HAMLET WHEN
NEW The Sewanee Review, Vol. 61, No.
1 (Winter, 1953), pp. 15-42 ONE feels that
the mysteries of Hamlet are likely
to be more or less exhausted, and I have no great novelty to offer here, but
it has struck me, in the course of trying to present him in lectures, that
the enormous panorama of theory and explanation falls into a reasonable
proportion if viewed, so to speak, from Pisgah, from the point of discovery
by Shakespeare. To do that should also have a relation with the impressions
of a fresh mind, meeting the basic legend of the play at any date. I was led
to it from trying to answer some remarks of Hugh Kingsmill,
in The Return of William Shakespeare,
who said that Hamlet is a ridiculously theatrical and therefore unreal
figure, almost solely concerned with scoring off other people, which the
dialogue lets him do much too easily, and attractive to actors only because
"they have more humiliations than other men to avenge." A number of
critics seem to have felt like this, though few have said it so plainly; the
feeling tends to make one indifferent to the play, and over rides any
"solution of its problems," but when followed up it leads to more
interesting country. I discussed it in my book Complex Words by the way, but only so far as suited the theme of
the book, a theme I am ignoring here. It seems to give a rather direct route
to a reconsideration of the origins, along which one might even take fresh
troops into the jungle warfare over the text. The experts
mostly agree that Kyd wrote a play on Hamlet about 1587, very like his
surviving Spanish Tragedy except
that it was about a son avenging a father instead of a father avenging a son.
The only record of a performance of it is in 1594, under conditions which
make it likely to have become the property of Shakespeare's company; jokes
about it survive from 1589, 1596, and 1601, the latter two regarding it as a
standard out-of-date object. A keen sense of changing fashion has to be
envisaged; when Shakespeare's company were seduced into performing Richard II for the Essex rebels, they
said they would have to be paid because it was too old to draw an audience,
and it wasn't half as old as Hamlet. A gradual evolution of Hamlet, which some critics have
imagined, isn't likely under these conditions. We have to consider why
Shakespeare re-wrote a much laughed-at old play, and was
thus led on into his great Tragic Period, and the obvious answer is that he
was told to; somebody in the Company thumbed over the texts in the ice-box
and said "This used to be a tremendous draw, and it's coming round
again; look at Marston. All you have to do is just go over the words so that
it's life-like and they can't laugh at it." Kyd had a
powerful but narrow, one might say miserly, theatrical talent, likely to
repeat a success, so his Hamlet
probably had a Play-within-the-Play like The
Spanish Tragedy; we know from a
joke it had a Ghost; and he would have almost all the rest of the story as we
know it from the sources. For all we know, when Shakespeare created a new
epoch and opened a new territory to the human mind, he did nothing but alter
the dialogue for this structure, not even adding a scene. The trouble with
this kind of critical approach, as the experienced reader will already be
feeling with irritation, is that it can be used to say "That is why the
play is so muddled and bad." On the contrary, I think, if taken firmly
enough it shows how, at the time, such a wonderful thing as Shakespeare's Hamlet could be conceived and
accepted. Globe
Audience in 1601 The real
"Hamlet problem," it seems clear, is a problem about his first
audiences. This is not to deny (as Professor Stoll has sometimes done) that
Hamlet himself is a problem; he must be one, because he says he is; and he is
a magnificent one, which has been exhaustively examined in the last hundred
and fifty years. What is peculiar is that he does not seem to have become one
till towards the end of the eighteenth century; even Dr. Johnson, who had a
strong natural grasp of human difficulties, writes about Hamlet as if there
was no problem at all. We are to think, apparently, that Shakespeare wrote a
play which was extremely successful at the time (none more so, to judge by
the references), and continued to hold the stage, and yet that nearly two
hundred years had to go by before anyone had even a glimmering of what it was
about. This is a good story, but surely it is rather too magical. Indeed, as
the Hamlet Problem has developed, yielding increasingly subtle and profound
reasons for his delay, there has naturally developed in its wake a
considerable backwash from critics who say "But how can such a drama as
you describe conceivably have been written by an Elizabethan, for an
Elizabethan audience?" Some kind of mediating process is really required
here; one needs to explain how the first audiences could take a more
interesting view than Dr. Johnson's, without taking an improbably profound
one. The political
atmosphere may be dealt with first. Professor Stoll has successfully argued
that even the theme of delay need
not be grasped at all by an audience, except as a convention; however, Mr.
Dover Wilson has pointed out that the first audiences had a striking example
before them in Essex, who was, or
had just been, refusing to make up his mind in a public and alarming manner;
his attempt at revolt might have caused civil war. Surely one need not limit
it to Essex; the Queen herself had
long used vacillation as a major instrument of policy, but the habit was
becoming unnerving because though presumably dying she still refused to name
a successor, which in itself might cause civil war. Her various foreign wars
were also dragging on indecisively. A play about a prince who brought
disaster by failing to make up his mind was bound to ring straight on the
nerves of the audience when Shakespeare rewrote Hamlet; it is not a question of intellectual subtlety but of what
they were being forced to think about already. It seems to me that there are
relics of this situation in the text, which critics have not considered in
the light of their natural acting power. The audience is already in the grip
of a convention by which Hamlet can chat directly to them about the current
War of the Theatres in London, and then the King advances straight down the
apron-stage and urges the audience to kill Hamlet: Do it, England,
None of them
could hear that without feeling it was current politics, however obscure; and
the idea is picked up again, for what seems nowadays only an opportunist
joke, when the Gravedigger says that Hamlet's madness won't matter in
England, where all the men are as mad as he. Once the idea has been planted
so firmly, even the idea that England is paying Danegeld
may take on some mysterious weight. Miss Spurgeon and Mr. Wilson Knight have
maintained that the reiterated images of disease somehow imply that Hamlet
himself is a disease, and this gives a basis for it. Yet the audience might
also reflect that the character does
what the author is doing: altering an old play to fit an immediate political
purpose. This had to be left obscure, but we can reasonably presume an
idea that the faults of Hamlet (which are somehow part of his great virtues)
are not only specific but topical; so far from being an absurd old play, it
is just what you want, if you can see what is at the bottom of it. The
insistence on the danger of civil war, on the mob that Laertes does raise,
and that Hamlet could raise but won't, and that Fortinbras
at the end takes immediate steps to quiet, is rather heavy in the full text
though nowadays often cut. Shakespeare could at least feel, when the old
laughingstock was dragged out and given to him as a new responsibility, that
delay when properly treated need not be dull; considered politically, the
urgent thing might be not to let it get too exciting. Such may have
been his first encouraging reflection, but the political angle was not the
first problem of the assignment, the thing he had to solve before he could
face an audience; it was more like an extra gift which the correct solution
tossed into his hand. The current objection to the old play Hamlet,
which must have seemed very hard to surmount, can be glimpsed in the
surviving references to it. It was thought absurdly theatrical. Even in 1589 the phrase "whole Hamlets,
I should say handfuls, of tragical speeches"
treats Hamlet as incessantly wordy,
and the phrase of 1596, "as pale as the vizard
of the ghost which cried so miserably at the Theatre, like an oyster wife,
Hamlet Revenge," gets its joke from the idea that her dismal bawling may
start again at any moment, however sick of her you are (presumably she is
crying her wares up and down the street). The objection is not against
melodrama, which they liked well enough, but against delay. You had a hero
howling out "Revenge" all through the play, and everybody knew he
wouldn't get his revenge till the end. This structure is at the mercy of
anybody in the audience who cares to shout "Hurry Up," because then
the others feel they must laugh, however sympathetic they are; or rather,
they felt that by the time Shakespeare re-wrote Hamlet, whereas ten years earlier they would only have wanted to
say "Shush." This fact about the audience, I submit, is the basic
fact about the re-writing of Hamlet. The difficulty
was particularly sharp for Shakespeare's
company, which set out to be less ham than its rivals, and the Globe Theatre
itself, only just built, asked for something impressively new. And yet
there was a revival of the taste for Revenge Plays in spite of a
half-resentful feeling that they had become absurd. Now Kyd had been writing
before the accidental destruction of the Spanish Armada, therefore while
facing a more immediate probability of conquest with rack and fire; the
position had remained dangerous, and the Armada incident didn't seem as
decisive to them as historians make it seem now; but I think the wheel seemed
to be coming round again, because of the succession problem, so that we ought
not to regard this vague desire to recover the mood of ten years earlier as
merely stupid. I suspect
indeed that the fashion for child
actors, the main complaint of the Players in Hamlet, came up at this moment because children could use the old convention with an effect of charm, making
it less absurd because more distanced. Shakespeare himself had hardly
written a tragedy before. To have had a hand in Titus Andronicus, ten years before, only brings him closer to his
current audience; his own earlier tastes, as well as theirs, were now to be
re-examined. Romeo does not suggest an Aristotelian "tragic flaw."
