Delphi Complete Works of Walter Pater

by Walter Pater

  Look here upon thy brother Geoffrey’s face

  These eyes, these brows were moulded out of his:

  This little abstract doth contain that large

  Which died in Geoffrey; and the hand of time

  Shall draw this brief into as huge a volume.

  It was perhaps something of a boyish memory of the shocking end of his father that had distorted the piety of Henry the Third into superstitious terror. A frightened soul, himself touched with the contrary sort of religious madness, doting on all that was alien from his father’s huge ferocity, on the genialities, the soft gilding, of life, on the genuine interests of art and poetry, to be credited more than any other person with the deep religious expression of Westminster Abbey, Henry the Third, picturesque though useless, but certainly touching, might have furnished Shakespeare, had he filled up this interval in his series, with precisely the kind of effect he tends towards in his English plays. But he found it completer still in the person and story of Richard the Second, a figure— “that sweet lovely rose” — which haunts Shakespeare’s mind, as it seems long to have haunted the minds of the English people, as the most touching of all examples of the irony of kingship.

  Henry the Fourth — to look for a moment beyond our immediate subject, in pursuit of Shakespeare’s thought — is presented, of course, in general outline, as an impersonation of “surviving force:” he has a certain amount of kingcraft also, a real fitness for great opportunity. But still true to his leading motive, Shakespeare, in King Henry the Fourth, has left the high-water mark of his poetry in the soliloquy which represents royalty longing vainly for the toiler’s sleep; while the popularity, the showy heroism, of Henry the Fifth, is used to give emphatic point to the old earthy commonplace about “wild oats.” The wealth of homely humour in these plays, the fun coming straight home to all the world, of Fluellen especially in his unconscious interview with the king, the boisterous earthiness of Falstaff and his companions, contribute to the same effect. The keynote of Shakespeare’s treatment is indeed expressed by Henry the Fifth himself, the greatest of Shakespeare’s kings.— “Though I speak it to you,” he says incognito, under cover of night, to a common soldier on the field, “I think the king is but a man, as I am: the violet smells to him as it doth to me: all his senses have but human conditions; and though his affections be higher mounted than ours yet when they stoop they stoop with like wing.” And, in truth, the really kingly speeches which Shakespeare assigns to him, as to other kings weak enough in all but speech, are but a kind of flowers, worn for, and effective only as personal embellishment. They combine to one result with the merely outward and ceremonial ornaments of royalty, its pageantries, flaunting so naively, so credulously, in Shakespeare, as in that old medieval time. And then, the force of Hotspur is but transient youth, the common heat of youth, in him. The character of Henry the Sixth again, roi fainéant, with La Pucelle* for his counterfoil, lay in the direct course of Shakespeare’s design: he has done much to fix the sentiment of the “holy Henry.” Richard the Third, touched, like John, with an effect of real heroism, is spoiled like him by something of criminal madness, and reaches his highest level of tragic expression when circumstances reduce him to terms of mere human nature. —

  A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!

  The Princes in the Tower recall to mind the lot of young Arthur: —

  I’ll go with thee,

  And find the inheritance of this poor child,

  His little kingdom of a forced grave.

  And when Shakespeare comes to Henry the Eighth, it is not the superficial though very English splendour of the king himself, but the really potent and ascendant nature of the butcher’s son on the one hand, and Katharine’s subdued reproduction of the sad fortunes of Richard the Second on the other, that define his central interest.*

  With a prescience of the Wars of the Roses, of which his errors were the original cause, it is Richard who best exposes Shakespeare’s own constant sentiment concerning war, and especially that sort of civil war which was then recent in English memories. The soul of Shakespeare, certainly, was not wanting in a sense of the magnanimity of warriors. The grandiose aspects of war, its magnificent apparelling, he records monumentally enough — the “dressing of the lists,” the lion’s heart, its unfaltering haste thither in all the freshness of youth and morning. —

  Not sick although I have to do with death —

  The sun doth gild our armour: Up, my Lords! —

  I saw young Harry with his beaver on,

  His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm’d,

  Rise from the ground like feather’d Mercury.

  Only, with Shakespeare, the afterthought is immediate: —

  They come like sacrifices in their trim.

  — Will it never be to-day? I will trot to-morrow a mile, and my way shall be paved with English faces.

