not discuss or at least mention somewhere or other, in his unsystematic but illuminating way. Even the irrelevancies that litter every one of his plays — the puns and riddles, the lists of names, the scraps of reportage like the conversation of the carriers in Henry IV, the bawdy jokes, the rescued fragments of forgotten ballads — are merely the products of excessive vitality. Shakespeare was not a philosopher or a scientist, but he did have curiosity; he loved the surface of the earth and the process of life — which, it should be repealed, is not the same thing as wanting to have a good time and stay alive as long as possible. Of course, it is not because of the quality of his thought that Shakespeare has survived, and he might not even be remembered as a dramatist if he had not also been a poet. His main hold on us is through language. How deeply Shakespeare himself was fascinated by the music of words can probably be inferred from the speeches of Pistol. What Pistol says is largely meaningless, but if one considers his lines singly they are magnificent rhetorical verse. Evidently, pieces of resounding nonsense (“Let floods o’erswell, and fiends for food howl on,” etc.) were constantly appearing in Shakespeare’s mind of their own accord, and a half-lunatic character had to be invented to use them up.
Tolstoy’s native tongue was not English, and one cannot blame him for being unmoved by Shakespeare’s verse, nor even, perhaps, for refusing to believe that Shakespeare’s skill with words was something out of the ordinary. But he would also have rejected the whole notion of valuing poetry for its texture — valuing it, that is to say, as a kind of music. If it could somehow have been proved to him that his whole explanation of Shakespeare’s rise to fame is mistaken, that inside the English-speaking world, at any rate, Shakespeare’s popularity is genuine, that his mere skill in placing one syllable beside another has given acute pleasure to generation after generation of English-speaking people — all this would not have been counted as a merit to Shakespeare, but rather the contrary. It would simply have been one more proof of the irreligious, earthbound nature of Shakespeare and his admirers. Tolstoy would have said that poetry is to be judged by its meaning, and that seductive sounds merely cause false meanings to go unnoticed. At every level it is the same issue — this world against the next: and certainly the music of words is something that belongs to this world.
A sort of doubt has always hung around the character of Tolstoy, as round the character of Gandhi. He was not a vulgar hypocrite, as some people declared him to be, and he would probably have imposed even greater sacrifices on himself than he did, if he had not been interfered with at every step by the people surrounding him, especially his wife. But on the other hand it is dangerous to take such men as Tolstoy at their disciples’ valuation. There is always the possibility — the probability, indeed — that they have done no more than exchange one form of egoism for another. Tolstoy renounced wealth, fame and privilege; he abjured violence in all its forms and was ready to suffer for doing so; but it is not easy to believe that he abjured the principle of coercion, or at least the desire to coerce others. There are families in which the father will say to his child, “You’ll get a thick car if you do that again,” while the mother, her eyes brimming over with tears, will take the child in her arms and murmur lovingly, “Now, darling, is it kind to Mummy to do that?” And who would maintain that the second method is less tyrannous than the first? The distinction that really matters is not between violence and non-violence, but between having and not having the appetite for power. There are people who are convinced of the wickedness both of armies and of police forces, but who are nevertheless much more intolerant and inquisitorial in outlook than the normal person who believes that it is necessary to use violence in certain circumstances. They will not say to somebody else, “Do this, that and the other or you will go to prison,” but they will, if they can, get inside his brain and dictate his thoughts for him in the minutest particulars. Creeds like pacifism and anarchism, which seem on the surface to imply a complete renunciation of power, rather encourage this habit of mind. For if you have embraced a creed which appears to be free from the ordinary dirtiness of politics — a creed from which you yourself cannot expect to draw any material advantage — surely that proves that you are in the right? And the more you are in the right, the more natural that everyone else should be bullied into thinking likewise.
If we are to believe what he says in his pamphlet, Tolstoy has never been able to see any merit in Shakespeare, and was always astonished to find that his fellow-writers, Turgenev, Fet and others thought differently. We may be sure that in his unregenerate days Tolstoy’s conclusion would have been: “You like Shakespeare — I don’t. Let’s leave it at that.” Later, when his perception that it takes all sorts to make a world had deserted him, he came to think of Shakespeare’s writings as something dangerous to himself. The more pleasure people took in Shakespeare, the less they would listen to Tolstoy. Therefore nobody must be allowed to enjoy Shakespeare, just as nobody must be allowed to drink alcohol or smoke tobacco. True, Tolstoy would not prevent them by force. He is not demanding that the police shall impound every copy of Shakespeare’s works. But he will do dirt on Shakespeare, if he can. He will try to get inside the mind of every lover of Shakespeare and kill his enjoyment by every trick he can think of, including — as I have shown in my summary of his pamphlet — arguments which are self-contradictory or even doubtfully honest.
But finally the most striking thing is how little difference it all makes. As I said earlier, one cannot answer Tolstoy’s pamphlet, at least on its main counts. There is no argument by which one can defend a poem. It defends itself by surviving, or it is indefensible. And if this test is valid, I think the verdict in Shakespeare’s case must be “not guilty.” Like every other writer, Shakespeare will be forgotten sooner or later, but it is unlikely that a heavier indictment will ever be brought against him. Tolstoy was perhaps the most admired literary man of his age, and he was certainly not its least able pamphleteer. He turned all his powers of denunciation against Shakespeare, like all the guns of a battleship roaring simultaneously. And with what result? Forty years later Shakespeare is still there completely unaffected, and of the attempt to demolish him nothing remains except the yellowing pages of a pamphlet which hardly anyone has read, and which would be forgotten altogether if Tolstoy had not also been the author of War and Peace and Anna Karenina.