As a writer of comedies, his main improvement in technique had been to reduce
the need for a villain so that the effect was wholly un-tragic, and meanwhile
the series of History Plays had been on the practical or hopeful theme
"How to Avoid Civil War"; even so he had maneuvered himself into
ending with the cheerful middle of the series, having written its gloomy end
at the start. What Shakespeare was famous for, just before writing Hamlet, was Falstaff and patriotic
stuff about Henry V. Julius Caesar,
the play immediately previous to Hamlet,
is the most plausible candidate for a previous tragedy or indeed Revenge
Play, not surprisingly, but the style is dry and the interest mainly in the
politics of the thing. One can easily imagine that the external cause, the
question of what the audience would like, was prominent when the theme was
chosen. If Essex came into the background of the next assignment,
Shakespeare's undoubted patron Southampton was also involved. I am not trying
to make him subservient to his public, only sensitive to changes of taste in
which he had an important part; nor would I forget that the misfortunes of
genius often have a wild luck in their timing. But he must have seemed an unlikely person just then to start on a great
Tragic Period, and he never wrote a Revenge Play afterwards; we can
reasonably suppose that he first thought of Hamlet as a pretty specialized assignment, a matter, indeed, of
trying to satisfy audiences who demanded a Revenge Play and then laughed when
it was provided. I think he did
not see how to solve this problem at the committee meeting, when the agile
Bard was voted to carry the weight, but already did see how when walking
home. It was a bold decision, and probably decided his subsequent career, but
it was a purely technical one. He thought: “The only way to shut this hole is to make
it big. I shall make Hamlet walk up to the audience and tell them, again
and again, ‘I don't know why I'm
delaying any more than you do; the motivation of this play is just as
blank to me as it is to you; but I can't help it.' What is more, I shall make
it impossible for them to blame him. And then they daren't laugh." It turned out,
of course, that this method, instead of reducing the old play to farce, made
it thrillingly life-like and profound. A great deal more was required; one
had to get a character who could do it convincingly,
and bring in large enough issues for the puzzle not to appear gratuitous. I
do not want to commit the Fallacy of Reduction, only to remove the suspicion
that the first audiences could not tell what was going on. Looked at in
this way, the plot at once gave questions of very wide interest, especially
to actors and the regular patrons of a repertory company; the character says:
“Why do you assume I am theatrical? I
particularly hate such behavior. I cannot help my situation. What do you mean
by theatrical?” Whole areas of the old play suddenly became so
significant that one could wonder whether Kyd had meant that or not; whether
Hamlet really wants to kill Claudius, whether he was ever really in love with
Ophelia, whether he can continue to grasp his own motives while “acting a
part” before the Court, whether he is not really more of an actor than the
Players, whether he is not (properly speaking) the only sincere person in
view. In spite of its great variety of
incident, the play sticks very closely to discussing theatricality.
Surely this is what critics have long found so interesting about Hamlet, while an occasional voice like
Kingsmill's says it is nasty, or Professor Stoll
tries to save the Master by arguing it was not intended or visible at the
time. But, so far
from being innocent here, what the first audiences came to see was whether
the Globe could re-vamp the old favorite without being absurd. To be sure, we
cannot suppose them really very "sophisticated," considering the
plays by other authors they admired; to make The Spanish Tragedy up-to-date enough for the Admiral's Company
(which was paid for in September, 1601, and June, 1602, in attempts to catch
up with Shakespeare's Hamlet
presumably; indeed I think with two successive Hamlets) only required some interesting "life-like" mad
speeches. But that they imagined that they were too sophisticated for the old
Hamlet does seem to emerge from the
surviving jokes about it, and that is all that was required. We need not
suppose, therefore, that they missed the purpose of the changes; “he is cunning past man's thought”
they are more likely to have muttered unwillingly into their beards, as they
abandoned the intention to jeer. Breaking
the 4th Wall As was
necessary for this purpose, the play uses the device of throwing away
dramatic illusion much more boldly than Shakespeare does anywhere else. (Mr.
S. L. Bethell, in Shakespeare and the Popular Dramatic Tradition, has written what
I take to be the classical discussion of this technique.) A particularly
startling case is planted early in the play, when the Ghost pursues Hamlet
and his fellows underground and says "Swear" (to be secret)
wherever they go, and Hamlet says Come on, you
hear this fellow in the cellarage,
It seems that
the area under the stage was technically called the cellarage, but the point
is clear enough without this extra sharpening; it is a recklessly comic
throw-away of illusion, especially for a repertory audience, who know who is
crawling about among the trestles at this point (Shakespeare himself, we are
told), and have their own views on his style of acting. But the effect is
still meant to be frightening (it is like Zoo in Back to Methusaleh, who says "This
kind of thing is got up to impress you, not to impress me"; and it is
very outfacing for persons in the audience who come expecting to make that
kind of joke themselves. Following out
this plan, there are of course satirical
misquotations of the Revenge classics, as in "Pox! leave thy damnable faces and begin. Come, the croaking
raven doth bellow for revenge'" (probably more of them than we realize,
because we miss the contrast with the old Hamlet),
but there had also to be a positive dramatization of the idea, which is given
in Hamlet's scenes with the Players. Critics have wondered how it could be
endurable for Shakespeare to make the actor of Hamlet upbraid for their
cravings for theatricality not merely his fellow actors but part of his
audience (the term
"groundlings" must have appeared an insult and comes nowhere else),
but surely this carries on the central joke, and wouldn't make the author
prominent. I agree that the Player's Speech and so forth was a parody of the
ranting style of the Admiral's Company (and when Hamlet praised it, his actor
had to slip in and out of real life, without turning the joke too much
against the Prince), but even so the situation is that the Chamberlain's Company
are shown discussing how to put on a modern-style Revenge Play, which the
audience knows to be a problem for them. The "mirror" was being
held close to the face. As to the talk about the War of the Theatres, people were curious to know what the
Globe would say, and heard its leading actor speak for the Company; they were
violently prevented from keeping their minds on "buried Denmark."
What is technically so clever is to turn
this calculated collapse of dramatic illusion into an illustration of the
central theme. The first
problem was how to get the audience to attend to the story again, solved
completely by "O what a
rogue" and so forth, which moves from the shame of theatrical behavior and the paradoxes of sincerity
into an immediate scheme to expose the King. Yet even here one might feel, as
Mr. Dover Wilson said (with his odd power of making a deep remark without
seeing its implications), that “the two speeches are for all the world like a
theme given out by the First Violin and then repeated by the Soloist.” Hamlet
has only proved he is a better actor, and indeed "rogue" might make
him say this, by recalling that actors
were legally rogues and vagabonds. We next see Hamlet in the "To be or not to be"
soliloquy, and he has completely forgotten his passionate and apparently
decisive self-criticism, but this time the collapse of interest in the story
comes from the Prince, not merely from the audience; then when Ophelia enters he swings away from being completely disinterested into being more
disgracefully theatrical than anywhere else (enjoying working up a fuss
about a very excessive suspicion, and thus betraying himself to listeners he
knows are present); next he lectures the Players with grotesque hauteur about
the art of acting, saying that they must always keep cool (this is where the
word groundlings comes); then, quite unexpectedly, he fawns upon Horatio as a
man who is not "passion's slave," unlike himself, and we advance
upon the Play-within-the-Play. The metaphor of the pipe which Fortune can blow
upon as she pleases, which he used to Horatio, is made a symbol by bringing a
recorder into bodily prominence during his moment of triumph after the Play
scene, and he now boasts to the courtiers that he is a mystery, therefore
they cannot play on him; we are meant to feel that there are real merits in
the condition, but he has already told us he despises himself for it.
Incidentally he has just told Horatio that he deserves a fellowship in a "cry" of players (another
searching joke phrase not used elsewhere) but Horatio only thinks "half
of one." The recovery from the point where the story seemed most
completely thrown away has been turned into an exposition of the character of
the hero and the central dramatic theme. No doubt this has been fully
recognized, but I do not think it has been viewed as a frank treatment of the
central task, that of making the old
play seem real by making the hero life-like. Mr. Dover
Wilson rightly points out the obsessive
excitability of Hamlet, as when in each of the scenes scolding one of the
ladies he comes back twice onto the stage, each time more unreasonable, as if
he can't make himself stop. "But it is no mere theatrical trick or device," he goes on, "it is
meant to be part of the nature of the man"; and meanwhile psychologists
have elaborated the view that he is a standard "manic-depressive"
type, in whom long periods of sullen gloom, often with actual forgetfulness,
are followed by short periods of exhausting excitement, usually with violence
of language. By all means, but the nature of the man grows out of the
original donnee
(given); his nature had (first of all) to be such that it would make the old
story "life-like." And the effect in the theatre, surely, is at
least prior to any belief about his nature, though it may lead you on to one;
what you start from is the astonishment
of Hamlet's incessant changes of mood, which also let the one actor
combine in himself elements which the Elizabethan theatre usually separates
(e.g. simply tragedy and comedy). Every one of the soliloquies, it has been pointed out, contains a shock for
the audience, apart from what it says, in what it doesn't say: the first in having no reference to
usurpation; the second ("rogue and slave") no reference to Ophelia,
though his feelings about her have been made a prominent question; the third
("To be or not to be") no reference to his plot or his
self-criticism or even his own walk of life, he is considering entirely in
general whether life is worth living, and it is startling for him to say no traveller
returns from death, however complete the "explanation" that he is
assuming the Ghost was a devil; the fourth ("now might I do it
pat") no reference to his obviously great personal danger now that the
King knows the secret; the fifth ("How all occasions do inform") no
reference to the fact that he can't kill the King now, or rather a baffling
assumption that he still can; and one might add his complete forgetting of
his previous self-criticisms when he comes to his last words. It is this power
to astonish, I think, which keeps one in doubt whether he is particularly
theatrical or particularly "life-like": a basic part of the effect,
which would be clear to the first audiences. However, the
theme of a major play by Shakespeare is usually repeated by several
characters in different forms, and Hamlet is not the only theatrical one
here. Everybody is "acting a
part" except Horatio, as far as that goes; and Laertes is very
theatrical, as Hamlet rightly insists over the body of Ophelia ("I'll
rant as well as thou"). One might reflect that both of them trample on
her, both literally and figuratively, just because of their common trait. And