  This sentiment Richard reiterates very plaintively, in association with the delicate sweetness of the English fields, still sweet and fresh, like London and her other fair towns in that England of Chaucer, for whose soil the exiled Bolingbroke is made to long so dangerously, while Richard on his return from Ireland salutes it —

  That pale, that white-fac’d shore, —

  As a long-parted mother with her child. —

  So, weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth!

  And do thee favour with my royal hands. —

  Then (of Bolingbroke)

  Ere the crown he looks for live in peace,

  Ten thousand bloody crowns of mothers’ sons

  Shall ill become the flower of England’s face;

  Change the complexion of her maid-pale peace

  To scarlet indignation, and bedew

  My pastures’ grass with faithful English blood. —

  Why have they dared to march? —

  asks York,

  So many miles upon her peaceful bosom,

  Frighting her pale-fac’d visages with war? —

  waking, according to Richard,

  Our peace, which in our country’s cradle,

  Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep: —

  bedrenching “with crimson tempest”

  The fresh green lap of fair king Richard’s land: —

  frighting “fair peace” from “our quiet confines,” laying

  The summer’s dust with showers of blood,

  Rained from the wounds of slaughter’d Englishmen:

  bruising

  Her flowerets with the armed hoofs

  Of hostile paces.

  Perhaps it is not too fanciful to note in this play a peculiar recoil from the mere instruments of warfare, the contact of the “rude ribs,” the “flint bosom,” of Barkloughly Castle or Pomfret or

  Julius Caesar’s ill-erected tower:

  the

  Boisterous untun’d drums

  With harsh-resounding trumpets’ dreadful bray

  And grating shock of wrathful iron arms.

  It is as if the lax, soft beauty of the king took effect, at least by contrast, on everything beside. One gracious prerogative, certainly, Shakespeare’s English kings possess: they are a very eloquent company, and Richard is the most sweet-tongued of them all. In no other play perhaps is there such a flush of those gay, fresh, variegated flowers of speech — colour and figure, not lightly attached to, but fused into, the very phrase itself — which Shakespeare cannot help dispensing to his characters, as in this “play of the Deposing of King Richard the Second,” an exquisite poet if he is nothing else, from first to last, in light and gloom alike, able to see all things poetically, to give a poetic turn to his conduct of them, and refreshing with his golden language the tritest aspects of that ironic contrast between the pretensions of a king and the actual necessities of his destiny. What a garden of words! With him, blank verse, infinitely graceful, deliberate, musical in inflexion, becomes indeed a true “verse royal,” that rhyming lapse, which to the Shakespearian ear, at least in youth, came as the
last touch of refinement on it, being here doubly appropriate. His eloquence blends with that fatal beauty, of which he was so frankly aware, so amiable to his friends, to his wife, of the effects of which on the people his enemies were so much afraid, on which Shakespeare himself dwells so attentively as the “royal blood” comes and goes in the face with his rapid changes of temper. As happens with sensitive natures, it attunes him to a congruous suavity of manners, by which anger itself became flattering: it blends with his merely youthful hopefulness and high spirits, his sympathetic love for gay people, things, apparel— “his cote of gold and stone, valued at thirty thousand marks,” the novel Italian fashions he preferred, as also with those real amiabilities that made people forget the darker touches of his character, but never tire of the pathetic rehearsal of his fall, the meekness of which would have seemed merely abject in a less graceful performer.

  Yet it is only fair to say that in the painstaking “revival” of King Richard the Second, by the late Charles Kean, those who were very young thirty years ago were afforded much more than Shakespeare’s play could ever have been before — the very person of the king based on the stately old portrait in Westminster Abbey, “the earliest extant contemporary likeness of any English sovereign,” the grace, the winning pathos, the sympathetic voice of the player, the tasteful archaeology confronting vulgar modern London with a scenic reproduction, for once really agreeable, of the London of Chaucer. In the hands of Kean the play became like an exquisite performance on the violin.

  The long agony of one so gaily painted by nature’s self, from his “tragic abdication” till the hour in which he

  Sluiced out his innocent soul thro’ streams of blood,

  was for playwrights a subject ready to hand, and became early the theme of a popular drama, of which some have fancied surviving favourite fragments in the rhymed parts of Shakespeare’s work.