________
1 Shakespeare and the Drama. Written about 1903 as an introduction to another pamphlet, Shakespeare and the Working Classes, by Ernest Crosby.
Here we go again.
Similar, I suspect, to the tedium I endure when trying to struggle through the soporific tangle that is War and Peace or Anna Karenina. Overstuffed, overwrought, and overpopulated. Tolstoy could take until afternoon to say "Good morning."
Tolstoy's day and age reflected much more sophisticated dramatists and audiences. I don't know if he wrote any epic plays. But if he did, his dramatic efforts would be subject to the same criticism by today's even more sophisticated analysts.
I have a complete set of Shakespeare's works and I prowl through them all when I can. There isn't a time where I fail to find some new nugget that entertains, moves or enlightens me. So much of his writing can be applied to today's political and moral culture.
I can agree with some of Tolstoy's points, but his main fault was in not recognizing the same human weaknesses in Shakespeare's works that he himself possessed.
Leni
Orwell doesn't mention his hero: Homer.
Quite unsatisfying. Ring around the Rosy is as meritorious as Chaucer?
The morality of Shakespeare’s later tragedies is not religious in the ordinary sense, and certainly is not Christian. Only two of them, Hamlet and Othello, are supposedly occurring inside the Christian era, and even in those, apart from the antics of the ghost in Hamlet, there is no indication of a “next world” where everything is to be put right.
Orwell, unfortunately, cannot respond to contemporary studies of Hamlet which place the apparition of the gloomy Dane's father in context: this spirit fits all the motifs of a ghost from purgatory. Ghosts meant much more to the people of Shakespeare's time than to moderns. Moreover, I think Orwell is far too dismissive of Christian references throughout the play; it is redolent of Christian belief about the afterlife: Hamlet refuses suicide because the Almighty has fixed his canon against self-slaughter; Hamlet does not kill Claudius at prayer, for fear he will send him to heaven; Ophelia is presumed to be damned because of her suicide, and only her connections have secured her a Christian burial. And in the graveyard scene, Hamlet's mockery of death evokes St. Paul--or at least the imagery of Ash Wednesday: Thou art dust, and unto dust thou shall return.
We do not know a great deal about Shakespeare’s religious beliefs,
Oral history around Stratford did hold that he "died a papist."
Lear is a play in which this tendency is particularly well marked. It contains a great deal of veiled social criticism — a point Tolstoy misses — but it is all uttered either by the Fool, by Edgar when he is pretending to be mad, or by Lear during his bouts of madness.
Germaine Greer holds that this is consistent only with a Christian Shakespeare; truth comes "out of the mouths of babes" and madmen. For a humanist, these two types of people are less human.
At every level it is the same issue — this world against the next: and certainly the music of words is something that belongs to this world.
Orwell projects a sort of dualism upon Tolstoi, which may be proper, but he then accuses all Christianity of dualism. I'm not sure this can hold up. The Kingdom of Heaven is supposed to be within us, after all, and death is not a gateway, but a consequence of sin; at the Second Coming, death itself will die.
Moreover, I doubt that words themselves are worldly in the material sense; they can translate themselves across time and space in a way that is practically spiritual. As Auden wrote in his encomium to Yeats, "Time... worships language and forgives everyone by whom it lives." And our world is hardly superior to Time. Finally, beautiful words are especially singular, if it is true that Beauty, Goodness, and Truth are convertible.
Of course, Lear is not a sermon in favour of altruism. It merely points out the results of practising self-denial for selfish reasons.
This particularly provoked me into thought. Since self-denial and self-sacrifice, rightly understood, are but negative descriptions of love, we find Lear's tragic flaw: a failure to love.
This is a very interesting essay. Thanks for posting it.
This was a man who nearly fought a duel with Turgenev over a trifle, and refused to meet Dostoevski (although he fasted for several days before reading The Brothers). He had a raucous relationship with his poor wife, ended association with a cousin when they were both around eighty because she was "immoral", defended a peasant in court (despite his lack of qualifications), lost (destroying the man) and shrugged. He stated on several occasions that there should be no sexual relations at all, and the human race should die out (although he, himself, was quite randy). And on and on. Tolstoi was a bit of a nut.
None of that addresses his arguments, just the seriousness with which he held the opinions. Many of Tolstoi's comments are really addressing the differences in structure between poetry/drama and the novel. It is particularly difficult for poetry to make an impact, because it doesn't have characters. I still have an intense impression of Prince Andrey, Prince Andrey's hilarious father, Pierre and the rest of the gang from War and Peace, but I can only remember the most famous lines from the Sonnets, and few of the poetic "plots".
He also said "poetry makes nothing happen". Making something happen would be an interesting standard by which to judge fiction, plays, and poetry.
That's a myth, I believe (at least, I've not seen it substantiated).
Jesus Christ says, "I have come that they may have life, and life more abundantly." John 10:10. When Peter asks Christ, "Look. We've forsaken all and we've followed You. What will there be for us?" Jesus does not critisize Peter for his frank and rather selfish question. Rather He says, "There not a man who has given up home, or lands, or wife, or children, or parents, for my sake and for the Kingdom of God that will not be rewarded a hundred-fold, in this life. And in the Kingdom to come, eternal life." Matthew
All Biblical quotes are from memory. Feel free to correct them if I have obscured or distorted the correct meaning.
P.s. there must be something good to Tolstoy--he survives!
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