yet Laertes is presented as opposite to Hamlet in not being subject to delay
about avenging his father or to scruples about his methods; the tragic flaw
in Hamlet must be something deeper or more specific. We need therefore to
consider what his "theatricality" may be, and indeed the reader may
feel I am making too much play with a term that Elizabethans did not use; but
I think it makes us start in the right place. The
Elizabethans, though both more formal and more boisterous than most people
nowadays, were well able to see the need for sincerity; and it is agreed that
Shakespeare had been reading Montaigne about how quickly one's moods can change, so
that to appear consistent requires
"acting," a line of thought which is still current. But to
understand how it was applied here one needs to keep one's mind on the
immediate situation in the theatre. The plot of a Revenge Play seemed
theatrical because it kept the audience waiting without obvious reason in the
characters; then a theatrical character (in such a play) appears as one who
gets undeserved effects, "cheap" because not justified by the plot
as a whole. However, theatrical behavior is never only "mean" in
the sense of losing the ultimate aim for a petty advantage, because it must
also "give itself away"; the idea
"greedy to impress an audience" is required. Now the basic
legend about Hamlet was that he did exactly this and yet was somehow right
for it; he successfully kept a secret
by displaying he had got one. The idea is already prominent in Saxo Grammaticus, where it gives a
triumphant story not a tragic one; and "the Saxon who could write"
around 1200 is as genuine a source of primitive legend as one need ask for. I
am not sure whether Shakespeare looked up Saxo; it
would easily be got for him if he asked, when he was given the assignment,
but Kyd would have done it already; we think of Kyd as crude, but he was a
solidly educated character. If Shakespeare did look up Saxo,
he only got a firm reassurance that his natural bent was the right one; the
brief pungent Latin sentences about Hamlet are almost a definition of Shakespeare's clown, and Mr. Dover Wilson
is right in saying that Shakespeare presented Hamlet as a kind of
generalization of that idea ("they fool me to the top of my bent"
he remarks with appalling truth). Here we reach the bed-rock of Hamlet, unchanged by the local dramas of
reinterpretation; even Dr. Johnson remarks that his assumed madness, though entertaining, does not seem to help his
plot. Kyd would
probably keep him sane and rather tedious in soliloquy but give him powerful
single-line jokes when answering other characters; the extreme and sordid pretence of madness implied by Saxo would not fit Kyd's idea of tragic decorum. I
think that Shakespeare's opening words for Hamlet, "A little more than kin and less than kind," are simply
repeated from Kyd; a dramatic moment for the first-night audience, because
they wanted to know whether the new Hamlet would be different. His next words
are a passionate assertion that he is not the theatrical Hamlet. "I know not seems." Now
this technique from Kyd, though trivial beside the final Hamlet, would
present the inherent paradox of the legend very firmly: why are these jokes supposed to give a kind of magical success to a
character who had obviously better keep his mouth shut? All Elizabethans,
including Elizabeth, had met the need to keep one's mouth shut at times; the
paradox might well seem sharper to them than it does to us. Shakespeare took
care to laugh at this as early as possible in his version of the play. The
idea that it is silly to drop hints as Hamlet does is expressed by Hamlet
himself, not only with force but with winning intimacy, when he tells the
other observers of the Ghost that they must keep silence completely, and not
say "I could an I would, there be
an if they might" and so on, which is precisely what he does himself
for the rest of the play. No doubt he needs a monopoly of this technique. But
the first effect in the theatre was another case of "closing the hole by
making it big"; if you can make
the audience laugh with Hamlet about his method early, they aren't going to
laugh at him for it afterwards. Instead they can wonder why he is or pretends
to be mad, just as the other characters wonder; and wonder why he delays,
just as he himself wonders. No other device could raise so sharply the
question of "what is theatrical behavior?" because here we
cannot even be sure what Hamlet is aiming at. We can never decide flatly that
his method is wrong, because the more it appears unwise the more it appears
courageous. There seem to be two main assumptions, that he is trying to
frighten his enemies into exposing themselves, and that he is not so
frightened himself as to hide his emotions though he hides their cause. I
fancy Shakespeare could rely on some of his audience to add the apparently
modern theory that the relief of
self-expression saved Hamlet from going finally mad, because it fits well
enough onto their beliefs about the disease "melancholy." But in
any case the basic legend is a dream glorification of both having your cake
and eating it, keeping your secret for
years, till you kill, and yet perpetually enjoying boasts about it. Here
we are among the roots of the race of man; rather a smelly bit perhaps, but a
bit that appeals at once to any child. It is ridiculous for critics to blame
Shakespeare for accentuating this traditional theme till it became enormous. The view that Hamlet "is Shakespeare," or
at least more like him than his other characters, I hope falls into shape
now. It has a basic truth, because he was drawing on his experience as actor
and playwright; these professions often do puzzle their practitioners about
what is theatrical and what is not, as their friends and audiences can easily
recognize; but he was only using what the theme required. To have to give
posterity, let alone the immediate audiences, a picture of himself would have
struck him as laying a farcical extra burden on an already difficult
assignment. I think he did feel he was giving a good hand to actors in
general, though with decent obscurity, when he worked up so much praise for Hamlet at the end, but you are meant to be dragged round to this
final admiration for Hamlet, not to feel it all through. To suppose he
"is Shakespeare" has excited in some critics a reasonable distaste
for both parties, because a man who models himself on Hamlet in common life
(as has been done) tends to appear a mean-minded neurotic; whereas if you
take the plot seriously Hamlet is at least assumed to have special reasons
for his behavior. We should now
be able to reconsider the view which Professor Stoll has done real service by
following up: Hamlet's reasons are so good that he not only never delays at
all but was never supposed to; the
self-accusations of the Revenger are always prominent in Revenge Plays, even
classical Greek ones, being merely a necessary part of the machine, to
make the audience continue waiting with attention. Any problem we may invent
about Shakespeare's Hamlet, on this view, we could also have invented about
Kyd's, but it wouldn't have occurred to us to want to. In making the old play "life-like" Shakespeare merely
altered the style, not the story; except that it was probably he who (by
way of adding "body") gave Hamlet very much better reasons for
delay than any previous Revenger, so that it is peculiarly absurd of us to
pick him out and puzzle over his delay. I do not at all want to weaken this
line of argument; I think Shakespeare did, intentionally, pile up all the excuses for delay he
could imagine, while at the same time making Hamlet bewail and denounce his
delay far more strongly than ever Revenger had done before. It is the
force and intimacy of the self-reproaches of Hamlet, of course, which
ordinary opinion has rightly given first place; that is why these legal
arguments that he didn't delay appear farcical. But the two lines of argument
are only two halves of the same thing. Those members of the audience who
simply wanted to see a Revenge Play again, without any hooting at it from
smarter persons, deserved to be satisfied; and anyhow, for all parties, the
suspicion that Hamlet was a coward or merely fatuous had to be avoided. The
ambiguity was an essential part of the intention, because the more you tried to translate the
balance of impulses in the old drama into a realistic story, the more
peculiar this story had to be made. The old structure was still kept
firm, but its foundations had to be strengthened to carry so much extra
weight. At the same time, a simpler view could be taken; whatever the stage
characters may say, the real situation in the theatre is still that the
audience knows the revenge won't come till the end. Their own foreknowledge
is what they had laughed at, rather than any lack of motive in the puppets,
and however much the motives of the Revenger for delay were increased he
could still very properly blame himself for keeping the audience waiting. One
could therefore sit through the new Hamlet
(as for that matter the eighteenth century did) without feeling too startled
by his self-reproaches. But of course the
idea that "bringing the style up to date" did not involve any change
of content seems to me absurd, whether held by Shakespeare's committee or
by Professor Stoll; for one thing, it
made the old theatrical convention appear bafflingly indistinguishable from a
current political danger. The whole story was brought into a new air, so
that one felt there was much more "in it." This effect, I think,
requires a sudden feeling of novelty rather than a gradual evolution, but it
is still possible that Shakespeare wrote an earlier draft than our present
text. Variant
Texts: Q1, Q2 and the Folio To discuss two
lost plays at once, by Kyd and Shakespeare, is perhaps rather tiresome, but
one cannot imagine the first audiences without forming some picture of the
development of the play, of what struck them as new. Mr. Dover Wilson, to
whom so much gratitude is due for his series of books on Hamlet, takes a rather absurd position here. He never edits a
straightforward Shakespeare text without finding evidence for two or three
layers of revision, and considering them important for a full understanding
of the play; only in Hamlet, where
there is positive evidence for them, and a long-recognized ground for
curiosity about them, does he assume they can be ignored. He rightly insists
that an editor needs to see the problems of a text as a whole before even
choosing between two variant readings, and he sometimes actually asserts in
passing that Shakespeare wrote earlier drafts of Hamlet and yet his basis for preferring Q2 to F is a picture of
Shakespeare handing in one manuscript (recorded by Q2) from which the Company
at once wrote out one acting version (recorded by F), making drastic cuts and
also verbal changes which they refused to reconsider. He says he is not
concerned with "sixteenth century versions of Hamlet," a device of
rhetoric that suggests a gradual evolution, too hard to trace. I am not clear
which century 1600 is in (there was a surprising amount of quarrelling over
the point in both 1900 and 1800), but even writing done in 1599 would not be
remote from 1601. I postulate one main
treatment of the play by Shakespeare, first acted in 1600, and then one quite
minor revision of it by Shakespeare, first acted in 1601, written to feed
and gratify the interest and discussion which his great surprise had excited
the year before. To believe in this amount of revision does not make much
difference, whereas a gradual evolution would, but it clears up some puzzling
bits of evidence and I think makes the audiences more intelligible. Mr. Dover
Wilson's two volumes on The Manuscript
of Shakespeare’s Hamlet are
magnificently detailed and obviously right most of the time. I am only
questioning this part of his conclusions: “we may venture to suspect that
(always assuming Shakespeare to have been in London) Hamlet was not merely a
turning-point in his career dramatically, but also marks some kind of crisis
in his relations with his company.” The idea that Shakespeare wasn't in
London, I take it, is inserted to allow for the theory that he was in
Scotland drafting his first version of Macbeth,
which need not delay us. The cuts for
time in the Folio seem to be his main argument, because he ends his
leading volume (Manuscript, p. 174) by saying that Shakespeare discovered his
mistake if he imagined that the Company would act such a long play in full.