  The king Richard of Yngland

  Was in his flowris then regnand:

  But his flowris efter sone

  Fadyt, and ware all undone: —

  says the old chronicle. Strangely enough, Shakespeare supposes him an over-confident believer in that divine right of kings, of which people in Shakespeare’s time were coming to hear so much; a general right, sealed to him (so Richard is made to think) as an ineradicable personal gift by the touch — stream rather, over head and breast and shoulders — of the “holy oil” of his consecration at Westminster; not, however, through some oversight, the genuine balm used at the coronation of his successor, given, according to legend, by the Blessed Virgin to Saint Thomas of Canterbury. Richard himself found that, it was said, among other forgotten treasures, at the crisis of his changing fortunes, and vainly sought reconsecration therewith — understood, wistfully, that it was reserved for his happier rival. And yet his coronation, by the pageantry, the amplitude, the learned care, of its order, so lengthy that the king, then only eleven years of age, and fasting, as a communicant at the ceremony, was carried away in a faint, fixed the type under which it has ever since continued. And nowhere is there so emphatic a reiteration as in Richard the Second of the sentiment which those singular rites were calculated to produce.

  Not all the water in the rough rude sea

  Can wash the balm from an anointed king, —

  as supplementing another, almost supernatural, right.— “Edward’s seven sons,” of whom Richard’s father was one,

  Were as seven phials of his sacred blood.

  But this, too, in the hands of Shakespeare, becomes for him, like any other of those fantastic, ineffectual, easily discredited, personal graces, as capricious in its operation on men’s wills as merely physical beauty, kindling himself to eloquence indeed, but only giving double pathos to insults which “barbarism itself” might have pitied — the dust in his face, as he returns, through the streets of London, a prisoner in the train of his victorious enemy.

  How soon my sorrow hath destroyed my face!

  he cries, in that most poetic invention of the mirror scene, which does but reinforce again that physical charm which all confessed. The sense of “divine right” in kings is found to act not so much as a secret of power over others, as of infatuation to themselves. And of all those personal gifts the one which alone never altogether fails him is just that royal utterance, his appreciation of the poetry of his own hapless lot, an eloquent self-pity, infecting others in spite of themselves, till they too become irresistibly eloquent about him.

  In the Roman Pontifical, of which the order of Coronation is really a part, there is no form for the inverse process, no rite of “degradation,” such as that by which an offending priest or bishop may be deprived, if not of the essential quality of “orders,” yet, one by one, of its outward dignities. It is as if Shakespeare had had in mind some such inverted rite, like those old ecclesiastical or military ones, by which human hardness, or human justice, adds the last touch of unkindness to the execution of its sentences, in the scene where Richard “deposes” himself, as in some long, agonising ceremony, reflectively drawn out, with an extraordinary refinement of intelligence and variety of piteous appeal, but also with a felicity of poetic invention, which puts these pages into a very select class, with the finest “vermeil and ivory” work of Chatterton or Keats.

  Fetch hither Richard that in common view

  He may surrender! —

  And Richard more than concurs: he throws himself into the part, realises a type, falls gracefully as on the world’s stage. — Why is he sent for?

  To do that office of thine own good will

  Which tired majesty did make thee offer. —

  Now mark me! how I will undo myself.

  “Hath Bolingbroke deposed thine intellect?” the Queen asks him, on his way to the Tower: —

  Hath Bolingbroke

  Deposed thine intellect? hath he been in thy heart?

  And in truth, but for that adventitious poetic gold, it would be only “plume-plucked Richard.” —

  I find myself a traitor with the rest,

  For I have given here my soul’s consent

  To undeck the pompous body of a king.

  He is duly reminded, indeed, how

  That which in mean men we entitle patience

  Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.

  Yet at least within the poetic bounds of Shakespeare’s play, through Shakespeare’s bountiful gifts, his desire seems fulfilled. —

  O! that I were as great

  As is my grief.

  And his grief becomes nothing less than a central expression of all that in the revolutions of Fortune’s wheel goes down in the world.

  No! Shakespeare’s kings are not, nor are meant to be, great men: rather, little or quite ordinary humanity, thrust upon greatness, with those pathetic results, the natural self-pity of the weak heightened in them into irresistible appeal to others as the net result of their royal prerogative. One after another, they seem to lie composed in Shakespeare’s embalming pages, with just that touch of nature about them, making the whole world akin, which has infused into their tombs at Westminster a rare poetic grace. It is that irony of kingship, the sense that it is in its happiness child’s play, in its sorrows, after all, but children’s grief, which gives its finer accent to all the changeful feeling of these wonderful speeches: — the great meekness of the graceful, wild creature, tamed at last. —

  Give Richard leave to live till Richard die!

  his somewhat abject fear of death, turning to acquiescence at moments of extreme weariness: —

  My large kingdom for a little grave!

