Δευτέρα 30 Αυγούστου 2010
Σάββατο 28 Αυγούστου 2010
Eugénio de Andrade-Palavras que do escuro chamam
Havia
uma palavra
no escuro.
Minúscula.Ignorada.
Martelava no escuro.
Martelava
no chão da água.
Do fundo do tempo,
martelava.
contra o muro.
Uma palavra.
No escuro.
Que me chamava.
uma palavra
no escuro.
Minúscula.Ignorada.
Martelava no escuro.
Martelava
no chão da água.
Do fundo do tempo,
martelava.
contra o muro.
Uma palavra.
No escuro.
Que me chamava.
Τρίτη 24 Αυγούστου 2010
da idade do vapor Augusto Rodrigues dos Anjos
Para iludir minha desgraça, estudo.
Intimamente sei que não me iludo.
Para onde vou (o mundo inteiro o nota)
Nos meus olhares fúnebres, carrego
A indiferença estúpida de um cego
E o ar indolente de um chinês idiota
A passagem dos séculos me assombra.
Para onde irá correndo minha sombra
Nesse cavalo de eletricidade?
Caminho, e a mim pergunto, na vertigem:
— Quem sou? Para onde vou? Qual minha origem?
E parece-me um sonho a realidade.
Em vão com o grito do meu peito impreco
Dos brados meus ouvindo apenas o eco,
Eu torço os braços numa angústia douda
E muita vez, à meia-noite, rio
Sinistramente, vendo o verme frio
Que há de comer a minha carne toda
É a Morte — esta carnívora assanhada—
Serpente má de língua envenenada
Que tudo que acha no caminho, come...
Intimamente sei que não me iludo.
Para onde vou (o mundo inteiro o nota)
Nos meus olhares fúnebres, carrego
A indiferença estúpida de um cego
E o ar indolente de um chinês idiota
A passagem dos séculos me assombra.
Para onde irá correndo minha sombra
Nesse cavalo de eletricidade?
Caminho, e a mim pergunto, na vertigem:
— Quem sou? Para onde vou? Qual minha origem?
E parece-me um sonho a realidade.
Em vão com o grito do meu peito impreco
Dos brados meus ouvindo apenas o eco,
Eu torço os braços numa angústia douda
E muita vez, à meia-noite, rio
Sinistramente, vendo o verme frio
Que há de comer a minha carne toda
É a Morte — esta carnívora assanhada—
Serpente má de língua envenenada
Que tudo que acha no caminho, come...
Τετάρτη 18 Αυγούστου 2010
Le tango Português-Da surdez dos letrados e iletrados
Treta extra, escrever escrevam vocês suas alimárias
Está aqui tudo é só saber ouvir
Eu infelizmente sou surdo
Está aqui tudo é só saber ouvir
Eu infelizmente sou surdo
Δευτέρα 16 Αυγούστου 2010
Κυριακή 15 Αυγούστου 2010
The doors of perception
The book describes and comments Huxley's first encounter with the drug mescalin. What fascinates me most about it are Huxley's theories about perceptional filters, that our brain has been developed to filter away perceptions that contradict "common sense".
According to Huxley, mescalin reduces the functionality of those filters, thereby allowing the taker to have experiences beyond "common" perception.
When on mescalin, Huxley can sit and watch ordinary everyday things and be amazed by their importance and how they are full of meaning. He writes:
A bunch of flowers shining with their own inner light. Those folds - what a labyrinth of endlessly significant complexity! I was seeing what Adam had seen on the morning of his own creation - the miracle, moment by moment, of naked existence.
A couple of years after , Huxley writes the follow-up, ”Heaven and hell”. This book is more of an essay about different ways to reach into the hidden areas of perception, to open the doors, and how it is being done in different cultures
it showed that power lay in the ability to make other people accept your view of the world, and that this uniformity of perception killed the human spirit.
One path around perceptional conformity, Huxley noticed, was through mystical or religious states of mind.
His book The Perennial Philosophy had picked out the common threads in the world's religions, quoting at length from the various saints and mystics that had taken human consciousness to another level.
One of these was English visionary William Blake, who had written, "If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite
According to Huxley, mescalin reduces the functionality of those filters, thereby allowing the taker to have experiences beyond "common" perception.
When on mescalin, Huxley can sit and watch ordinary everyday things and be amazed by their importance and how they are full of meaning. He writes:
A bunch of flowers shining with their own inner light. Those folds - what a labyrinth of endlessly significant complexity! I was seeing what Adam had seen on the morning of his own creation - the miracle, moment by moment, of naked existence.
A couple of years after , Huxley writes the follow-up, ”Heaven and hell”. This book is more of an essay about different ways to reach into the hidden areas of perception, to open the doors, and how it is being done in different cultures
it showed that power lay in the ability to make other people accept your view of the world, and that this uniformity of perception killed the human spirit.
One path around perceptional conformity, Huxley noticed, was through mystical or religious states of mind.
His book The Perennial Philosophy had picked out the common threads in the world's religions, quoting at length from the various saints and mystics that had taken human consciousness to another level.
One of these was English visionary William Blake, who had written, "If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite
Σάββατο 14 Αυγούστου 2010
Lear, Tolstoy and the Fool
TOLSTOY’S pamphlets are the least-known part of his work, and his attack on Shakespeare1 is not even an easy document to get hold of, at any rate in an English translation. Perhaps, therefore, it will be useful if I give a summary of the pamphlet before trying to discuss it.
Tolstoy begins by saying that throughout life Shakespeare has aroused in him ‘an irresistible repulsion and tedium’. Conscious that the opinion of the civilized world is against him, he has made one attempt after another on Shakespeare’s works, reading and re-reading them in Russian, English and German; but ‘I invariably underwent the same feelings; repulsion, weariness and bewilderment’.
Now, at the age of seventy-five, he has once again re-read the entire works of Shakespeare, including the historical plays, and
“I have felt with an even greater force, the same feelings—this time, however, not of bewilderment, but of firm, indubitable conviction that the unquestionable glory of a great genius which Shakespeare enjoys, and which compels writers of our time to imitate him and readers and spectators to discover in him non-existent merits—thereby distorting their aesthetic and ethical understanding—is a great evil, as is every untruth.”
Shakespeare, Tolstoy adds, is not merely no genius, but is not even ‘an average author’, and in order to demonstrate this fact he will examine King Lear, which, as he is able to show by quotations from Hazlitt, Brandes and others, has been extravagantly praised and can be taken as an example of Shakespeare’s best work.
Tolstoy then makes a sort of exposition of the plot of King Lear, finding it at every step to be stupid, verbose, unnatural, unintelligible, bombastic, vulgar, tedious and full of incredible events, ‘wild ravings’, ‘mirthless jokes’, anachronisms, irrelevaricies, obscenities, worn-out stage conventions and other faults both moral and aesthetic. Lear is, in any case, a plagiarism of an earlier and much better play, King Leir, by an unknown author, which Shakespeare stole and then ruined. It is worth quoting a specimen paragraph to illustrate the manner in which Tolstoy goes to work. Act III, Scene 2 (in which Lear, Kent and the Fool are together in the storm) is summarized thus:
“Lear walks about the heath and says words which are meant to express his despair: he desires that the winds should blow so hard that they (the winds) should crack their cheeks and that the rain should flood everything, that lightning should singe his white bead, and the thunder flatten the world and destroy all germs ‘that make ungrateful man’! The fool keeps uttering still more senseless words. Enter Kent: Lear says that for some reason during this storm all criminals shall be found out and convicted. Kent, still unrecognized by Lear, endeavours to persuade him to take refuge in a hovel. At this point the fool utters a prophecy in no wise related to the situation and they all depart.”
Tolstoy’s final verdict on Lear is that no unhypnotized observer, if such an observer existed, could read it to the end with any feeling except ‘aversion and weariness’. And exactly the same is true of ‘all the other extolled dramas of Shakespeare, not to mention the senseless dramatized tales, Pericles, Twelfth Night, The Tempest, Cymbeline, Troilus and Cressida.’
Having dealt with Lear Tolstoy draws up a more general indictment against Shakespeare. He finds that Shakespeare has a certain technical skill which is partly traceable to his having been an actor, but otherwise no merits whatever. He has no power of delineating character or of making words, and actions spring naturally out of situations, his language is uniformly exaggerated and ridiculous, he constantly thrusts his own random thoughts into the mouth of any character who happens to be handy, he displays a ‘complete absence of aesthetic feeling’, and his words ‘have nothing whatever in common with art and poetry’.
‘Shakespeare might have been whatever you like,’ Tolstoy concludes, ‘but he was not an artist.’ Moreover, his opinions are not original or interesting, and his tendency is ‘of the lowest and most immoral’. Curiously enough, Tolstoy does not base this last judgement on Shakespeare’s own utterances, but on the statements of two critics, Gervinus and Brandes. According to Gervinus (or at any, rate Tolstoy’s reading of Gervinus) ‘Shakespeare taught... that one may be too good’, while according to Brandes: ‘Shakespeare’s fundamental principle... is that the end justifies the means.’ Tolstoy adds on his own account that Shakespeare was a jingo patriot of the worst type, but apart from this he considers that Gervinus and Brandes have given a true and adequate description of Shakespeare’s view of life.
Tolstoy then recapitulates in a few paragraphs the theory of art which he had expressed at greater length elsewhere. Put still more shortly, it amounts to a demand for dignity of subject matter, sincerity, and good craftsmanships. A great work of art must deal with some subject which is ‘important to the life of mankind’, it must express someting which the author genuinely feels, and it must use such technical methods as will produce the desired effect. As Shakespeare is debased in outlook, slipshod in execution and incapable of being sincere even for a moment, he obviously stands condemned.
But here there arises a difficult question. If Shakespeare is all that Tolstoy has shown him to be, how did he ever come to be so generally admired? Evidently the answer can only lie in a sort of mass hypnosis, or ‘epidemic suggestion’. The whole civilized world has somehow been deluded into thinking Shakespeare a good writer, and even the plainest demonstration to the contrary makes no impression, because one is not dealing with a reasoned opinion but with something akin to religious faith. Throughout history, says Tolstoy, there has been an endless series of these ‘epidemic suggestions’—for example, the Crusades, the search for the Philosopher’s Stone, the craze for tulip growing which once swept over Holland, and so on and so forth. As a contemporary instance he cites, rather significantly, the Dreyfus case, over which the whole world grew violently excited for no sufficient reason. There are also sudden short-lived crazes for new political and philosophical theories, or for this or that writer, artist or scientist—for example, Darwin who (in 1903) is ‘beginning to be forgotten’. And in some cases a quite worthless popular idol may remain in favour for centuries, for ‘it also happens that such crazes, having arisen in consequence of special reasons accidentally favouring their establishment correspond in such a degree to the views of life spread in society, and especially in literary circles, that they are maintained for a long time’. Shakespeare’s plays have continued to be admired over a long period because ‘they corresponded to the irreligious and unmoral frame of mind of the upper classes of his time and ours’.