"If" here is a delicacy only, because the purpose of the argument
is to answer critics who had called our full-length Hamlet "a
monstrosity, the creation of scholarly compromise" between rival shorter
versions. I agree with Mr. Dover Wilson that Shakespeare did envisage a use
for this whole text. But Mr. Dover
Wilson had just been giving an impressive section (pp. 166-170) to prove
that some of the Folio cuts are so skilful that Shakespeare must have done them himself,
perhaps unwillingly, but at least he was not being ignored. Another part
of the argument for a quarrel is that “the producer did not trouble to
consult the author when he could not decipher a word or understand a
passage," but this section argues that Shakespeare did make a few
corrections in the Prompt Copy, when a mistake happened to lie near the bits
he had looked up to make his cuts. Surely this makes the author look culpably
careless over details rather than in a huff because he hadn't been consulted
over details. Another argument uses errors which are unchanged in the quartos
and folio to suggest that the Company repeated the same bits of petty
nonsense blindly for twenty years. But Mr. Dover Wilson also argues that the
Prompt Copy used for the Folio was "brought up to date" in later
years, at least on such points as the weapons fashionable for dueling; the
same might apply to some slang terms which were already out of date when the
Folio was published, though he labors to restore them now from the Quarto. I
think he presumes an excessive desire to save paper in this quite wealthy company;
they are not likely to have kept the same manuscript Prompt Copy of their
most popular play in constant use for twenty years. There would have to be a
copying staff, in any case, to give the actors their parts to learn from. The baffling question is how the Folio Hamlet with its mass of different
kinds of error could ever occur; and the theory of Mr. Dover Wilson is
that it was badly printed from a copy
of the Company's (irremovable) Prompt Copy made by a Company employee who was
careless chiefly because he knew what was currently acted, so that his
mind echoed phrases in the wrong place. Surely I may
put one more storey onto this card castle. Heming and Condell, I suggest, set
this man to copy the original Prompt Copy, which so far from being in current
use had become a kind of museum piece; they tried to get a basic text for the
printer, and only failed to realize that it isn't enough in these matters to
issue an order. The basic object to be copied had neither the later
corrections nor the extra passages which had been reserved for special
occasions, and the interest of the man who copied it is that he could
scribble down both old and new errors or variants
without feeling he was obviously wrong. It seems improbable that the Globe
actors, though likely to introduce corruptions, would patiently repeat bits
of unrewarding nonsense for twenty years; my little invention saves us from
believing that, without forcing me to deny that Mr. Dover Wilson's theory has
produced some good emendations. We cannot expect to recover a correct text
merely from an excess of error in the printed versions of it; and in no other
Shakespeare play are they so confused. But surely this fact itself must have
some meaning. I suggest that, while
Shakespeare's Hamlet was the rage,
that is, roughly till James became king without civil war,
it was varied a good deal on the night according to the reactions of the
immediate audience. This would be likely to make the surviving texts
pretty hard to print from; also it relieves us from thinking of Shakespeare
as frustrated by the Company's cuts in his first great tragedy. Surely any
man, after a quarrel of this sort, would take some interest in "at
least" getting the printed version right. No doubt there was a snobbery about print, to which he would probably be
sensitive, and also the text belonged to the Company; but neither question
would impinge here. The Company must
have wanted a large text for the Second Quarto, and even the most anxious snob
can correct proofs without attracting attention. Indeed there was at
least one reprint of it (1611), and probably two, during his lifetime; they
can be observed trying to correct a few mistakes, but obviously without help
from the author. You might think
he fell into despair over the incompetence of the printers, but they could do
other jobs well enough, and were visibly trying to do better here. The only
plausible view is that he refused to help them because he wouldn't be
bothered, and I do not see how he could have felt this if he had been annoyed
by the way Hamlet had been mangled
at the Globe. I think he must have felt tolerably glutted by the
performances? Critics have long felt
that the First Quarto probably contains evidence for a previous draft by
Shakespeare which is hard to disentangle. I am not trying to alter the
points of revision usually suggested, and need not recall the arguments in
their lengthy detail. I am only trying
to give fresh support for them against Mr. Dover Wilson's view that Ql is a perversion of the standard
Globe performance. One must admit, on his side, that a text published in 1603
cannot be trusted to be unaffected by changes in the performance supposedly
made in 1601; the idea that this was a
travelling version, suited to
audiences less experienced than the Globe ones, seems a needed hypothesis
as well as one suggested by the title-page. Also, though often weirdly bad in
detail, it is a very workmanlike object in broad planning; somebody made a
drastically short version of the play which kept in all the action, and the
effect is so full of action that it is almost as jerky as an early film,
which no doubt some audiences would appreciate. There seems no way to decide
whether or not this was done independently of the pirating reporters who
forgot a lot of the poetry. The main change is that the soliloquy "To be or not to be" and its
attendant scolding of Ophelia is put before the Player scene, not after
it; but a producer wanting a short plain version is wise to make that change,
so it is not evidence for an earlier draft by Shakespeare. The variations
in names might only recall Kyd's names, perhaps more familiar in the
provinces. What does seem decisive evidence, and was regularly considered so
till Mr. Dover Wilson ignored rather than rebutted it, is that this text gives a sheer scene between
Horatio and the Queen alone, planning
what to do about Hamlet's return to Denmark; surely this would be outside
the terms of reference of both the potting adapter and the pirating hack. The text seems particularly "cooked
up" and not remembered from Shakespeare; but then, what these people
wanted was "action," and it is less like action to have Horatio
report Hamlet's adventures than to let the hero boast in person; and it is
not inherently any shorter. Also this change fits in with a consistently different picture of the
Queen, who is not only made clearly innocent of the murder but made
willing to help Hamlet. Mr. Dover Wilson does not seem to deal with this
familiar position beyond saying "Shakespeare is subtler than his perverters or his predecessors," assuming that the Ql compiler is his first perverter;
and he argues that the Queen is meant to appear innocent even of vague
complicity in the murder in our standard text of Hamlet. But surely it is
fair to ask what this "subtlety" may be, and why it deserves such a
fine name if it only muddles a point that was meant to be clear. Why,
especially, must the Queen be given an
unexplained half-confession, "To my sick soul, as sin's true nature
is ....," a fear of betraying guilt by too much effort to hide it? Mr.
Richard Flatter, I think, did well to emphasize how completely this passage
has been ignored by critics such as A. C. Bradley and Mr. Dover Wilson, whose
arguments from other passages to prove that she was meant to seem innocent
are very convincing. Surely the only reasonable view is that Shakespeare in
his final version wanted to leave doubt in the minds of the audience about
the Queen. You may say that the adapter behind Ql
simply got rid of this nuisance, but you are making him do an unlikely amount
of intelligent work. It is simpler to believe that he is drawing on an
earlier version, which made the Queen definitely on Hamlet's side after the
bedroom scene. Mr. Dover
Wilson used to believe in two versions by Shakespeare and apparently does so
still, or if not he must be praised for giving the evidence against his later
view with his usual firmness. Harvey's note praising a Hamlet by Shakespeare, he recalls, needs to predate the execution
of Essex in February 1601, whereas the remarks about the War of the Theatres,
and perhaps a hint at the seige of Dunkirk in the
soliloquy "How all occasions do inform against me," belong to the
summer of that year. If we are to believe in a revision for 1601, then, it should include these items, and
probably the rest of the soliloquy, also the new position for "To be or
not to be" and the scolding of Ophelia, and a number of changes about
the Queen, not long in bulk. The idea that the main text was written before the death of Essex and the revision
after it should perhaps have more meaning that I can find; perhaps anyway
it corresponds to a certain darkening of the whole air. But there is
no need to make this revision large or elaborate; the points just listed seem
to be the only ones we have direct evidence for, and are easily understood as
heightening the peculiar effect of Hamlet
for a public which had already caught on to it. May I now put the matter the
other way round: I do not believe that
our present text of Hamlet, a
weirdly baffling thing, could have been written at all except for a public
which had already caught on to it. The strongest
argument is from the soliloquy “How
all occasions.” '* Mr. Dover Wilson says that the Company omitted this
"from the very first" from the Fortinbras
scene, "which was patently written to give occasion to the
soliloquy." But no producer would leave in the nuisance of an army
marching across the stage after removing the only point of it. Fortinbras had anyway to march his army across the
stage, as he does in Ql as well as F, and
presumably did in Kyd's version. The beginning of the play is a
mobilization against this army and the end a triumph for it; the audience
thought in more practical terms than we do about these dynastic quarrels. But
that made it all the more dramatic, in the 1601 version, to throw in a speech
for Hamlet hinting that the troops at Dunkirk were as fatuous for too much
action as he himself was for too little. It is only a final example of the
process of keeping the old scenes and packing into them extra meaning. What
is reckless about the speech is that it makes Hamlet say, while (presumably)
surrounded by guards leading him to death, "I have cause and will and strength and means To do it,"
destroying a sheer school of Hamlet Theories with each noun; the effect is so
exasperating that many critics have simply demanded the right to throw it
away. Hamlet’s
Magnificence Nobody is as annoying as this except on purpose, and the only
reasonable view of why the speech was added is that these Hamlet Theories had already been
propounded, in long discussions among the spectators, during the previous
year. But the bafflement thrown in here was not the tedious one of making a
psychological problem or a detective story insoluble; there was a more
obvious effect in making Hamlet
magnificent. He finds his immediate position not even worth reflecting
on; and he does get out of this jam, so you can't blame him for his
presumption at this point. His complete
impotence at the moment, one might say, seems to him "only a theatrical
appearance," just as his previous reasons for delay
seem to have vanished like a dream. Here as elsewhere he gives a
curious effect, also not unknown among his critics, of losing all interest for what has happened in the story; but it
is more impressive in him than in them. By the way, I would like to have one
other passage added by Shakespeare in revision, the remarks by Hamlet at the
end of the bedroom scene (in Q2 but not F) to the effect that it will only
cheer him up to have to outwit his old pals trying to kill him; this seems
liable to sound merely boastful unless afterwards proved genuine by his
private thoughts, but if the soliloquy is being added some such remark is needed
first, to prepare the audience not to find it merely unnatural. One might
suppose that this dream-like though
fierce quality in Hamlet, which became perhaps his chief appeal two
centuries later, was only invented for
the 1601 revision. I think one can prove that this was not so. The moral
effect is much the same, and hardly less presumptuous, when he insists at the
end of the play on treating Laertes as a gentleman and a sportsman, though he
has already told the audience (in high mystical terms) that he is not such a
fool as to be unsuspicious; and the moral is at once drawn for us; this
treatment unnerves Laertes so much that he almost drops the plot. The fencing-match no less than the Play
Scene is an imitation which turns out to be reality, but that is merely a
thing which one should never be surprised by; Laertes ought still to be treated in the
proper style. "Use them after your own honour
and dignity; the less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty";
this curious generosity of the intellect is always strong in Hamlet, and
indeed his main source of charm. One reason, in fact, why he could be
made so baffling without his character becoming confused was that it made him
give a tremendous display of top-class behavior,
even in his secret mind as expressed in soliloquy. Now the paradoxical
chivalry towards Laertes (which commentators tend to regard as a
"problem" about how much Hamlet understood) is well marked in Ql, which fairly certainly didn't bother about the 1601
revision. On the other hand it wouldn't be in Kyd's version, because Kyd
wasn't interested in this kind of startlingly gentlemanly behavior, as well
as not wanting to use it as an explanation of the delay. It really belongs, I think, to the situation of continuing to claim a
peculiar status as an aristocrat after the practical status has been lost,
like Dukes in Proust; the casual remark by Hamlet in the graveyard that all
the classes are getting mixed seems to me to have a bearing on his behavior.