  A little little grave, an obscure grave! —

  his religious appeal in the last reserve, with its bold reference to the judgment of Pilate, as he thinks once more of his “anointing.”

  And as happens with children he attains contentment finally in the merely passive recognition of superior strength, in the naturalness of the result of the great battle as a matter of course, and experiences something of the roy
al prerogative of poetry to obscure, or at least to attune and soften men’s griefs. As in some sweet anthem of Handel, the sufferer, who put finger to the organ under the utmost pressure of mental conflict, extracts a kind of peace at last from the mere skill with which he sets his distress to music. —

  Beshrew thee, Cousin, that didst lead me forth

  Of that sweet way I was in to despair!

  “With Cain go wander through the shades of night!” cries the new king to the gaoler Exton, dissimulating his share in the murder he is thought to have suggested; and in truth there is something of the murdered Abel about Shakespeare’s Richard. The fact seems to be that he died of “waste and a broken heart:” it was by way of proof that his end had been a natural one that, stifling a real fear of the face, the face of Richard, on men’s minds, with the added pleading now of all dead faces, Henry exposed the corpse to general view; and Shakespeare, in bringing it on the stage, in the last scene of his play, does but follow out the motive with which he has emphasised Richard’s physical beauty all through it — that “most beauteous inn,” as the Queen says quaintly, meeting him on the way to death — residence, then soon to be deserted, of that wayward, frenzied, but withal so affectionate soul. Though the body did not go to Westminster immediately, his tomb,

  That small model of the barren earth

  Which serves as paste and cover to our bones,*

  the effigy clasping the hand of his youthful consort, was already prepared there, with “rich gilding and ornaments,” monument of poetic regret, for Queen Anne of Bohemia, not of course the “Queen” of Shakespeare, who however seems to have transferred to this second wife something of Richard’s wildly proclaimed affection for the first. In this way, through the connecting link of that sacred spot, our thoughts once more associate Richard’s two fallacious prerogatives, his personal beauty and his “anointing.”

  According to Johnson, Richard the Second is one of those plays which Shakespeare has “apparently revised;” and how doubly delightful Shakespeare is where he seems to have revised! “Would that he had blotted a thousand” — a thousand hasty phrases, we may venture once more to say with his earlier critic, now that the tiresome German superstition has passed away which challenged us to a dogmatic faith in the plenary verbal inspiration of every one of Shakespeare’s clowns. Like some melodiously contending anthem of Handle’s, I said, of Richard’s meek “undoing” of himself in the mirror-scene; and, in fact, the play of Richard the Second does, like a musical composition, possess a certain concentration of all its parts, a simple continuity, an evenness in execution, which are rare in the great dramatist. With Romeo and Juliet, that perfect symphony (symphony of three independent poetic forms set in a grander one* which it is the merit of German criticism to have detected) it belongs to a small group of plays, where, by happy birth and consistent evolution, dramatic form approaches to something like the unity of a lyrical ballad, a lyric, a song, a single strain of music. Which sort of poetry we are to account the highest, is perhaps a barren question. Yet if, in art generally, unity of impression is a note of what is perfect, then lyric poetry, which in spite of complex structure often preserves the unity of a single passionate ejaculation, would rank higher than dramatic poetry, where, especially to the reader, as distinguished from the spectator assisting at a theatrical performance, there must always be a sense of the effort necessary to keep the various parts from flying asunder, a sense of imperfect continuity, such as the older criticism vainly sought to obviate by the rule of the dramatic “unities.” It follows that a play attains artistic perfection just in proportion as it approaches that unity of lyrical effect, as if a song or ballad were still lying at the root of it, all the various expression of the conflict of character and circumstance falling at last into the compass of a single melody, or musical theme. As, historically, the earliest classic drama arose out of the chorus, from which this or that person, this or that episode, detached itself, so, into the unity of a choric song the perfect drama ever tends to return, its intellectual scope deepened, complicated, enlarged, but still with an unmistakable singleness, or identity, in its impression on the mind. Just there, in that vivid single impression left on the mind when all is over, not in any mechanical limitation of time and place, is the secret of the “unities” — the true imaginative unity — of the drama.