As to the manner in which Shakespeare’s fame started, Tolstoy explains it as having been ‘got up’ by German professors towards the end of the eighteenth century. His reputation ‘originated in Germany, and thence was transferred to England’. The Germans chose to elevate Shakespeare because, at a time when there was no German drama worth speaking about and French classical literature was beginning to seem frigid and artificial, they were captivated by Shakespeare’s ‘clever development of scenes’ and also found in him a good expression of their own attitude towards life. Goethe pronounced Shakespeare a great poet, whereupon all the other critics flocked after him like a troop of parrots, and the general infatuation has lasted ever since. The result has been a further debasement of the drama—Tolstoy is careful to include his own plays when condemning the contemporary stage—and a further corruption of the prevailing moral outlook. It follows that ‘the false glorification of Shakespeare’ is an important evil which Tolstoy feels it his duty to combat.
This, then, is the substance of Tolstoy’s pamphlet. One’s first feeling is that in describing Shakespeare as a bad writer he is saying something demonstrably untrue. But this is not the case. In reality there is no kind of evidence or argument by which one can show that Shakespeare, or any other writer, is ‘good’. Nor is there any way of definitely proving that—for instance—Warwick Beeping is ‘bad’. Ultimately there is no test of literary merit except survival, which is itself an index to majority opinion. Artistic theories such as Tolstoy’s are quite worthless, because they not only start out with arbitrary assumptions, but depend on vague terms (‘sincere’, ‘important’ and so forth) which can be interpreted in any way one chooses. Properly speaking one cannot answer Tolstoy’s attack. The interesting question is: why did he make it? But it should be noticed in passing that he uses many weak or dishonest arguments. Some of these are worth pointing out, not because they invalidate his main charge but because they are, so to speak, evidence of malice.
To begin with, his examination of King Lear is not ‘impartial’, as he twice claims. On the contrary, it is a prolonged exercise in misrepresentation. It is obvious that when you are summarizing King Lear for the benefit of someone who has not read it, you are not really being impartial if you introduce an important speech (Lear’s speech when Cordelia is dead in his arms) in this manner: ‘Again begin Lear’s awful ravings, at which one feels’ ashamed, as at unsuccessful jokes.’ And in a long series of instances Tolstoy slightly alters or colours the passages he is criticizing, always in such a way as to make the plot appear a little more complicated and improbable, or the language a little more exaggerated. For example, we are told that Lear ‘has no necessity or motive for his abdication’, although his reason for abdicating (that he is old and wishes to retire from the cares of state) has been clearly indicated in the first scene. It will be seen that even in the passage which I quoted earlier, Tolstoy has wilfully misunderstood one phrase and slightly changed this meaning of another, making nonsense of a remark which is reasonable enough in its context. None of these misreadings is very gross in itself, but their cumulative effect is to exaggerate the psychological incoherence of the play. Again, Tolstoy is not able to explain why Shakespeare’s plays were still in print, and still on the stage, two hundred years after his death (before the ‘epidemic suggestion’ started, that is); and his whole account of Shakespeare’s rise to fame is guesswork punctuated by outright misstatements. And again, various of his accusations contradict one another: for example, Shakespeare is a mere entertainer and ‘not in earnest’, but on the other hand he is constantly putting his own thoughts into the mouths of his characters. On the whole it is difficult to feel that Tolstoy’s criticisms are uttered in good faith. In any case it is impossible that he should fully have believed in his main thesis—believed, that is to say, that for a century or more the entire civilized world had been taken in by a huge and palpable lie which he alone was able to see through. Certainly his dislike of Shakespeare is real enough, but the reasons for it may be different, or partly different, from what he avows; and therein lies the interest of his pamphlet.
At this point one is obliged to start guessing. However, there is one possible clue, or at least there is a question which may point the way to a clue. It is: why did Tolstoy, with thirty or more plays to choose from, pick out King Lear as his especial target? True, Lear is so well known and has beeen so much praised that it could justly be taken as representative of Shakespeare’s best work; still, for the purpose of a hostile analysis Tolstoy would probably choose the play he disliked most. Is it not possible that he bore an especial enmity towards this particular play because he was aware, consciously or unconsciously, of the resemblance between Lear’s story and his own? But it is better to approach this clue from the opposite direction—that is, by examining Lear itself, and the qualities in it that Tolstoy fails to mention.
One of the first things an English reader would notice in Tolstoy’s pamphlet is that it hardly deals with Shakespeare as a poet. Shakespeare is treated as a dramatist, and in so far as his popularity is not spurious, it is held to be due to tricks of stagecraft which give good opportunities to clever actors. Now, so far as the English-speaking countries go, this is not true; Several of the plays which are most valued by lovers of Shakespeare (for instance, Timon of Athens) are seldom or never acted, while some of the most actable, such as A Midsummer Night’s Dream, are the least admired. Those who care most for Shakespeare value him in the first place for his use of language, the ‘verbal music’ which even Bernard Shaw, another hostile critic, admits to be ‘irresistible’. Tolstoy ignores this, and does not seem to realize that a poem may have a special value for those who speak the language in which it was written. However, even if one puts oneself in Tolstoy’s place and tries to think of Shakespeare as a foreign poet it is still clear that there is something that Tolstoy has left out. Poetry, it seems, is not solely a matter of sound and association, and valueless outside its own language-group: otherwise how is it that some poems, including poems written in dead languages, succeed in crossing frontiers? Clearly a lyric like ‘To-morrow is Saint Valentine’s Day’ could not be satisfactorily translated, but in Shakespeare’s major work there is something describable as poetry that can be separated from the words. Tolstoy is right in saying that Lear is not a very good play, as a play. It is too drawn-out and has too many characters and sub-plots. One wicked daughter would have been quite enough, and Edgar is a superfluous character: indeed it would probably be a better play if Gloucester and both his sons were eliminated. Nevertheless, something, a kind of pattern, or perhaps only an atmosphere, survives the complications and the longueurs. Lear can be imagined as a puppet show, a mime, a ballet, a series of pictures. Part of its poetry, perhaps the most essential part, is inherent in the story and is dependent neither on any particular set of words, nor on flesh-and-blood presentation.
Shut your eyes and think of King Lear, if possible without calling to mind any of the dialogue. What do you see? Here at any rate is what I see; a majestic old man in a long black robe, with flowing white hair and beard, a figure out of Blake’s drawings (but also, curiously enough, rather like Tolstoy), wandering through a storm and cursing the heavens, in company with a Fool and a lunatic. Presently the scene shifts and the old man, still cursing, still understanding nothing, is holding a dead girl in his arms while the Fool dangles on a gallows somewhere in the background. This is the bare skeleton of the play, and even here Tolstoy wants to cut out most of what is essential. He objects to the storm, as being unnecessary, to the Fool, who in his eyes is simply a tedious nuisance and an excuse for making bad jokes, and to the death of Cordelia, which, as he sees it, robs the play of its moral. According to Tolstoy, the earlier play. King Leir, which Shakespeare adapted
“terminates more naturally and more in accordance with the moral demands of the spectator than does Shakespeare’s; namely, by the King of the Gauls conquering the husbands of the elder sisters, and by Cordelia, instead of being killed, restoring Leir to his former position.”
In other words the tragedy ought to have been a comedy, or perhaps a melodrama. It is doubtful whether the sense of tragedy is compatible with belief in God: at any rate, it is not compatible with disbelief in human dignity and with the kind of ‘moral demand’ which feels cheated when virtue fails to triumph. A tragic situation exists precisely when virtue does not triumph but when it is still felt that man is nobler than the forces which destroy him. It is perhaps more significant that Tolstoy sees no justification for the presence of the Fool. The Fool is integral to the play. He acts not only as a sort of chorus, making the central situation clearer by commenting on it more intelligently than the other characters, but as a foil to Lear’s frenzies. His jokes, riddles and scraps of rhyme, and his endless digs at Lear’s high-minded folly, ranging from mere derision to a sort of melancholy poetry (‘All thy other titles thou hast given away, that thou wast born with’), are like a trickle of sanity running through the play, a reminder that somewhere or other in spite of the injustices, cruelties, intrigues, deceptions and misunderstandings that are being enacted here, life is going on much as usual. In Tolstoy’s impatience with the Fool one gets a glimpse of his deeper quarrel with Shakespeare. He objects, with some justification, to the raggedness of Shakespeare’s plays, the irrelevancies, the incredible plots, the exaggerated language: but what at bottom he probably most dislikes is a sort of exuberance, a tendency to take—not so much a pleasure as simply an interest in the actual process of life. It is a mistake to write Tolstoy off as a moralist attacking an artist. He never said that art, as such, is wicked or meaningless, nor did he even say that technical virtuosity is unimportant. But his main aim, in his later years, was to narrow the range of human consciousness. One’s interests, one’s points of attachment to the physical world and the day-to-day struggle, must be as few and not as many as possible. Literature must consist of parables,. stripped of detail and almost independent of language. The parables—this is where Tolstoy differs from the average vulgar puritan—must themselves be works of art, but pleasure and curiosity must be excluded from them. Science, also, must be divorced from curiosity. The business of science, he says, is not to discover what happens but to teach men how they ought to live. So also with history and politics. Many problems (for example, the Dreyfus case) are simply not worth solving, and he is willing to leave them as loose ends. Indeed his whole theory of ‘crazes’ or ‘epidemic suggestions’, in which he lumps together such things as the Crusades and the Dutch passion of tulip growing, shows a willingness to regard many human activities as mere ant-like rushings to and fro, inexplicable and uninteresting. Clearly he could have no patience with a chaotic, detailed, discursive writer like Shakespeare. His reaction is that of an irritable old man who is being pestered by a noisy child. ‘Why do you keep jumping up and down like that? Why can’t you sit still like I do?’ In a way the old man is in the right, but the trouble is that the child, has a feeling in its limbs which the old man has lost. And if the old man knows of the existence of this feeling, the effect is merely to increase his irritation: he would make children senile, if he could. Tolstoy does not know, perhaps, just what he misses in Shakespeare, but he is aware that he misses something, and he is determined that others shall be deprived of it as well. By nature he was imperious as well as egotistical. Well after he was grown up he would still occasionally strike his servant in moments of anger, and somewhat later, according to his English biographer, Derrick Leon, he felt ‘a frequent desire upon the slenderest provocation to slap the faces of those with whom he disagreed’. One docs not necessarily get rid of that kind of temperament by undergoing religious conversion, and indeed it is obvious that the illusion of having been reborn may allow one’s native vices to flourish more freely than ever, though perhaps in subtler forms. Tolstoy was capable of abjuring physical violence and of seeing what this implies, but he was not capable of tolerance or humility, and even if one knew nothing of his other writings, one could deduce his tendency towards spiritual bullying from this single pamphlet.