By the way, the reason why Hamlet apologizes
to Laertes merely by claiming to be mad, which many commentators have
felt to be a shifty way to talk about his killing of Laertes' father (since
we have seen that that was not done when mad), is that he is uneasy about the
incident "I'll rant as well as thou"; to have scuffled with Laertes
while they both kicked the body of his
sister in her grave was disgustingly theatrical, and he is ashamed of it.
This seems to him much more real than having caused the deaths of both father and sister, a thing he couldn't help, and even
when dying beside Laertes he refuses to admit any guilt for it. To have
allowed his situation to make him theatrical is serious guilt, and (according
to Q2) he snatches the occasion to throw in a separate apology to his mother,
for the way he behaved to her on the occasion when Polonius happened to get
killed. This emphasis on style rather
than on one's incidental murders seems now madly egotistical, but it
would then appear as consistently princely behavior. It seems clear that Shakespeare
used this as a primary element in his revivification of Hamlet. In this kind
of way, he got a good deal of mystery into his first version of Hamlet, starting with the intention of
making it life-like. Then, when the audiences became intrigued by this
mystery, he made some quite small additions and changes which screwed up the
mystery to the almost torturing point where we now have it: the sky was the
limit now, not merely because the audiences wanted it, but because one need
only act so much of this "shock troops" material as a particular
audience seemed ripe for. No wonder it made the play much too long. The
soliloquy "How All Occasions" is a sort of encore planned in case
an audience refuses to let the star go, and in the big days of Hamlet they would decide back-stage how much, and
which parts, of the full text to perform when they saw how a particular
audience was shaping. This view gives no reason to doubt that the whole
thing was sometimes acted, ending by torchlight probably, with the staff of
the Globe extremely cross at not being allowed to go home earlier. I am not clear
how much this picture alters the arguments of Mr. Dover Wilson from the
surviving texts, but it clearly does to a considerable extent. Everyone says
that the peculiar merit of the Elizabethan theatre was to satisfy a broad and
varied clientele, with something of the variability of the Music Hall in its
handling of the audience; but the experts do not seem to imagine a theatre
which actually carried out this plan, instead of sticking to a text laid down
rigidly beforehand. It is unlikely to have happened on any scale, to be sure,
except in the very special case of Hamlet. But if you suppose it
happened there you need no longer suppose a quarrel over some extras written
in for occasional use. And there is the less reason to suppose a quarrel, on
my argument, because the Company must have accepted Shakespeare's 1601
revision as regards both Ophelia and the Queen, for example treating the new
position for "To be or not to be" as part of the standard Prompt
Copy, eventually recorded in the Folio. (One
would never swap back the order of scenes "on the night.") I
imagine that this excitement about the play, which made it worthwhile keeping
bits for special audiences, had already died down by 1605, when the Company sent plenty of Shakespeare's manuscript to the
printer (as Mr. Dover Wilson says) just to outface the pirate of Ql; one no longer needed to keep extras up one's
sleeve. But I should fancy that the claim on the title-page, "enlarged
to almost as much again as it was," does not only refer to the extreme
shortness of the pirate's version; advertisements even when lying often have
sources of plausibility, and it would be known that a few of the Globe
performances had also been almost recklessly enlarged. The criticism
of Hamlet has got to such a scale
that it feels merely pokey to say one thing more; a library on the topic
would completely fill an ordinary house. But I feel that the line of thought
I have been following here is one which many recent critics have taken, and
yet without their taking it as far as it will go. Part II THE first part of this essay argued
that the 1600 Globe audiences would have laughed at the Kyd version of Hamlet simply because they could shout
"Hurry Up"; thus the first problem for Shakespeare in re-writing it
was to find how to stop them, by making the delay itself a subject of
interest. From this point of view, I maintained, it is reasonable to revive
the idea that he wrote two versions of Hamlet}
and that the mangled First Quarto gives indirect evidence about the first
one; an idea common among Victorian critics, but blown upon since then by Sir
Edmund Chambers and Professor Dover Wilson. The first version, for 1600,
solved the technical pro blem so well that it
established Hamlet as a
"mystery" among the first audiences; then a minor revision for 1601
gratified this line of interest by making him a baffling one and spreading
mystery all round. Thus the soliloquy "How all occasions," which
seems to defy the commentators deliberately, was written as an extra for
audiences especially fascinated by Hamlet; our full text was meant to be used
sometimes but not regularly. These assertions, I would claim, fit
in with the textual evidence, which is very confusing, better than anything
else; but the main reason for believing them is that they explain how such an
extraordinary play could get written at all. We need some picture of the
first audiences even to understand what was intended. I assume, then, that
the First Quarto gives evidence about the first draft, so that the main
changes for the second concern Ophelia and the Queen; whom I will consider in
turn. The scolding of Ophelia by Hamlet, and the soliloquy "To be or not
to be" before it, were put later in the play. The main purpose in this,
I think, was to screw up the paradoxes in the character of Hamlet rather than
to affect Ophelia herself. I tried to describe in the first part of this
essay a sort of Pirandello sequence in his behavior from meeting the Players
to the Recorder scene, which raises problems about whether he is very
theatrical or very sincere, and this is much heightened by putting his
hysterical attack on Ophelia in the middle of it; especially beside the utter
detachment of "To be or not to be," which J. M. Robertson found so
incredible in its new position as to demand grotesque collaboration theories.
The first version by Shakespeare must have carried the main point of this
sequence, because even the First Quarto makes him take an actual
"pipe" after the Play scene and use it to claim he is a mystery
("though you can fret me, yet you cannot play upon me"); but this
was a crucial part to "heighten" if you wanted to heighten the
mystery as a whole. One might also feel that the change had
another purpose; combined with the new doubts about the Queen it gives the
play a concentrated anti-woman central area. In any case, the worst behavior
of Hamlet is towards Ophelia, whether you call it theatrical or not; the
critics who have turned against him usually seem to do so on her behalf, and
his relations with the two women raise more obvious questions about whether
he is neurotic than the delay. The first question here is how Shakespeare
expected the audience to take the scolding of Ophelia, admitting that an
audience has different parts. We can all see Hamlet has excuses for treating
her badly, but if we are to think him a hero for yielding to them the thing
becomes barbaric; he punishes her savagely for a plot against him when he has
practically forced her to behave like a hospital nurse. I feel sure that Mr.
Dover Wilson is getting at something important, though as so often from a
wrong angle, when he makes a fuss about adding a stage direction at II, ii,
158, and insists that Hamlet must visibly overhear the King and Polonius
plotting to use Ophelia against him. No doubt this is better for a modern
audience, but we need to consider the sequence of changes in the traditional
play. In our present text, even granting Mr. Dover Wilson his tiny stage
direction, what Hamlet overhears is very harmless and indeed what he himself
has planned for; it was he who started using Ophelia as a pawn, however much
excused by passion or despair. Kyd, I submit, would give solid ground for
Hamlet's view that Ophelia is working against him; the merits of Kyd, as I am
assuming all along, have nothing to do with leaving motives obscure. She
would do it highmindedly, in ringing lines, with
distress, regarding it as her duty since her lover has become mad, and never
realizing what deep enmity against him she is assisting; but still she would
do something plain and worth making a fuss about. Hamlet's scolding of her
for it would follow at once. The agile Bard, with gleaming eye, merely
removed the adequate motivation for the scolding of Ophelia, a habit to which
he was becoming attached. Then for his revision he took the scolding far away
even from the trivial bit of plotting, no more than was essential to explain
the sequence, that he had left in for his Hamlet to overhear; thus making Mr.
Dover Wilson's view harder for a spectator to invent. One can respect the
struggle of Mr. Dover Wilson to recover one rag of the drapery so much needed
by Hamlet, but if this was the development the Globe Theatre is not likely to
have given any. We should recall here, I think, the rising fashion in the
theatres for the villain-hero, who staggers one by being so outrey and the love-poems of Donne, already famous in
private circulation, which were designed to outrage the conventions about chivalrous
treatment of women. Also the random indecency of lunatics, a thing the
Elizabethans were more accustomed to than we are, since they seldom locked
them up, is insisted on in the behavior of Hamlet to Ophelia whether he is
pretending or not. The surprising instruction of the
Ghost, "Taint not thy mind", was bound to get attention, so that
one was prepared to think his mind tainted. I think Hamlet was meant to be
regarded by most of the audience as behaving shockingly towards Ophelia,
almost too much so to remain a tragic hero; to swing round the whole audience
into reverence for Hamlet before he died was something of a lion-taming act.
This was part of the rule that all his behavior must be startling, and was
only slightly heightened in revision. But to see it in its right proportion
we must remember another factor; the theatre, as various critics have pointed
out, clung to an apparently muddled but no doubt tactical position of both
grumbling against Puritans and accepting their main claims. The Victorians
still felt that Hamlet was simply high-minded here. D. H. Lawrence has a poem
describing him with hatred as always blowing and snoring about other folks'
whoring, rightly perhaps, but in Hamlet's time this would feel like the voice
of lower-class complaint against upper class luxury, as when he rebukes the
Court for too much drink. All Malcontents rebuked luxury; this
aspect of him would not need to be "brought out." Here I think we have the right
approach to another Victorian view of Hamlet, of which Bernard Shaw is
perhaps the only representative still commonly read: that he was morally too
advanced to accept feudal ideas about revenge, and felt, but could not say,
that his father had given him an out-of-date duty; that was why he gave such
an absurd excuse for not killing the King at prayer. (Dr. Johnson thought it
not absurd but too horrible to read.) Without this obscure element of
"discussion drama," Shaw maintained, the nineteenth century would
never have found Hamlet interesting; and of course Shaw would also feel it
high minded of him to be a bit rough with the women in a Puritan manner. This
Hamlet Theory has been swept away by ridicule too easily, and I was glad to
see Mr. Harbage defend it recently with the true
remark that no moral idea was "remote from the Elizabethan mind",
indeed, the most available source for Hamlet,
the version by Belleforest, itself objects in
principle to revenge. The word "feudal" needs to be removed (as so
often); it is royal persons who cannot escape the duty of revenge by an
appeal to public justice; this is one of the reasons why they have long been
felt to make interesting subjects for plays. But I think Shakespeare's
audiences did regard his Hamlet as taking a "modern" attitude to
his situation, just as Bernard Shaw did. This indeed was one of the major
dramatic effects of the new treatment. He walks out to the audience and says
"You think this an absurd old play, and so it is, but I’m in it and what
can I do?" The theatrical device in itself expresses no theory about the
duty of revenge, but it does ask the crowd to share in the question. No
wonder that one of the seventeenth-century references, dropped while
describing someone else, says "He is like Prince Hamlet, he pleases
all." This trait of his character has
rightly irritated many critics, most recently perhaps Senor Madariaga, whose lively book on Hamlet has at least the
merit of needing some effort to refute it. He finds him a familiar Renaissance type of the
extreme "egotist," as well as a cad who had been to bed with
Ophelia already. The curious indifference of Hamlet to the facts does make
him what we call egotistical, but this would be viewed as part of his
lordliness; "egotism," I think, is only a modern bit of popular
psychology, quite as remote from medical science as the Elizabethan bit about
"melancholy" and much less likely to occur to the first audiences.
The argument that Hamlet has been to bed with Ophelia gives an impression of
clearing the air, and I think greatly needs refuting; I am glad to have a
coarse enough argument to do it without being suspected of undue chivalry. We
need a little background first. Senor Madariaga
points out that the corresponding lady in the sources did enjoy Hamlet's
person on a brief occasion, and argues that the audience would take the story
for granted unless it was firmly changed; he then easily proves that the
actress of Ophelia can make all references to her virginity seem comic, but
this doesn't prove she was meant to. The only "source" which most
of the audience would know about is the play by Kyd which we have lost, and
there is a grand simplicity about the drama of Kyd which is unlikely to have
allowed any questionable aspect to his hero. The legend itself, I agree,
gives Hamlet a strong "Br'er Fox" smell,
and Shakespeare had a nose for this, but the tradition of the theatre would
let him assume that Ophelia represented pure pathos and was somehow betrayed.
Kyd would be likely to introduce the idea that this lady, who is undignified
in the sources, had a high position and was regarded as Hamlet's prospective
Queen. Shakespeare gave this a further twist; he implies at her first
appearance that her brother and father are angling to make her Queen; they
don't say that to the girl, and still less to Hamlet's parents, but we need
not believe their over-eager protestations about the matter; the situation is
a well-known one for the audience. (The placid lament of the Queen over the
grave of Ophelia, that she had expected her to marry
Hamlet, sounds as if she had long known it was in the wind.) They both tell
her that the urgent thing is not to go to bed with him too quickly, and the
audience will assume that this important family plan is being carried
through; unless, of course, she leers and winks as Senor Madariaga
recommends, but that would only make her seem a fool. The impact of the
poetry that introduces the character has a natural right to interpret her; it
is hauntingly beautiful and obviously does not interpret the father and
brother who speak it: The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmask her beauty to the moon and so forth; the whole suggestion is that she must
hold off from Hamlet, as part of her bid for grandeur, and yet that tragedy
may come of it. However, I agree that these vast poetic gestures towards all
human experience could easily suggest just the opposite,
that she is sure to have done what she is advised against; a more
definite argument is required. In thePlay scene,
when Hamlet is offensively jeering at her for her supposed lust, and she is
trying to laugh it off (pathetically and courageously; it is unfair of Senor Madariaga to say this proves she is used to such talk),
she says "you are keen, my lord, you are keen," meaning to praise
his jokes as high-minded general satire against the world, though they are
flat enough bits of nastiness, and he answers: It would cost you a groaning to take
off my edge. Now the conviction that it is fun to
make a virgin scream and bleed was far too obvious to the Elizabethans for
this to mean anything else; I can imagine alternatives, but do not believe in
them and will wait for them to be advanced by some opponent. The point is not
that Hamlet's remark has any importance on the stage, but that the first
audiences took for granted one view of her or the other, from the production
if not from the tradition (an ambiguity here, I think, would only confuse the
production), whereas we have to learn what they took for granted by using
details which at the time merely seemed to fit in. This detail, I submit, is
enough to prove they assumed her to be a virgin. I am not trying to whitewash Hamlet;
he is jeering at the desires of the virgin which he is keen to excite and not
satisfy, and this is part of what sends her mad. But to jeer at a prospective
Queen for having yielded to him already would be outside the code; the more
loose the actual Court habits were (a point Senor Madariaga
uses) the more ungentlemanly it would seem, and Hamlet never loses class,
however mad. He also keeps a curious appeal for the lower classes in the
audience as a satirist on the upper class, as I have tried to describe; even
here, some of the audience would probably enjoy having jeers against an
aggressively pure young lady whose family are angling for a grand marriage;
but for this purpose too he needs to be unworldly rather than to have been to
bed with her already. What seems more important to us is his
"psychology," and that gives the same answer; the whole point of
his bad temper against her, which he builds up into feverish suspicions, is
that it arises because she has shut him out, not because she has yielded to
him. In the Nunnery scene, when he runs
back for the second time onto the stage because he has just thought of a
still nastier thing which he can't bear not to say, he says "I have
heard of your paintings, too," heard that women in general paint their
faces. It is almost a Peter Arno drawing. Pie calls her obscene because all
women are (like his mother) and a prostitute because she is plotting against
him (like a nurse). To allow any truth to his accusations against her seems
to me throwing away the whole dramatic effect. But of course there is a grave solemn
truth, never denied, which is simply that Ophelia did want to marry him and
ought not to have been accused of lust for it. Senor Madariaga
regards her behavior when mad as proof of incontinence when sane, an idea
which strikes me as about equally remote from an Elizabethan audience and a
modern doctor. She sings a song in which the man says to the woman "I
would have married you, as I promised, if you had not come to my bed,"
which seems to ask for application to her own case; but many of the parallels
in her mad talk work by opposites; indeed the agony of it (as in the mad
speeches added to The Spanish Tragedy,
for instance) is that we see her approaching recognition of the truth and
then wincing far away again. "They say a made a good end" is her
comment on the father who died unshriven, and
"Bonny sweet Robin is all my joy" deals with her appalling lover
before she walks out to death. Well might she reflect that the girls in the
ballads, who came to a simpler kind of disaster by giving too early, met a
less absolute frustration than the girl who held off because she was being
groomed for queenhood; and surely this idea is the
point of her vast farewell: "Come, my coach; . . . Good night, good
ladies". But we can argue more directly than from the poetry of the
thing. When she brings out this ballad the wicked King, who never falls below
a certain breadth of sentiment, says "Pretty Ophelia," a quaintly
smoking-room comment which directly tells the audience what to feel. Soon
after, her brother echoes the word in a rage, saying that even in the madness
forced upon her by Hamlet she turns Hell itself to favour
and to prettiness, but the King saw that "pretty" is right at once.
Recently I was being asked by a student in Peking what to make of the long
purples Which liberal shepherds give a grosser
name But our cold maids do Dead Men's
Fingers call them. Why are the obscene thoughts of these
peasants necessary in the impossible but splendid description of her death?
At the time, I could only say that the lines seemed to me very beautiful, and
in the usual tone about Ophelia, so I felt sure they didn't carry any hint
that would go outside it. Also, no doubt, the maids give the flower this
unmentioned name "when they laugh alone," and here the Love of a
maid did become Death and fumble at her, but there is a broader, and one
might well say a prettier, suggestion behind all these hints at her desire;
that nobody wants her to be frigid. A certain amount of teasing about the
modesty required from her would be ordinary custom, but the social purpose
behind both halves of this little contradiction is to make her a good wife.
Indeed to struggle against these absurd theories about her is to feel as
baffled as she did by the confusions of puritanism; it makes one angry with
Hamlet, not only with his commentators, as I think we are meant to be. Being
disagreeable in this way was part of his "mystery." Turning now to the Queen: Mr. Dover
Wilson argued that the First Quarto was merely a perversion of the single
play by Shakespeare, with a less "subtle" treatment of the Queen. I
do not think we need at once call it subtle of Shakespeare to make her into
an extra mystery by simply cutting out all her explanations of her behavior.