However, Tolstoy is not simply trying to rob others of a pleasure he does not share. He is doing that, but his quarrel with Shakespeare goes further. It is the quarrel between the religious and the humanist attitudes towards life. Here one comes back to the central theme of King Lear, which Tolstoy does not mention, although he sets forth the plot in some detail.
Lear is one of the minority of Shakespeare’s plays that are unmistakably about something. As Tolstoy justly complains, much rubbish has been written about Shakespeare as a philosopher, as a psychologist, as a ‘great moral teacher’, amd what-not. Shakespeare was not a systematic thinker, his most serious thoughts are uttered irrelevantly or indirectly, and we do not know to what extent he wrote with a ‘purpose’or even how much of the work attributed to him was actually written by him. In the sonnets he never even refers to the plays as part of his achievement, though he does make what seems to be a half-ashamed allusion to his career as an actor. It is perfectly possible that he looked on at least half of his plays as mere pot-boilers and hardly bothered about purpose or probability so long as he could patch up something, usually from stolen material, which would more or less hang together on the stage. However, that is not the whole story. To begin with, as Tolstoy himself points out, Shakespeare has a habit of thrusting uncalled-for general reflections into the mouths of his characters. This is a serious fault in a dramatist, but it does not fit in with Tolstoy’s picture of Shakespeare as a vulgar hack who has no opinions of his own and merely wishes to produce the greatest effect with the least trouble. And more than this, about a dozen of his plays, written for the most part later than 1600, do unquestionably have a meaning and even a moral. They revolve round a central subject which in some cases can be reduced to a single word. For example, Macbeth is about ambition, Othello is about jealousy, and Timon of Athens is about money. The subject of Lear is renunciation, and it is only by being wilfully blind that one can fail to understand what Shakespeare is saying.
Lear renounces his throne but expects everyone to continue treating him as a king. He does not see that if he surrenders power, other people will take advantage of his weakness: also that those who flatter him the most grossly, i.e. Regan and Goneril, are exactly the ones who will turn against him. The moment he finds that he can no longer make people obey him as he did before, he falls into a rage which Tolstoy describes as ‘strange and unnatural’, but which in fact is perfectly in character. In his madness and despair, he passes through two moods which again are natural enough in his circumstances, though in one of them it is probable that he is being used partly as a mouthpiece for Shakespeare’s own opinions. One is the mood of disgust in which Lear repents, as it were, for having been a king, and grasps for the first time the rottenness of formal justice and vulgar morality. The other is a mood of impotent fury in which he wreaks imaginary revenges upon those who have wronged him. ‘To have a thousand with red burning spits come hissing in upon ’em!’, and:
“It were a delicate stratagem to shoe
A troop of horse with felt; I’ll put’t in proof;
And when I have stol’n upon these sons-in-law,
Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!”
Only at the end does he realize, as a sane man, that power, revenge and victory are not worth while:
“No, no, no, no! Come, let’s away to prison...
..................... and we’ll wear out
In a wall’d prison, packs and sects of great ones
That ebb and flow by th’ moon.”
But by the time he makes this discovery it is too late, for his death and Cordelia’s are already decided on. That is the story, and, allowing for some clumsiness in the telling, it is a very good story.
But is it not also curiously similar to the history of Tolstoy himself? There is a general resemblance which one can hardly avoid seeing, because the most impressive event in Tolstoy’s life, as in Lear’s, was a huge and gratuitous act of renunciation. In his old age, he renounced his estate, his title and his copyrights, and made an attempt—a sincere attempt, though it was not successful—to escape from his privileged position and live the life of a peasant. But the deeper resemblance lies in the fact that Tolstoy, like Lear, acted on mistaken motives and failed to get the results he had hoped for. According to Tolstoy, the aim of every human being is happiness, and happiness can only be attained by doing the will of God. But doing the will of God means casting off all earthly pleasures and ambitions, and living only for others. Ultimately, therefore, Tolstoy renounced the world under the expectation that this would make him happier. But if there is one thing certain about his later years, it is that he was not happy. On the contraty he was driven almost to the edge of madness by the behaviour of the people about him, who persecuted him precisely because of his renunciation. Like Lear, Tolstoy was not humble and not a good judge of character. He was inclined at moments to revert to the attitudes of an aristocrat, in spite of his peasant’s blouse, and he even had two children whom he had believed in and who ultimately turned against him—though, of course, in a less sensational manner than Regan and Goneril. His exaggerated revulsion from sexuality was also distinctly similar to Lear’s. Tolstoy’s remark that marriage is ‘slavery, satiety, repulsion’ and means putting up with the proximity of ‘ugliness, dirtiness, smell, sores’, is matched by Lear’s well-known outburst:
“But to the girdle do the gods inherit,
Beneath is all the fiends’;
There’s hell, there’s darkness, there’s the sulphurous pit,
Burning, scalding, stench, consumption,” etc., etc.
And though Tolstoy could not foresee it when he wrote his essay on Shakespeare, even the ending of his life—the sudden unplanned flight across country, accompanied only by a faithful daughter, the death in a cottage in a strange village—seems to have in it a sort of phantom reminiscence of Lear.
Of course, one cannot assume that Tolstoy was aware of this resemblance, or would have admitted it if it had been pointed out to him. But his attitude towards the play must have been influenced by its theme. Renouncing power, giving away your lands, was a subject on which he had reason to feel deeply; Probably, therefore, he would be more angered and disturbed by the moral that Shakespeare draws than he would be in the case of some other play—Macbeth, for example—which did not touch so closely on his own life. But what exactly is the moral of Lear? Evidently there are two morals, one explicit, the other implied in the story.
Shakespeare starts by assuming that to make yourself powerless is to invite an attack. This does not mean that everyone will turn against you (Kent and the Fool stand by Lear from first to last), but in all probability someone will. If you throw away your weapons, some less scrupulous person will pick them up. If you turn the other cheek, you will get a harder blow on it than you got on the first one. This docs not always happen, but it is to be expected, and you ought not to complain if it does happen. The second blow is, so to speak, part of the act of turning the other cheek. First of all, therefore, there is the vulgar, common-sense moral drawn by the Fool: ‘Don’t relinquish power, don’t give away your lands.’ But there is also another moral. Shakespeare never utters it in so many words, and it does not very much matter whether he was fully aware of it. It is contained in the story, which, after all, he made up, or altered to suit his purposes. It is: ‘Give away your lands if you want to, but don’t expect to gain happiness by doing so. Probably you won’t gain happiness. If you live for others, you must live for others, and not as a roundabout way of getting an advantage for yourself.’
Obviously neither of these conclusions could have been pleasing to Tolstoy. The first of them expresses the ordinary, belly-to-earth selfishness from which he was genuinely trying to escape. The other conflicts with his desire to eat his cake and have it—that is, to destroy his own egoism and by so doing to gain eternal life. Of course, Lear is not a sermon in favour of altruism. It merely points out the results of practising self-denial for selfish reasons. Shakespeare had a considerable streak of worldliness in him, and if he had been forced to take sides in his own play, his sympathies would probably have lain with the Fool. But at least he could see the whole issue and treat it at the level of tragedy. Vice is punished, but virtue is not rewarded. The morality of Shakespeare’s later tragedies is not religious in the ordinary sense, and certainly is not Christian. Only two of them, Hamlet and Othello, are supposedly occurring inside the Christian era, and even in those, apart from the antics of the ghost in Hamlet, there is no indication of a ‘next world’ where everything is to be put right. All of these tragedies start out with the humanist assumption that life, although full of sorrow, is worth living, and that Man is a noble animal—a belief which Tolstoy in his old age did not share.
Tolstoy was not a saint, but he tried very hard to make himself into a saint, and the standards he applied to literature were other-worldly ones. It is important to realize that the difference between a saint and an ordinary human being is a difference of kind and not of degree. That is, the one is not to be regarded as an imperfect form of the other. The saint, at any rate Tolstoy’s kind of saint, is not trying to work an improvement in earthly life: he is trying to bring it to an end and put something different in its place. One obvious expression of this is the claim that celibacy is ‘higher’ than marriage. If only, Tolstoy says in effect, we would stop breeding, fighting, struggling and enjoying, if we could get rid not only of our sins but of everything else that binds us to the surface of the earth—including love, then the whole painful process would be over and the Kingdom of Heaven would arrive. But a normal human being does not want the Kingdom of Heaven: he wants life on earth to continue. This is not solely because he is ‘weak’, ‘sinful’ and anxious for a ‘good time’. Most people get a fair amount of fun out of their lives, but on balance life is suffering, and only the very young or the very foolish imagine otherwise. Ultimately it is the Christian attitude which is self-interested and hedonistic, since the aim is always to get away from the painful struggle of earthly life and find eternal peace in some kind of Heaven or Nirvana. The humanist attitude is that the struggle must continue and that death is the price of life. ‘Men must endure their going hence, even as their coming hither: Ripeness is all’—which is an un-Christian sentiment. Often there is a seeming truce between the humanist and the religious believer, but in fact their attitudes cannot be reconciled: one must choose between this world and the next. And the enormous majority of human beings, if they understood the issue, would choose this world. They do make that choice when they continue working, breeding and dying instead of crippling their faculties in the hope of obtaining a new lease of existence elsewhere.