The idea of a great lady who speaks nobly but is treacherous to an uncertain
degree was familiar on the stage, as in Marlowe's Edward II, not a new idea deserving praise. No doubt the
treatment is subtle; several of her replies seem unconscious proofs of
complete innocence, whereas when she says her guilt "spills itself in
fearing to be spilt" she must imply a guilty secret. But we must ask why
the subtlety is wanted. An important factor here is the instruction of the
Ghost to Hamlet, in the first Act, that he must contrive nothing against his
mother. I think this was supplied by Kyd; he would see its usefulness as an
excuse for the necessary delay, and would want his characters to be
high-minded. Also he had to give his Ghost a reason for returning later,
because the audience would not want this interesting character to be dropped.
In Kyd's first act, therefore, the Ghost said Claudius must be killed and the
Queen protected; then in the third Act, when Hamlet was questioning her
suspiciously, the Ghost came back and said she hadn't known about his murder,
supporting her own statement to that effect; meanwhile he told Hamlet that it
would be dangerous to wait any longer about killing Claudius, because the
Play Scene has warned him. Hamlet had felt he still ought to wait till he
knew how much his mother was involved. The Ghost had already forgiven her for
what she had done, perhaps adultery, probably only the hasty re-marriage to
his brother, but had not cared to discuss it much; the tragic effect in the
third act is that he clears up too late an unfortunate bit of vagueness in
his first instructions. This makes him a bit absurd, but the motives of Ghosts
seldom do bear much scrutiny, and he is better than most of them. (On this
account, Hamlet is still liable to have different motives in different scenes
for sparing the King at prayer, but that seems a normal bit of Elizabethan
confusion.) Thus there is no reason why Kyd's Queen should not have satisfied
the curiosity of the audience fully; she would admit to Hamlet that her
second marriage was wrong, clear herself of anything else, offer to help him,
and be shown doing it. Shakespeare, in his first treatment of the play, had
no reason not to keep all this, as the First Quarto implies; his problem was
to make the audi ence
accept the delay as life-like, and once Hamlet is surrounded by guards that
problem is solved. But if we next suppose him making a minor revision, for
audiences who have become interested in the mystery of Hamlet, then it is
clearly better to surround him with mystery and make him drive into a
situation which the audience too feels to be unplumbable. Mr. Richard Flatter, in an interesting
recent book (Hamlet's Father) has
done useful work by taking this re-interpretation of the Ghost as far as it
will go. He points out that the Ghost must be supposed to return in the
bedroom scene to say something important, and yet all he does is to prevent
Hamlet from learning whether the Queen helped in his murder; such then was
his intention, though he had to deny it. After this Hamlet does up his
buttons (stops pretending to be mad) and has nothing left but a high-minded
despair about his duties to his parents; that is why he talks about Fate and
refuses to defend himself. In effect, he can now
only kill Claudius after his mother is dead, and he has only an instant to do
it in before he himself dies, but he is heroic in seizing this moment to
carry out an apparently impossible duty with pedantic exactitude. To accuse
him of delay, says Mr. Flatter with considerable point, is like accusing
Prometheus of delay while chained to the Caucasus. This result, I think, is
enough to prove that the Flatter view was never a very prominent element in a
play which hides it so successfully. He produces interesting evidence from
stage history that her complicity in the murder was assumed as part of the
tradition; but I can't see that the German version has any claim to echo a
pre-Shakespearean play, whereas the First Quarto gives evidence that it was
Shakespeare who first started this hare, in his revision of 1601. He goes on
to claim that the theme of a Ghost who, so far from wanting Revenge, wants to
save his unfaithful wife from being punished for murdering himself, wants
even to save her from the pain of confessing it to their son, is an
extraordinary moral invention, especially for an Elizabethan; and so it is,
for a playwright in any period, if he keeps it so very well hidden. Here,
surely, we are among the vaguely farcical "Solutions of the Hamlet
Problem" which have been cropping up for generations. But we need also
to consider why they crop up, why the play was so constructed as to excite
them. I think the Flatter theory did cross the keen minds of some of the 1601
audiences, and was intended to; but only as a background possibility in a
situation which encouraged a variety of such ideas. I think the fundamental
reason why the change was "subtle," to recall the term of Mr. Dover
Wilson, was something very close to the Freudian one which he is so quick at
jumping away from; to make both parents a mystery at least pushes the
audience towards fundamental childhood situations. But it would have a
sufficient immediate effect from thickening the atmosphere and broadening the
field. There is a question about the staging
of the bedroom scene which opens out in interesting directions. By all the
rules of an enthusiast for the balcony, Hamlet must scold his mother on the
balcony; whereas a modern producer usually feels it absurd to put such a long
and dramatic scene in such a remote cramped space. One side says:
"Hamlet walks straight on through one private room (the inner stage, the
King at prayer) to a still more private room (the Queen's 'closet,' the
balcony); anything else would break the dramatic tension"; the other
side says "How are you going to get four actors and a double bed and all
the rest of it onto this balcony? How can the audience see them properly, let
alone feel close enough to them?" We must also recognize and salute the
splendid invention of J. C. Adams, a Globe Theatre in which the balcony was
the most prominent stage, so that Desdemona could die on it actually touching
the back wall of the whole building. This machine ought to be constructed,
but the actual Globe could hardly be such a thrillingly specialized
instrument; the plays had to be ready for use under rougher circumstances. I
think there is evidence that, here and in other cases,
Shakespeare wanted to use the balcony more than the Company would let him,
but that, even so, he regarded it as a "distancing" stage, like the
modern producer and unlike J. C. Adams. The Folio, to begin the next scene,
just says "Enter King," whereas Q2 says "Enter King and Queen
with Rosencrantz and Guilderstern." Mr. Dover
Wilson finds the Quarto odd here, because "not only is an entry for the
Queen superfluous when she is already 'on', but Rosencrantz and Guilderstern are quite obviously in the way, so much so
that the Queen has to get rid of them at once." However, they are called
back in a moment to search for Hamlet, and Ql
brings them on here without bothering to move them out and back. Mr. Dover
Wilson suggests an intervening scene cut by Shakespeare while revising his manuscript,
but this I think only follows from his curious lack of interest in the Globe
Theatre. Surely the Q2 version means that the inner-stage curtain is opened,
"discovering" the King plotting with R. and G., and that the Queen
at once walks downstairs from the balcony; the purpose of the Folio version,
where the King walks into the bedroom alone and calls for R. and G. thirty
lines later, is to keep the whole bedroom scene on the inner stage, not the
balcony. This is a clumsy plan, because it forces the incident of the King at
prayer out onto the apron stage, whereas how a King can be caught in private
is one of the traditional lines of interest of Revenge Plays-- here it
happens because the Queen wants to speak to Hamlet privately just when the
King urgently needs solitude to recover from the shock: of the Mouse-Trap,
and her room is only reached through his. This must also be how Hamlet can
assume that the King has crept behind the arras in her room to spy on him. To
make these points clear on the stage urgently needs two private rooms, and if
the Company opposed using the balcony for such a definite purpose they must
have opposed using it for any major scene. Now, on the theory of Mr. Dover Wilson
about Q2 and F, this means that Shakespeare wrote the scene for the balcony
but was never allowed to put it there. Presumably he had just built the
instrument he wanted; he must have been on the committee about the technical
requirements of the new Globe, as a major shareholder, and the wishes of the
leading author about the shape of the balcony would have to be heard. It is
an intriguing idea that, perhaps for the first big use of the Globe, he was
not allowed to play with his toy as much as he wanted. One may suspect that
the mysterious quarrel, which Mr. Dover Wilson can somehow smell in his
dealings with Hamlet, was not about cuts in the text but about where to put
the double bed. There is a parallel case over the
blinding of Gloucester in King Lear, with the opposite relation between Folio
and Quarto. Here the Quarto is supposed to be a reconstruction of what was
acted, the Folio to be mainly a record of Shakespeare's manuscript, and the
Quarto but not the Folio gives a soliloquy of fourteen lines by Edgar before
the blinding scene. The previous scene is a shed for hiding from the storm,
so has to be the inner stage, and the curtain needs to open on a
"bench" and some "joint-stools," one of them
"warped." The next gives the blinding of Gloucester in his own
castle, and the irony of this requires grandeur, his own coat-of-arms on a
hanging cloth, and at least one grand chair facing away from the audience on
which he is blinded. Edgar is ignored by the supporters of the now
unconscious Lear but presumably leaves the hut when they do; so the back
curtain can be closed behind him, and his speech is just long enough for a
simple change of furniture. Neither scene requires the balcony. But his words
are so clumsy that many critics have suspected interpolation, also they break
the rule that he never talks sanely at length while dressed as mad; yet they
make quite good dramatic irony and are obviously by Shakespeare. I think this
is a decisive bit of evidence as far as it goes, apart from any theory about
the Folio and Quarto; Shakespeare wrote these extra lines in cold blood for
convenience in staging a performance without a balcony; therefore in his
first draft, written in hot blood, he must have presumed the use of one for
the blinding of Gloucester. But I am not sure how much we can build on this
fact. If we suppose he had a major quarrel with the producer over the balcony
in Hamlet, surely it is odd to have
him running bull-headed into the same trouble six years later in Lear, when
he can have been in no mood for negotiations with producers. The obvious
view, it seems to me, is simply that the Company always required a version,
less important than the one for the Globe Theatre, which could be acted where
there wasn't a big balcony, for instance at Court. They wouldn't much care
which version eventually hit print. I cannot be decisive here but feel the
questions need to be raised. It is clear from Q2 that Shakespeare wanted the
bedroom scene in Hamlet on the balcony, because otherwise the peculiar
requirements of that text would not have got written down. But are we to
suppose that Kyd already had it on the balcony, or contrariwise that
Shakespeare himself only wanted it there in his 1601 revision, as a way of
adding to the general mystery? It seems probable that Kyd already had the
crucial sequence of scenes here; first sparing the King at prayer, then
testing the Queen and being interrupted by the Ghost. This requires the
balcony already. Kyd had a balcony, but a small one used only for short