We do not know a great deal about Shakespeare’s religious beliefs, and from the evidence of his writings it would be difficult to prove that he had any. But at any rate he was not a saint or a would-be saint: he was a human being, and in some ways not a very good one. It is clear, for instance, that he liked to stand well with the rich and powerful, and was capable of flattering them in the most servile way. He is also noticeably cautious, not to say cowardly, in his manner of uttering unpopular opinions. Almost never does he put a subversive or sceptical remark into the mouth of a character likely to be identified with himself. Throughout his plays the acute social critics, the people who are not taken in by accepted fallacies, are buffoons, villains, lunatics or persons who are shamming insanity or are in a state of violent hysteria. Lear is a play in which this tendency is particularly well marked. It contains a great deal of veiled social criticism—a point Tolstoy misses—but it is all uttered either by the Fool, by Edgar when he is pretending to be mad, or by Lear during his bouts of madness. In his sane moments Lear hardly ever makes an intelligent remark. And yet the very fact that Shakespeare had to use these subterfuges shows how widely his thoughts ranged. He could not restrain himself from commenting on almost everything, although he put on a series of masks in order to do so. If one has once read Shakespeare with attention, it is not easy to go a day without quoting him, because there are not many subjects of major importance that he does not discuss or at least mention somewhere or other, in his unsystematic but illuminating way. Even the irrelevancies that litter every one of his plays—the puns and riddles, the lists of names, the scraps of reportage like the conversation of the carriers in Henry IV the bawdy jokes, the rescued fragments of forgotten ballads—are merely the products of excessive vitality. Shakespeare was not a philosopher or a scientist, but he did have curiosity, he loved the surface of the earth and the process of life—which, it should be repealed, is not the same thing as wanting to have a good time and stay alive as long as possible. Of course, it is not because of the quality of his thought that Shakespeare has survived, and he might not even be remembered as a dramatist if he had not also been a poet. His main hold on us is through language. How deeply Shakespeare himself was fascinated by the music of words can probably be inferred from the speeches of Pistol. What Pistol says is largely meaningless, but if one considers his lines singly they are magnificent rhetorical verse. Evidently, pieces of resounding nonsense (‘Let floods o’erswell, and fiends for food howl on’, etc.) were constantly appearing in Shakespeare’s mind of their own accord, and a half-lunatic character had to be invented to use them up.
Tolstoy’s native tongue was not English, and one cannot blame him for being unmoved by Shakespeare’s verse, nor even, perhaps, for refusing to believe that Shakespeare’s skill with words was something out of the ordinary. But he would also have rejected the whole notion of valuing poetry for its texture—valuing it, that is to say, as a kind of music. If it could somehow have been proved to him that his whole explanation of Shakespeare’s rise to fame is mistaken, that inside the English-speaking world, at any rate, Shakespeare’s popularity is genuine, that his mere skill in placing one syllable beside another has given acute pleasure to generation after generation of English-speaking people—all this would not have been counted as a merit to Shakespeare, but rather the contrary. It would simply have been one more proof of the irreligious, earthbound nature of Shakespeare and his admirers. Tolstoy would have said that poetry is to be judged by its meaning, and that seductive sounds merely cause false meanings to go unnoticed. At every level it is the same issue—this world against the next: and certainly the music of words is something that belongs to this world.
A sort of doubt has always hung around the character of Tolstoy, as round the character of Gandhi. He was not a vulgar hypocrite, as some people declared him to be, and he would probably have imposed even greater sacrifices on himself than he did, if he had not been interfered with at every step by the people surrounding him, especially his wife. But on the other hand it is dangerous to take such men as Tolstoy at their disciples’ valuation. There is always the possibility—the probability, indeed—that they have done no more than exchange one form of egoism for another. Tolstoy renounced wealth, fame and privilege; he abjured violence in all its forms and was ready to suffer for doing so; but it is not easy to believe that he abjured the principle of coercion, or at least the desire to coerce others. There are families in which the father will say to his child, ‘You’ll get a thick ear if you do that again’, while the mother, her eyes brimming over with tears, will take the child in her arms and murmur lovingly, ‘Now, darling, is it kind to Mummy to do that?’ And who would maintain that the second method is less tyrannous than the first? The distinction that really matters is not between violence and non-violence, but between having and not having the appetite for power. There are people who are convinced of the wickedness both of armies and of police forces, but who are nevertheless much more intolerant and inquisitorial in outlook than the normal person who believes that it is necessary to use violence in certain circumstances. They will not say to somebody else, ‘Do this, that and the other or you will go to prison’, but they will, if they can, get inside his brain and dictate his thoughts for him in the minutest particulars. Creeds like pacifism and anarchism, which seem on the surface to imply a complete renunciation of power, rather encourage this habit of mind. For if you have embraced a creed which appears to be free from the ordinary dirtiness of politics—a creed from which you yourself cannot expect to draw any material advantage—surely that proves that you are in the right? And the more you are in the right, the more natural that everyone else should be bullied into thinking likewise.
If we are to believe what he says in his pamphlet, Tolstoy has never been able to see any merit in Shakespeare, and was always astonished to find that his fellow-writers, Turgenev, Fet and others thought differently. We may be sure that in his unregenerate days Tolstoy’s conclusion would have been: ‘You like Shakespeare—I don’t. Let’s leave it at that.’ Later, when his perception that it takes all ‘sorts to make a world had deserted him, he came to think of Shakespeare’s writings as something dangerous to himself. The more pleasure people took in Shakespeare, the less they would listen to Tolstoy. Therefore nobody must be allowed to enjoy Shakespeare, just as nobody must be allowed to drink alcohol or smoke tobacco. True, Tolstoy would not prevent them by force. He is not demanding that the police shall impound every copy of Shakespeare’s works. But he will do dirt on Shakespeare, if he can. He will try to get inside the mind of every lover of Shakespeare and kill his enjoyment by every trick he can think of, including—as I have shown in my summary of his pamphlet—arguments which are self-contradictory or even doubtfully honest.
But finally the most striking thing is how little difference it all makes. As I said earlier, one cannot answer Tolstoy’s pamphlet, at least on its main counts. There is no argument by which one can defend a poem. It defends itself by surviving, or it is indefensible. And if this test is valid, I think the verdict in Shakespeare’s case must be ‘not guilty’. Like every other writer, Shakespeare will be forgotten sooner or later, but it is unlikely that a heavier indictment will ever be brought against him. Tolstoy was perhaps the most admired literary man of his age, and he was certainly not its least able pamphleteer. He turned all his powers of denunciation against Shakespeare, like all the guns of a battleship roaring simultaneously. And with what result? Forty years later Shakespeare is still there completely unaffected, and of the attempt to demolish him nothing remains except the yellowing pages of a pamphlet which hardly anyone has read, and which would be forgotten altogether if Tolstoy had not also been the author of War and Peace and Anna Karenina.
Tolstoy begins by saying that throughout life Shakespeare has aroused in him ‘an irresistible repulsion and tedium’. Conscious that the opinion of the civilized world is against him, he has made one attempt after another on Shakespeare’s works, reading and re-reading them in Russian, English and German; but ‘I invariably underwent the same feelings; repulsion, weariness and bewilderment’.
Now, at the age of seventy-five, he has once again re-read the entire works of Shakespeare, including the historical plays, and
“I have felt with an even greater force, the same feelings—this time, however, not of bewilderment, but of firm, indubitable conviction that the unquestionable glory of a great genius which Shakespeare enjoys, and which compels writers of our time to imitate him and readers and spectators to discover in him non-existent merits—thereby distorting their aesthetic and ethical understanding—is a great evil, as is every untruth.”
Shakespeare, Tolstoy adds, is not merely no genius, but is not even ‘an average author’, and in order to demonstrate this fact he will examine King Lear, which, as he is able to show by quotations from Hazlitt, Brandes and others, has been extravagantly praised and can be taken as an example of Shakespeare’s best work.
Tolstoy then makes a sort of exposition of the plot of King Lear, finding it at every step to be stupid, verbose, unnatural, unintelligible, bombastic, vulgar, tedious and full of incredible events, ‘wild ravings’, ‘mirthless jokes’, anachronisms, irrelevaricies, obscenities, worn-out stage conventions and other faults both moral and aesthetic. Lear is, in any case, a plagiarism of an earlier and much better play, King Leir, by an unknown author, which Shakespeare stole and then ruined. It is worth quoting a specimen paragraph to illustrate the manner in which Tolstoy goes to work. Act III, Scene 2 (in which Lear, Kent and the Fool are together in the storm) is summarized thus:
“Lear walks about the heath and says words which are meant to express his despair: he desires that the winds should blow so hard that they (the winds) should crack their cheeks and that the rain should flood everything, that lightning should singe his white bead, and the thunder flatten the world and destroy all germs ‘that make ungrateful man’! The fool keeps uttering still more senseless words. Enter Kent: Lear says that for some reason during this storm all criminals shall be found out and convicted. Kent, still unrecognized by Lear, endeavours to persuade him to take refuge in a hovel. At this point the fool utters a prophecy in no wise related to the situation and they all depart.”
Tolstoy’s final verdict on Lear is that no unhypnotized observer, if such an observer existed, could read it to the end with any feeling except ‘aversion and weariness’. And exactly the same is true of ‘all the other extolled dramas of Shakespeare, not to mention the senseless dramatized tales, Pericles, Twelfth Night, The Tempest, Cymbeline, Troilus and Cressida.’
Having dealt with Lear Tolstoy draws up a more general indictment against Shakespeare. He finds that Shakespeare has a certain technical skill which is partly traceable to his having been an actor, but otherwise no merits whatever. He has no power of delineating character or of making words, and actions spring naturally out of situations, his language is uniformly exaggerated and ridiculous, he constantly thrusts his own random thoughts into the mouth of any character who happens to be handy, he displays a ‘complete absence of aesthetic feeling’, and his words ‘have nothing whatever in common with art and poetry’.
‘Shakespeare might have been whatever you like,’ Tolstoy concludes, ‘but he was not an artist.’ Moreover, his opinions are not original or interesting, and his tendency is ‘of the lowest and most immoral’. Curiously enough, Tolstoy does not base this last judgement on Shakespeare’s own utterances, but on the statements of two critics, Gervinus and Brandes. According to Gervinus (or at any, rate Tolstoy’s reading of Gervinus) ‘Shakespeare taught... that one may be too good’, while according to Brandes: ‘Shakespeare’s fundamental principle... is that the end justifies the means.’ Tolstoy adds on his own account that Shakespeare was a jingo patriot of the worst type, but apart from this he considers that Gervinus and Brandes have given a true and adequate description of Shakespeare’s view of life.
Tolstoy then recapitulates in a few paragraphs the theory of art which he had expressed at greater length elsewhere. Put still more shortly, it amounts to a demand for dignity of subject matter, sincerity, and good craftsmanships. A great work of art must deal with some subject which is ‘important to the life of mankind’, it must express someting which the author genuinely feels, and it must use such technical methods as will produce the desired effect. As Shakespeare is debased in outlook, slipshod in execution and incapable of being sincere even for a moment, he obviously stands condemned.
But here there arises a difficult question. If Shakespeare is all that Tolstoy has shown him to be, how did he ever come to be so generally admired? Evidently the answer can only lie in a sort of mass hypnosis, or ‘epidemic suggestion’. The whole civilized world has somehow been deluded into thinking Shakespeare a good writer, and even the plainest demonstration to the contrary makes no impression, because one is not dealing with a reasoned opinion but with something akin to religious faith. Throughout history, says Tolstoy, there has been an endless series of these ‘epidemic suggestions’—for example, the Crusades, the search for the Philosopher’s Stone, the craze for tulip growing which once swept over Holland, and so on and so forth. As a contemporary instance he cites, rather significantly, the Dreyfus case, over which the whole world grew violently excited for no sufficient reason. There are also sudden short-lived crazes for new political and philosophical theories, or for this or that writer, artist or scientist—for example, Darwin who (in 1903) is ‘beginning to be forgotten’. And in some cases a quite worthless popular idol may remain in favour for centuries, for ‘it also happens that such crazes, having arisen in consequence of special reasons accidentally favouring their establishment correspond in such a degree to the views of life spread in society, and especially in literary circles, that they are maintained for a long time’. Shakespeare’s plays have continued to be admired over a long period because ‘they corresponded to the irreligious and unmoral frame of mind of the upper classes of his time and ours’.
As to the manner in which Shakespeare’s fame started, Tolstoy explains it as having been ‘got up’ by German professors towards the end of the eighteenth century. His reputation ‘originated in Germany, and thence was transferred to England’. The Germans chose to elevate Shakespeare because, at a time when there was no German drama worth speaking about and French classical literature was beginning to seem frigid and artificial, they were captivated by Shakespeare’s ‘clever development of scenes’ and also found in him a good expression of their own attitude towards life. Goethe pronounced Shakespeare a great poet, whereupon all the other critics flocked after him like a troop of parrots, and the general infatuation has lasted ever since. The result has been a further debasement of the drama—Tolstoy is careful to include his own plays when condemning the contemporary stage—and a further corruption of the prevailing moral outlook. It follows that ‘the false glorification of Shakespeare’ is an important evil which Tolstoy feels it his duty to combat.
This, then, is the substance of Tolstoy’s pamphlet. One’s first feeling is that in describing Shakespeare as a bad writer he is saying something demonstrably untrue. But this is not the case. In reality there is no kind of evidence or argument by which one can show that Shakespeare, or any other writer, is ‘good’. Nor is there any way of definitely proving that—for instance—Warwick Beeping is ‘bad’. Ultimately there is no test of literary merit except survival, which is itself an index to majority opinion. Artistic theories such as Tolstoy’s are quite worthless, because they not only start out with arbitrary assumptions, but depend on vague terms (‘sincere’, ‘important’ and so forth) which can be interpreted in any way one chooses. Properly speaking one cannot answer Tolstoy’s attack. The interesting question is: why did he make it? But it should be noticed in passing that he uses many weak or dishonest arguments. Some of these are worth pointing out, not because they invalidate his main charge but because they are, so to speak, evidence of malice.
To begin with, his examination of King Lear is not ‘impartial’, as he twice claims. On the contrary, it is a prolonged exercise in misrepresentation. It is obvious that when you are summarizing King Lear for the benefit of someone who has not read it, you are not really being impartial if you introduce an important speech (Lear’s speech when Cordelia is dead in his arms) in this manner: ‘Again begin Lear’s awful ravings, at which one feels’ ashamed, as at unsuccessful jokes.’ And in a long series of instances Tolstoy slightly alters or colours the passages he is criticizing, always in such a way as to make the plot appear a little more complicated and improbable, or the language a little more exaggerated. For example, we are told that Lear ‘has no necessity or motive for his abdication’, although his reason for abdicating (that he is old and wishes to retire from the cares of state) has been clearly indicated in the first scene. It will be seen that even in the passage which I quoted earlier, Tolstoy has wilfully misunderstood one phrase and slightly changed this meaning of another, making nonsense of a remark which is reasonable enough in its context. None of these misreadings is very gross in itself, but their cumulative effect is to exaggerate the psychological incoherence of the play. Again, Tolstoy is not able to explain why Shakespeare’s plays were still in print, and still on the stage, two hundred years after his death (before the ‘epidemic suggestion’ started, that is); and his whole account of Shakespeare’s rise to fame is guesswork punctuated by outright misstatements. And again, various of his accusations contradict one another: for example, Shakespeare is a mere entertainer and ‘not in earnest’, but on the other hand he is constantly putting his own thoughts into the mouths of his characters. On the whole it is difficult to feel that Tolstoy’s criticisms are uttered in good faith. In any case it is impossible that he should fully have believed in his main thesis—believed, that is to say, that for a century or more the entire civilized world had been taken in by a huge and palpable lie which he alone was able to see through. Certainly his dislike of Shakespeare is real enough, but the reasons for it may be different, or partly different, from what he avows; and therein lies the interest of his pamphlet.
At this point one is obliged to start guessing. However, there is one possible clue, or at least there is a question which may point the way to a clue. It is: why did Tolstoy, with thirty or more plays to choose from, pick out King Lear as his especial target? True, Lear is so well known and has beeen so much praised that it could justly be taken as representative of Shakespeare’s best work; still, for the purpose of a hostile analysis Tolstoy would probably choose the play he disliked most. Is it not possible that he bore an especial enmity towards this particular play because he was aware, consciously or unconsciously, of the resemblance between Lear’s story and his own? But it is better to approach this clue from the opposite direction—that is, by examining Lear itself, and the qualities in it that Tolstoy fails to mention.
One of the first things an English reader would notice in Tolstoy’s pamphlet is that it hardly deals with Shakespeare as a poet. Shakespeare is treated as a dramatist, and in so far as his popularity is not spurious, it is held to be due to tricks of stagecraft which give good opportunities to clever actors. Now, so far as the English-speaking countries go, this is not true; Several of the plays which are most valued by lovers of Shakespeare (for instance, Timon of Athens) are seldom or never acted, while some of the most actable, such as A Midsummer Night’s Dream, are the least admired. Those who care most for Shakespeare value him in the first place for his use of language, the ‘verbal music’ which even Bernard Shaw, another hostile critic, admits to be ‘irresistible’. Tolstoy ignores this, and does not seem to realize that a poem may have a special value for those who speak the language in which it was written. However, even if one puts oneself in Tolstoy’s place and tries to think of Shakespeare as a foreign poet it is still clear that there is something that Tolstoy has left out. Poetry, it seems, is not solely a matter of sound and association, and valueless outside its own language-group: otherwise how is it that some poems, including poems written in dead languages, succeed in crossing frontiers? Clearly a lyric like ‘To-morrow is Saint Valentine’s Day’ could not be satisfactorily translated, but in Shakespeare’s major work there is something describable as poetry that can be separated from the words. Tolstoy is right in saying that Lear is not a very good play, as a play. It is too drawn-out and has too many characters and sub-plots. One wicked daughter would have been quite enough, and Edgar is a superfluous character: indeed it would probably be a better play if Gloucester and both his sons were eliminated. Nevertheless, something, a kind of pattern, or perhaps only an atmosphere, survives the complications and the longueurs. Lear can be imagined as a puppet show, a mime, a ballet, a series of pictures. Part of its poetry, perhaps the most essential part, is inherent in the story and is dependent neither on any particular set of words, nor on flesh-and-blood presentation.
Shut your eyes and think of King Lear, if possible without calling to mind any of the dialogue. What do you see? Here at any rate is what I see; a majestic old man in a long black robe, with flowing white hair and beard, a figure out of Blake’s drawings (but also, curiously enough, rather like Tolstoy), wandering through a storm and cursing the heavens, in company with a Fool and a lunatic. Presently the scene shifts and the old man, still cursing, still understanding nothing, is holding a dead girl in his arms while the Fool dangles on a gallows somewhere in the background. This is the bare skeleton of the play, and even here Tolstoy wants to cut out most of what is essential. He objects to the storm, as being unnecessary, to the Fool, who in his eyes is simply a tedious nuisance and an excuse for making bad jokes, and to the death of Cordelia, which, as he sees it, robs the play of its moral. According to Tolstoy, the earlier play. King Leir, which Shakespeare adapted
“terminates more naturally and more in accordance with the moral demands of the spectator than does Shakespeare’s; namely, by the King of the Gauls conquering the husbands of the elder sisters, and by Cordelia, instead of being killed, restoring Leir to his former position.”