scenes or as part of a general effect; if he used it for this scene he would
not also kill Polonius on it. There is a direct theatrical or symbolical
reason for putting the scene on the balcony; Hamlet has drifted away from the
obvious necessity of killing Claudius, so he is next shown bellowing in a
remote place, and when the Ghost arrives the effect is like some animal in
the near-by bear-pit being driven back from a hiding-place to its death in
the ring. (It is thus a rehabilitation for Hamlet
when he fights his own way back from England.) Besides, any stage Ghost is
safer from ridicule when kept a bit remote. So I think it likely that Kyd
already had the scene there, without Polonius and with less prolonged
scolding by Hamlet. Anyhow Shakespeare would have it there in his first
version, because it is required by his dramatic sequence, not merely by his
later desire to add extra mystery about the Queen. Probably he told the
Company he was only following tradition by putting it on the balcony, whereas
he had made the scene so much bigger, to fit the new balcony of the Globe,
that the effect was quite different. I do not think the Folio is adequate
evidence that they refused, but they may have done. The more important question is what
Shakespeare wanted from his balcony, and therefore how we should build
theatres for acting him. There is a large practical
difference between the "distancing" theory of the balcony which is
commonly assumed and the theory of J. C. Adams that it was simply the most
prominent stage. One must suppose a gradual development; no doubt, the Globe of
1599 might have made a startling break with previous theatrical construction,
but if so it is odd that that didn't get mentioned. The current view of
experts seems to be that the balcony came to be used more and more in the
seventeenth century, for the "public" theatres. The year before the
theatres were closed for the Rule of the Saints a hopeful man published a
play with a stage direction requiring two double beds and other French farce
material saying he hoped it could all be done on the balcony, and this may encourage
us to believe that the forward-looking vision of Shakespeare was eventually
justified. Even the Folio text of Lear is
generally supposed to be checkmg its version by the
Quarto etc., not copying a fifteen-year old manuscript blindly; one could
argue that the copyist in many of his cuts was leaving out the parts he knew
were never spoken "nowadays"; for instance, you didn't want those
tiresome extra lines for Edgar because nowadays the balcony was used. The
whole subject is confusing, but my impression is that Shakespeare regarded
his balcony as a "distancing" stage, even while arranging for a
bigger one and trying to use it more. We tend to feel that the obscenity and
jealousy of Hamlet towards his mother are in themselves unpleasant enough to
be the better for "distancing," but squeamishness is not the main
point; as I have tried to argue, there would already be a dramatic reason for
putting it there in the 1580's, which Shakespeare might well want to carry
further. In the same way, we would prefer to feel farther off from the
blinding of Gloucester, but also the function of the scene is to "sum up
the eye imagery" and what not, rather than to emphasize his pain, since
he does not become a major character till after it. Of course, as so often
happens in a quarrel about how to use a new object, both sides may have been
wrong in making the same basic assumption; J. C. Adams may be right in saying
that the balcony was in fact the most prominent stage of the 1600 Globe, and
yet everyone concerned may have failed to recognize this at the time. I
imagine there is a good deal yet to be discovered about the staging, which
may help to clear up our views about the first audiences; this makes a
contrast with what may be called the basic point of Hamlet, which does seem
to have been pursued, in the last century and a half, about as far as it will
go. I ought finally to say something about
the Freudian view of Hamlet, the most extraordinary of the claims that it
means something very profound which the first audiences could not know about.
I think that literary critics, when this theory appeared, were thrown into
excessive anxiety. A. C. Bradley had made the essential points before; that
Hamlet's first soliloquy drives home (rather as a surprise to the first
audiences, who expected something about losing the throne) that some kind of
sex nausea about his mother is what is really poisoning him; also that in the
sequence around the Prayer scene his failure to kill Claudius is firmly and
intentionally tied up with a preference for scolding his mother instead. I
have been trying to argue that his relations with the two women were made
increasingly oppressive as the play was altered, but in any case the Freudian
atmosphere of the final version is obvious even if distasteful. Surely the
first point here is that the original legend is a kind of gift for the
Freudian approach (even if Freud is wrong) ; it need
not be painful to suppose that Shakespeare expressed this legend with a
unique power. There is a fairy-story or childish fascination because Hamlet
can boast of his secret and yet keep it, and because this crazy magical behaviour kills plenty of grown-ups; to base it on a
conflict about killing Mother's husband is more specifically Freudian but
still not secret. The Freudian theory makes a literary
problem when its conclusions oppose what the author thought he intended; but
it seems clear that Shakespeare wouldn't have wanted to alter anything if he
had been told about Freud, whether he laughed at the theory or not. Then again,
what is tiresome for the reader about the Freudian approach is that it seems
to tell us we are merely deluded in the reasons we give for our preferences,
because the real grounds for them are deep in the Unconscious; but here the
passage to the underground is fairly open. A feeling that this hero is
allowed to act in a peculiar way which is yet somehow familiar, because one
has been tempted to do it oneself, is surely part of the essence of the
story. There is a clear contrast with Oedipus, who had no Oedipus Complex. He
had not wanted to kill his father and marry his mother, even
"unconsciously"; if he came to recognize that he had wanted it,
that would weaken his bleak surprise at learning he has done it. The claim is
that his audiences wanted to do it unconsciously; that is why they were so
deeply stirred by the play, and why Aristotle could treat it as the supreme
tragedy though in logic it doesn't fit his case at all, being only a bad luck
story. This position is an uneasy one, I think; one feels there ought to be
some mediation between the surface and the depths, and probably the play did
mean more to its first audiences than we realize. But Hamlet is himself
suffering from the Complex, in the grand treatment by Ernest Jones, though
the reactions of the audience are also considered when he makes the other
characters "fit in." And this is not unreasonable, because Hamlet
is at least peculiar in Saxo, and Shakespeare
overtly treats him as a "case" of Melancholy, a specific though
baffling mental disease which medical textbooks were being written about. What does seem doubtful is whether his
mental disease was supposed to be what made him spare the King at prayer. We
may take it that Kyd already had the scene, and gave the reason (that this
might not send him to Hell), and meant it to be taken seriously; and also
meant its effect to be seen as fatal, a tragic failure of state-craft. A
moral to this, that a desire for excessive revenge may sometimes spoil a
whole design, would seem quite in order. But, by the time Shakespeare had
finished raising puzzles about the motives, even the motive for this part,
though apparently taken over directly, might well come into doubt; for one
thing, the failure of Hamlet even to consider his own danger, now that the
King knows his secret, is so very glaring. Even the wildly opposite reason
suggested by Mr. Dover Wilson, that he feels it wouldn't be sporting though
he can't tell himself so, might crop up among contemporary audiences; in any
case, the idea that there was some puzzle about it could easily occur to
them. And the idea of a man grown-up in everything else who still acts like a
child towards his elder relations is familiar; it could occur to a reflective
mind, not only be sensed by the Unconscious, as soon as behavior like
Hamlet's was presented as a puzzle. The trouble with it if made prominent
would be from making the hero contemptible, but Hamlet has many escapes from
that besides his claim to mental disease. That his mother's marriage was
considered incest made his initial disturbance seem more rational then than
it does now; but his horror and jealousy are made to feel, as Mr. Eliot
pointed out for purposes of complaint, a spreading miasma and in excess of
this cause. I do not think Mr. Dover Wilson need have suspected that Mr.
Eliot hadn't heard about incest, even for a rival effort at dodging Freud;
there was admittedly an excess, because the old play was admittedly
theatrical. Unconscious resistance to killing a
King is what the audience would be likely to invent, if any; for Claudius to
talk about the divinity that doth hedge a king is irony, because he has
killed one, but we are still meant to feel its truth; there may be some echo
of the current view of Hamlet, as a recent critic has suggested, in the grand
scene of Chapman with the repeated line "Do anything but killing of a
King." It would fit well onto the high minded aspect of Hamlet, as
having an unmentioned doubt about the value of his revenge. But none of this
is a rebuttal of the Freudian view; the feeling about a King is derived very
directly from childhood feelings about Father. We have to consider, not
merely how a play came to be written which allows of being searched so deeply
so long after, but why it has steadily continued to hold audiences who on any
view do not see all round it. The Freudian view is that it satisfies the
universal Unconscious, but one feels more practical in saying, as Hugh Kingsmill did, that they enjoy the imaginative release of
indulging in very "theatrical" behavior, which in this case is hard
to distinguish from "neurotic" behavior. The business of the plot
is to prevent them from feeling it as an indulgence, because the assumption
that Hamlet has plenty of reasons for it somehow is always kept up. If we
leave the matter there, I think, the play appears a rather offensive trick
and even likely to be harmful. Indeed common sense has decided that people who feel encouraged to imitate Hamlet, or to follow
what appear to be the instructions of Freud, actually are liable to behave
badly. But the first audiences were being asked to consider this hero of
legend as admittedly theatrical (already laughed at for it) and yet
unbreakably true about life; in one way because he illustrated a recognized
neurosis, in another because he extracted from it
virtues which could not but be called great however much the story proved
them to be fatal. So far as the spectator was tempted forward to examine the
"reasons" behind Hamlet he was no longer indulging a delusion but
considering a frequent and important, even if delusory, mental state, and
trying to handle it. If one conceives the play as finally rewritten with that
kind of purpose and that kind of audience, there is no need to be astonished
that it happened to illustrate the Freudian theory. Indeed it would seem
rather trivial, I think, to go on now and examine whether the successive
versions were getting more Freudian. The eventual question is whether you can
put up with the final Hamlet, a person who frequently appears in the modern
world under various disguises, whether by Shakespeare's fault or no. I would
always sympathize with anyone who says, like Hugh Kingsmill,
that he can't put up with Hamlet at all. But I am afraid it is within hail of
the more painful question whether you can put up with yourself and the race
of man. |