In other words the tragedy ought to have been a comedy, or perhaps a melodrama. It is doubtful whether the sense of tragedy is compatible with belief in God: at any rate, it is not compatible with disbelief in human dignity and with the kind of ‘moral demand’ which feels cheated when virtue fails to triumph. A tragic situation exists precisely when virtue does not triumph but when it is still felt that man is nobler than the forces which destroy him. It is perhaps more significant that Tolstoy sees no justification for the presence of the Fool. The Fool is integral to the play. He acts not only as a sort of chorus, making the central situation clearer by commenting on it more intelligently than the other characters, but as a foil to Lear’s frenzies. His jokes, riddles and scraps of rhyme, and his endless digs at Lear’s high-minded folly, ranging from mere derision to a sort of melancholy poetry (‘All thy other titles thou hast given away, that thou wast born with’), are like a trickle of sanity running through the play, a reminder that somewhere or other in spite of the injustices, cruelties, intrigues, deceptions and misunderstandings that are being enacted here, life is going on much as usual. In Tolstoy’s impatience with the Fool one gets a glimpse of his deeper quarrel with Shakespeare. He objects, with some justification, to the raggedness of Shakespeare’s plays, the irrelevancies, the incredible plots, the exaggerated language: but what at bottom he probably most dislikes is a sort of exuberance, a tendency to take—not so much a pleasure as simply an interest in the actual process of life. It is a mistake to write Tolstoy off as a moralist attacking an artist. He never said that art, as such, is wicked or meaningless, nor did he even say that technical virtuosity is unimportant. But his main aim, in his later years, was to narrow the range of human consciousness. One’s interests, one’s points of attachment to the physical world and the day-to-day struggle, must be as few and not as many as possible. Literature must consist of parables,. stripped of detail and almost independent of language. The parables—this is where Tolstoy differs from the average vulgar puritan—must themselves be works of art, but pleasure and curiosity must be excluded from them. Science, also, must be divorced from curiosity. The business of science, he says, is not to discover what happens but to teach men how they ought to live. So also with history and politics. Many problems (for example, the Dreyfus case) are simply not worth solving, and he is willing to leave them as loose ends. Indeed his whole theory of ‘crazes’ or ‘epidemic suggestions’, in which he lumps together such things as the Crusades and the Dutch passion of tulip growing, shows a willingness to regard many human activities as mere ant-like rushings to and fro, inexplicable and uninteresting. Clearly he could have no patience with a chaotic, detailed, discursive writer like Shakespeare. His reaction is that of an irritable old man who is being pestered by a noisy child. ‘Why do you keep jumping up and down like that? Why can’t you sit still like I do?’ In a way the old man is in the right, but the trouble is that the child, has a feeling in its limbs which the old man has lost. And if the old man knows of the existence of this feeling, the effect is merely to increase his irritation: he would make children senile, if he could. Tolstoy does not know, perhaps, just what he misses in Shakespeare, but he is aware that he misses something, and he is determined that others shall be deprived of it as well. By nature he was imperious as well as egotistical. Well after he was grown up he would still occasionally strike his servant in moments of anger, and somewhat later, according to his English biographer, Derrick Leon, he felt ‘a frequent desire upon the slenderest provocation to slap the faces of those with whom he disagreed’. One docs not necessarily get rid of that kind of temperament by undergoing religious conversion, and indeed it is obvious that the illusion of having been reborn may allow one’s native vices to flourish more freely than ever, though perhaps in subtler forms. Tolstoy was capable of abjuring physical violence and of seeing what this implies, but he was not capable of tolerance or humility, and even if one knew nothing of his other writings, one could deduce his tendency towards spiritual bullying from this single pamphlet.
However, Tolstoy is not simply trying to rob others of a pleasure he does not share. He is doing that, but his quarrel with Shakespeare goes further. It is the quarrel between the religious and the humanist attitudes towards life. Here one comes back to the central theme of King Lear, which Tolstoy does not mention, although he sets forth the plot in some detail.
Lear is one of the minority of Shakespeare’s plays that are unmistakably about something. As Tolstoy justly complains, much rubbish has been written about Shakespeare as a philosopher, as a psychologist, as a ‘great moral teacher’, amd what-not. Shakespeare was not a systematic thinker, his most serious thoughts are uttered irrelevantly or indirectly, and we do not know to what extent he wrote with a ‘purpose’or even how much of the work attributed to him was actually written by him. In the sonnets he never even refers to the plays as part of his achievement, though he does make what seems to be a half-ashamed allusion to his career as an actor. It is perfectly possible that he looked on at least half of his plays as mere pot-boilers and hardly bothered about purpose or probability so long as he could patch up something, usually from stolen material, which would more or less hang together on the stage. However, that is not the whole story. To begin with, as Tolstoy himself points out, Shakespeare has a habit of thrusting uncalled-for general reflections into the mouths of his characters. This is a serious fault in a dramatist, but it does not fit in with Tolstoy’s picture of Shakespeare as a vulgar hack who has no opinions of his own and merely wishes to produce the greatest effect with the least trouble. And more than this, about a dozen of his plays, written for the most part later than 1600, do unquestionably have a meaning and even a moral. They revolve round a central subject which in some cases can be reduced to a single word. For example, Macbeth is about ambition, Othello is about jealousy, and Timon of Athens is about money. The subject of Lear is renunciation, and it is only by being wilfully blind that one can fail to understand what Shakespeare is saying.
Lear renounces his throne but expects everyone to continue treating him as a king. He does not see that if he surrenders power, other people will take advantage of his weakness: also that those who flatter him the most grossly, i.e. Regan and Goneril, are exactly the ones who will turn against him. The moment he finds that he can no longer make people obey him as he did before, he falls into a rage which Tolstoy describes as ‘strange and unnatural’, but which in fact is perfectly in character. In his madness and despair, he passes through two moods which again are natural enough in his circumstances, though in one of them it is probable that he is being used partly as a mouthpiece for Shakespeare’s own opinions. One is the mood of disgust in which Lear repents, as it were, for having been a king, and grasps for the first time the rottenness of formal justice and vulgar morality. The other is a mood of impotent fury in which he wreaks imaginary revenges upon those who have wronged him. ‘To have a thousand with red burning spits come hissing in upon ’em!’, and:
“It were a delicate stratagem to shoe
A troop of horse with felt; I’ll put’t in proof;
And when I have stol’n upon these sons-in-law,
Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!”
Only at the end does he realize, as a sane man, that power, revenge and victory are not worth while:
“No, no, no, no! Come, let’s away to prison...
..................... and we’ll wear out
In a wall’d prison, packs and sects of great ones
That ebb and flow by th’ moon.”
But by the time he makes this discovery it is too late, for his death and Cordelia’s are already decided on. That is the story, and, allowing for some clumsiness in the telling, it is a very good story.
But is it not also curiously similar to the history of Tolstoy himself? There is a general resemblance which one can hardly avoid seeing, because the most impressive event in Tolstoy’s life, as in Lear’s, was a huge and gratuitous act of renunciation. In his old age, he renounced his estate, his title and his copyrights, and made an attempt—a sincere attempt, though it was not successful—to escape from his privileged position and live the life of a peasant. But the deeper resemblance lies in the fact that Tolstoy, like Lear, acted on mistaken motives and failed to get the results he had hoped for. According to Tolstoy, the aim of every human being is happiness, and happiness can only be attained by doing the will of God. But doing the will of God means casting off all earthly pleasures and ambitions, and living only for others. Ultimately, therefore, Tolstoy renounced the world under the expectation that this would make him happier. But if there is one thing certain about his later years, it is that he was not happy. On the contraty he was driven almost to the edge of madness by the behaviour of the people about him, who persecuted him precisely because of his renunciation. Like Lear, Tolstoy was not humble and not a good judge of character. He was inclined at moments to revert to the attitudes of an aristocrat, in spite of his peasant’s blouse, and he even had two children whom he had believed in and who ultimately turned against him—though, of course, in a less sensational manner than Regan and Goneril. His exaggerated revulsion from sexuality was also distinctly similar to Lear’s. Tolstoy’s remark that marriage is ‘slavery, satiety, repulsion’ and means putting up with the proximity of ‘ugliness, dirtiness, smell, sores’, is matched by Lear’s well-known outburst:
“But to the girdle do the gods inherit,
Beneath is all the fiends’;
There’s hell, there’s darkness, there’s the sulphurous pit,
Burning, scalding, stench, consumption,” etc., etc.
And though Tolstoy could not foresee it when he wrote his essay on Shakespeare, even the ending of his life—the sudden unplanned flight across country, accompanied only by a faithful daughter, the death in a cottage in a strange village—seems to have in it a sort of phantom reminiscence of Lear.
Of course, one cannot assume that Tolstoy was aware of this resemblance, or would have admitted it if it had been pointed out to him. But his attitude towards the play must have been influenced by its theme. Renouncing power, giving away your lands, was a subject on which he had reason to feel deeply; Probably, therefore, he would be more angered and disturbed by the moral that Shakespeare draws than he would be in the case of some other play—Macbeth, for example—which did not touch so closely on his own life. But what exactly is the moral of Lear? Evidently there are two morals, one explicit, the other implied in the story.
Shakespeare starts by assuming that to make yourself powerless is to invite an attack. This does not mean that everyone will turn against you (Kent and the Fool stand by Lear from first to last), but in all probability someone will. If you throw away your weapons, some less scrupulous person will pick them up. If you turn the other cheek, you will get a harder blow on it than you got on the first one. This docs not always happen, but it is to be expected, and you ought not to complain if it does happen. The second blow is, so to speak, part of the act of turning the other cheek. First of all, therefore, there is the vulgar, common-sense moral drawn by the Fool: ‘Don’t relinquish power, don’t give away your lands.’ But there is also another moral. Shakespeare never utters it in so many words, and it does not very much matter whether he was fully aware of it. It is contained in the story, which, after all, he made up, or altered to suit his purposes. It is: ‘Give away your lands if you want to, but don’t expect to gain happiness by doing so. Probably you won’t gain happiness. If you live for others, you must live for others, and not as a roundabout way of getting an advantage for yourself.’
Obviously neither of these conclusions could have been pleasing to Tolstoy. The first of them expresses the ordinary, belly-to-earth selfishness from which he was genuinely trying to escape. The other conflicts with his desire to eat his cake and have it—that is, to destroy his own egoism and by so doing to gain eternal life. Of course, Lear is not a sermon in favour of altruism. It merely points out the results of practising self-denial for selfish reasons. Shakespeare had a considerable streak of worldliness in him, and if he had been forced to take sides in his own play, his sympathies would probably have lain with the Fool. But at least he could see the whole issue and treat it at the level of tragedy. Vice is punished, but virtue is not rewarded. The morality of Shakespeare’s later tragedies is not religious in the ordinary sense, and certainly is not Christian. Only two of them, Hamlet and Othello, are supposedly occurring inside the Christian era, and even in those, apart from the antics of the ghost in Hamlet, there is no indication of a ‘next world’ where everything is to be put right. All of these tragedies start out with the humanist assumption that life, although full of sorrow, is worth living, and that Man is a noble animal—a belief which Tolstoy in his old age did not share.
Tolstoy was not a saint, but he tried very hard to make himself into a saint, and the standards he applied to literature were other-worldly ones. It is important to realize that the difference between a saint and an ordinary human being is a difference of kind and not of degree. That is, the one is not to be regarded as an imperfect form of the other. The saint, at any rate Tolstoy’s kind of saint, is not trying to work an improvement in earthly life: he is trying to bring it to an end and put something different in its place. One obvious expression of this is the claim that celibacy is ‘higher’ than marriage. If only, Tolstoy says in effect, we would stop breeding, fighting, struggling and enjoying, if we could get rid not only of our sins but of everything else that binds us to the surface of the earth—including love, then the whole painful process would be over and the Kingdom of Heaven would arrive. But a normal human being does not want the Kingdom of Heaven: he wants life on earth to continue. This is not solely because he is ‘weak’, ‘sinful’ and anxious for a ‘good time’. Most people get a fair amount of fun out of their lives, but on balance life is suffering, and only the very young or the very foolish imagine otherwise. Ultimately it is the Christian attitude which is self-interested and hedonistic, since the aim is always to get away from the painful struggle of earthly life and find eternal peace in some kind of Heaven or Nirvana. The humanist attitude is that the struggle must continue and that death is the price of life. ‘Men must endure their going hence, even as their coming hither: Ripeness is all’—which is an un-Christian sentiment. Often there is a seeming truce between the humanist and the religious believer, but in fact their attitudes cannot be reconciled: one must choose between this world and the next. And the enormous majority of human beings, if they understood the issue, would choose this world. They do make that choice when they continue working, breeding and dying instead of crippling their faculties in the hope of obtaining a new lease of existence elsewhere.
We do not know a great deal about Shakespeare’s religious beliefs, and from the evidence of his writings it would be difficult to prove that he had any. But at any rate he was not a saint or a would-be saint: he was a human being, and in some ways not a very good one. It is clear, for instance, that he liked to stand well with the rich and powerful, and was capable of flattering them in the most servile way. He is also noticeably cautious, not to say cowardly, in his manner of uttering unpopular opinions. Almost never does he put a subversive or sceptical remark into the mouth of a character likely to be identified with himself. Throughout his plays the acute social critics, the people who are not taken in by accepted fallacies, are buffoons, villains, lunatics or persons who are shamming insanity or are in a state of violent hysteria. Lear is a play in which this tendency is particularly well marked. It contains a great deal of veiled social criticism—a point Tolstoy misses—but it is all uttered either by the Fool, by Edgar when he is pretending to be mad, or by Lear during his bouts of madness. In his sane moments Lear hardly ever makes an intelligent remark. And yet the very fact that Shakespeare had to use these subterfuges shows how widely his thoughts ranged. He could not restrain himself from commenting on almost everything, although he put on a series of masks in order to do so. If one has once read Shakespeare with attention, it is not easy to go a day without quoting him, because there are not many subjects of major importance that he does not discuss or at least mention somewhere or other, in his unsystematic but illuminating way. Even the irrelevancies that litter every one of his plays—the puns and riddles, the lists of names, the scraps of reportage like the conversation of the carriers in Henry IV the bawdy jokes, the rescued fragments of forgotten ballads—are merely the products of excessive vitality. Shakespeare was not a philosopher or a scientist, but he did have curiosity, he loved the surface of the earth and the process of life—which, it should be repealed, is not the same thing as wanting to have a good time and stay alive as long as possible. Of course, it is not because of the quality of his thought that Shakespeare has survived, and he might not even be remembered as a dramatist if he had not also been a poet. His main hold on us is through language. How deeply Shakespeare himself was fascinated by the music of words can probably be inferred from the speeches of Pistol. What Pistol says is largely meaningless, but if one considers his lines singly they are magnificent rhetorical verse. Evidently, pieces of resounding nonsense (‘Let floods o’erswell, and fiends for food howl on’, etc.) were constantly appearing in Shakespeare’s mind of their own accord, and a half-lunatic character had to be invented to use them up.
Tolstoy’s native tongue was not English, and one cannot blame him for being unmoved by Shakespeare’s verse, nor even, perhaps, for refusing to believe that Shakespeare’s skill with words was something out of the ordinary. But he would also have rejected the whole notion of valuing poetry for its texture—valuing it, that is to say, as a kind of music. If it could somehow have been proved to him that his whole explanation of Shakespeare’s rise to fame is mistaken, that inside the English-speaking world, at any rate, Shakespeare’s popularity is genuine, that his mere skill in placing one syllable beside another has given acute pleasure to generation after generation of English-speaking people—all this would not have been counted as a merit to Shakespeare, but rather the contrary. It would simply have been one more proof of the irreligious, earthbound nature of Shakespeare and his admirers. Tolstoy would have said that poetry is to be judged by its meaning, and that seductive sounds merely cause false meanings to go unnoticed. At every level it is the same issue—this world against the next: and certainly the music of words is something that belongs to this world.
A sort of doubt has always hung around the character of Tolstoy, as round the character of Gandhi. He was not a vulgar hypocrite, as some people declared him to be, and he would probably have imposed even greater sacrifices on himself than he did, if he had not been interfered with at every step by the people surrounding him, especially his wife. But on the other hand it is dangerous to take such men as Tolstoy at their disciples’ valuation. There is always the possibility—the probability, indeed—that they have done no more than exchange one form of egoism for another. Tolstoy renounced wealth, fame and privilege; he abjured violence in all its forms and was ready to suffer for doing so; but it is not easy to believe that he abjured the principle of coercion, or at least the desire to coerce others. There are families in which the father will say to his child, ‘You’ll get a thick ear if you do that again’, while the mother, her eyes brimming over with tears, will take the child in her arms and murmur lovingly, ‘Now, darling, is it kind to Mummy to do that?’ And who would maintain that the second method is less tyrannous than the first? The distinction that really matters is not between violence and non-violence, but between having and not having the appetite for power. There are people who are convinced of the wickedness both of armies and of police forces, but who are nevertheless much more intolerant and inquisitorial in outlook than the normal person who believes that it is necessary to use violence in certain circumstances. They will not say to somebody else, ‘Do this, that and the other or you will go to prison’, but they will, if they can, get inside his brain and dictate his thoughts for him in the minutest particulars. Creeds like pacifism and anarchism, which seem on the surface to imply a complete renunciation of power, rather encourage this habit of mind. For if you have embraced a creed which appears to be free from the ordinary dirtiness of politics—a creed from which you yourself cannot expect to draw any material advantage—surely that proves that you are in the right? And the more you are in the right, the more natural that everyone else should be bullied into thinking likewise.
If we are to believe what he says in his pamphlet, Tolstoy has never been able to see any merit in Shakespeare, and was always astonished to find that his fellow-writers, Turgenev, Fet and others thought differently. We may be sure that in his unregenerate days Tolstoy’s conclusion would have been: ‘You like Shakespeare—I don’t. Let’s leave it at that.’ Later, when his perception that it takes all ‘sorts to make a world had deserted him, he came to think of Shakespeare’s writings as something dangerous to himself. The more pleasure people took in Shakespeare, the less they would listen to Tolstoy. Therefore nobody must be allowed to enjoy Shakespeare, just as nobody must be allowed to drink alcohol or smoke tobacco. True, Tolstoy would not prevent them by force. He is not demanding that the police shall impound every copy of Shakespeare’s works. But he will do dirt on Shakespeare, if he can. He will try to get inside the mind of every lover of Shakespeare and kill his enjoyment by every trick he can think of, including—as I have shown in my summary of his pamphlet—arguments which are self-contradictory or even doubtfully honest.
But finally the most striking thing is how little difference it all makes. As I said earlier, one cannot answer Tolstoy’s pamphlet, at least on its main counts. There is no argument by which one can defend a poem. It defends itself by surviving, or it is indefensible. And if this test is valid, I think the verdict in Shakespeare’s case must be ‘not guilty’. Like every other writer, Shakespeare will be forgotten sooner or later, but it is unlikely that a heavier indictment will ever be brought against him. Tolstoy was perhaps the most admired literary man of his age, and he was certainly not its least able pamphleteer. He turned all his powers of denunciation against Shakespeare, like all the guns of a battleship roaring simultaneously. And with what result? Forty years later Shakespeare is still there completely unaffected, and of the attempt to demolish him nothing remains except the yellowing pages of a pamphlet which hardly anyone has read, and which would be forgotten altogether if Tolstoy had not also been the author of War and Peace and Anna Karenina.
Τετάρτη 11 Αυγούστου 2010
DA ARTE DA FUGA-Shooting an Elephant
Fugindo do Português para o Inglês
IN Moulmein, in lower Burma,
I was hated by large numbers of people—the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me.
I was sub-divisional police
officer of the town, and in an aimless, petty kind of way anti-European feeling was very bitter.
No one had the guts to raise a riot, but if a European woman went through the bazaars alone
somebody would probably spit betel juice over her dress. As a police officer I was an obvious
target and was baited whenever it seemed safe to do so. When a nimble Burman tripped me up
on the football field and the referee (another Burman) looked the other way, the crowd yelled
with hideous laughter. This happened more than once. In the end the sneering yellow faces of
young men that met me everywhere, the insults hooted after me when I was at a safe distance,
got badly on my nerves.
The young Buddhist priests were the worst of all. There were several
thousands of them in the town and none of them seemed to have anything to do except stand on
street corners and jeer at Europeans.
All this was perplexing and upsetting. For at that time I had already made up my mind that
imperialism was an evil thing and the sooner I chucked up my job and got out of it the better.
Theoretically—and secretly, of course—I was all for the Burmese and all against their
oppressors, the British.
As for the job I was doing, I hated it more bitterly than I can perhaps
make clear.
In a job like that you see the dirty work of Empire at close quarters. The wretchedprisoners huddling in the stinking cages of the lock-ups, the grey, cowed faces of the long-term
convicts, the scarred buttocks of the men who had been flogged with bamboos—all these
oppressed me with an intolerable sense of guilt. But I could get nothing into perspective. I was
young and ill-educated and I had had to think out my problems in the utter silence that is
imposed on every Englishman in the East.
I did not even know that the British Empire is dying,
still less did I know that it is a great deal better than the younger empires that are going to
supplant it. All I knew was that I was stuck between my hatred of the empire I served and my
rage against the evil-spirited little beasts who tried to make my job impossible. With one part of
my mind I thought of the British Raj as an unbreakable tyranny, as something clamped down, in
sæcula sæculorum, upon the will of prostrate peoples; with another part I thought that the
greatest joy in the world would be to drive a bayonet into a Buddhist priest’s guts. Feelings like
these are the normal by-products of imperialism; ask any Anglo-Indian official, if you can catch
him off duty.
One day something happened which in a roundabout way was enlightening. It was a tiny incident
in itself, but it gave me a better glimpse than I had had before of the real nature of imperialism—
the real motives for which despotic governments act. Early one morning the sub-inspector at a
police station the other end of the town rang me up on the phone and said that an elephant was
ravaging the bazaar.
Would I please come and do something about it? I did not know what I
could do, but I wanted to see what was happening and I got on to a pony and started out. I took
my rifle, an old .44 Winchester and much too small to kill an elephant, but I thought the noise
might be useful in terrorem. Various Burmans stopped me on the way and told me about the
elephant’s doings. It was not, of course, a wild elephant, but a tame one which had gone “must.”
It had been chained up, as tame elephants always are when their attack of “must” is due, but on
the previous night it had broken its chain and escaped. Its mahout, the only person who could
manage it when it was in that state, had set out in pursuit, but had taken the wrong direction and
was now twelve hours’ journey away, and in the morning the elephant had suddenly reappeared
in the town. The Burmese population had no weapons and were quite helpless against it. It had
already destroyed somebody’s bamboo hut, killed a cow and raided some fruit-stalls and
devoured the stock; also it had met the municipal rubbish van and, when the driver jumped out
and took to his heels, had turned the van over and inflicted violences upon it.
The Burmese sub-inspector and some Indian constables were waiting for me in the quarter where
the elephant had been seen. It was a very poor quarter, a labyrinth of squalid bamboo huts,
thatched with palmleaf, winding all over a steep hillside. I remember that it was a cloudy, stuffy
morning at the beginning of the rains. We began questioning the people as to where the elephantby
had gone and, as usual, failed to get any definite information. That is invariably the case in the
East; a story always sounds clear enough at a distance, but the nearer you get to the scene of
events the vaguer it becomes. Some of the people said that the elephant had gone in one
direction, some said that he had gone in another, some professed not even to have heard of any
elephant. I had almost made up my mind that the whole story was a pack of lies, when we heard
yells a little distance away. There was a loud, scandalized cry of “Go away, child! Go away this
instant!” and an old woman with a switch in her hand came round the corner of a hut, violently
shooing away a crowd of naked children.
Some more women followed, clicking their tongues
and exclaiming; evidently there was something that the children ought not to have seen. I
rounded the hut and saw a man’s dead body sprawling in the mud. He was an Indian, a black
Dravidian coolie, almost naked, and he could not have been dead many minutes. The people said
that the elephant had come suddenly upon him round the corner of the hut, caught him with its
trunk, put its foot on his back and ground him into the earth. This was the rainy season and the
ground was soft, and his face had scored a trench a foot deep and a couple of yards long. He was
lying on his belly with arms crucified and head sharply twisted to one side. His face was coated
with mud, the eyes wide open, the teeth bared and grinning with an expression of unendurable
agony. (Never tell me, by the way, that the dead look peaceful. Most of the corpses I have seen
looked devilish.) The friction of the great beast’s foot had stripped the skin from his back as
neatly as one skins a rabbit. As soon as I saw the dead man I sent an orderly to a friend’s house
nearby to borrow an elephant rifle. I had already sent back the pony, not wanting it to go mad
with fright and throw me if it smelt the elephant.
The orderly came back in a few minutes with a rifle and five cartridges, and meanwhile some
Burmans had arrived and told us that the elephant was in the paddy fields below, only a few
hundred yards away. As I started forward practically the whole population of the quarter flocked
out of the houses and followed me. They had seen the rifle and were all shouting excitedly that I
was going to shoot the elephant. They had not shown much interest in the elephant when he was
merely ravaging their homes, but it was different now that he was going to be shot. It was a bit of
fun to them, as it would be to an English crowd; besides they wanted the meat. It made me
vaguely uneasy. I had no intention of shooting the elephant—I had merely sent for the rifle to
defend myself if necessary—and it is always unnerving to have a crowd following you. I
marched down the hill, looking and feeling a fool, with the rifle over my shoulder and an evergrowing
army of people jostling at my heels. At the bottom, when you got away from the huts,
there was a metalled road and beyond that a miry waste of paddy fields a thousand yards across,
not yet ploughed but soggy from the first rains and dotted with coarse grass. The elephant was
standing eight yards from the road, his left side towards us. He took not the slightest notice of the
crowd’s approach. He was tearing up bunches of grass, beating them against his knees to clean
them and stuffing them into his mouth.
I had halted on the road. As soon as I saw the elephant I knew with perfect certainty that I ought
not to shoot him. It is a serious matter to shoot a working elephant—it is comparable to
destroying a huge and costly piece of machinery—and obviously one ought not to do it if it can
possibly be avoided. And at that distance, peacefully eating, the elephant looked no more
dangerous than a cow. I thought then and I think now that his attack of “must” was already
passing off; in which case he would merely wander harmlessly about until the mahout came back
and caught him. Moreover, I did not in the least want to shoot him. I decided that I would watch
him for a little while to make sure that he did not turn savage again, and then go home.
But at that moment I glanced round at the crowd that had followed me. It was an immense
crowd, two thousand at the least and growing every minute. It blocked the road for a long
distance on either side. I looked at the sea of yellow faces above the garish clothes-faces all
happy and excited over this bit of fun, all certain that the elephant was going to be shot. They
were watching me as they would watch a conjurer about to perform a trick. They did not like me,
but with the magical rifle in my hands I was momentarily worth watching. And suddenly I
realized that I should have to shoot the elephant after all. The people expected it of me and I had
got to do it; I could feel their two thousand wills pressing me forward, irresistibly. And it was at
this moment, as I stood there with the rifle in my hands, that I first grasped the hollowness, the
futility of the white man’s dominion in the East. Here was I, the white man with his gun,
standing in front of the unarmed native crowd—seemingly the leading actor of the piece; but in
reality I was only an absurd puppet pushed to and fro by the will of those yellow faces behind. I
perceived in this moment that when the white man turns tyrant it is his own freedom that he
destroys. He becomes a sort of hollow, posing dummy, the conventionalized figure of a sahib.
For it is the condition of his rule that he shall spend his life in trying to impress the “natives,”
and so in every crisis he has got to do what the “natives” expect of him. He wears a mask, and
his face grows to fit it. I had got to shoot the elephant. I had committed myself to doing it when I
sent for the rifle. A sahib has got to act like a sahib; he has got to appear resolute, to know his
own mind and do definite things. To come all that way, rifle in hand, with two thousand people
marching at my heels, and then to trail feebly away, having done nothing—no, that was
impossible. The crowd would laugh at me. And my whole life, every white man’s life in the
East, was one long struggle not to be laughed at.
But I did not want to shoot the elephant. I watched him beating his bunch of grass against his
knees, with that preoccupied grandmotherly air that elephants have. It seemed to me that it would
be murder to shoot him. At that age I was not squeamish about killing animals, but I had never
shot an elephant and never wanted to. (Somehow it always seems worse to kill a large animal.)
Besides, there was the beast’s owner to be considered. Alive, the elephant was worth at least a
hundred pounds; dead, he would only be worth the value of his tusks, five pounds, possibly. But
I had got to act quickly. I turned to some experienced-looking Burmans who had been there
when we arrived, and asked them how the elephant had been behaving. They all said the same
thing: he took no notice of you if you left him alone, but he might charge if you went too close to
him.
It was perfectly clear to me what I ought to do. I ought to walk up to within, say, twenty-five
yards of the elephant and test his behavior. If he charged, I could shoot; if he took no notice of
me, it would be safe to leave him until the mahout came back. But also I knew that I was going
to do no such thing. I was a poor shot with a rifle and the ground was soft mud into which one
would sink at every step. If the elephant charged and I missed him, I should have about as much
chance as a toad under a steam-roller. But even then I was not thinking particularly of my own
skin, only of the watchful yellow faces behind. For at that moment, with the crowd watching me,
I was not afraid in the ordinary sense, as I would have been if I had been alone. A white man
mustn’t be frightened in front of “natives”; and so, in general, he isn’t frightened. The sole
thought in my mind was that if anything went wrong those two thousand Burmans would see me
pursued, caught, trampled on and reduced to a grinning corpse like that Indian up the hill. And if
that happened it was quite probable that some of them would laugh. That would never do.
There was only one alternative. I shoved the cartridges into the magazine and lay down on the
road to get a better aim. The crowd grew very still, and a deep, low, happy sigh, as of people
who see the theatre curtain go up at last, breathed from innumerable throats. They were going to
have their bit of fun after all. The rifle was a beautiful German thing with cross-hair sights. I did
not then know that in shooting an elephant one would shoot to cut an imaginary bar running from
ear-hole to ear-hole. I ought, therefore, as the elephant was sideways on, to have aimed straight
at his ear-hole, actually I aimed several inches in front of this, thinking the brain would be
further forward.
When I pulled the trigger I did not hear the bang or feel the kick—one never does when a shot
goes home—but I heard the devilish roar of glee that went up from the crowd. In that instant, in
too short a time, one would have thought, even for the bullet to get there, a mysterious, terrible
change had come over the elephant. He neither stirred nor fell, but every line of his body had
altered. He looked suddenly stricken, shrunken, immensely old, as though the frighfful impact of
the bullet had paralysed him without knocking him down. At last, after what seemed a long
time—it might have been five seconds, I dare say—he sagged flabbily to his knees. His mouth
slobbered. An enormous senility seemed to have settled upon him. One could have imagined him
thousands of years old. I fired again into the same spot. At the second shot he did not collapse
but climbed with desperate slowness to his feet and stood weakly upright, with legs sagging and
head drooping. I fired a third time. That was the shot that did for him. You could see the agony
of it jolt his whole body and knock the last remnant of strength from his legs. But in falling he
seemed for a moment to rise, for as his hind legs collapsed beneath him he seemed to tower
upward like a huge rock toppling, his trunk reaching skyward like a tree. He trumpeted, for the
first and only time. And then down he came, his belly towards me, with a crash that seemed to
shake the ground even where I lay.
I got up. The Burmans were already racing past me across the mud. It was obvious that the
elephant would never rise again, but he was not dead. He was breathing very rhythmically with
long rattling gasps, his great mound of a side painfully rising and falling. His mouth was wide
open—I could see far down into caverns of pale pink throat.
I waited a long time for him to die,
but his breathing did not weaken. Finally I fired my two remaining shots into the spot where I
thought his heart must be. The thick blood welled out of him like red velvet, but still he did not
die.
His body did not even jerk when the shots hit him, the tortured breathing continued without
a pause. He was dying, very slowly and in great agony, but in some world remote from me where not even a bullet could damage him further.
I felt that I had got to put an end to that dreadful
noise. It seemed dreadful to see the great beast Lying there, powerless to move and yet powerless
to die, and not even to be able to finish him. I sent back for my small rifle and poured shot after
shot into his heart and down his throat. They seemed to make no impression. The tortured gasps
continued as steadily as the ticking of a clock.
In the end I could not stand it any longer and went away. I heard later that it took him half an
hour to die. Burmans were bringing dahs and baskets even before I left, and I was told they had
stripped his body almost to the bones by the afternoon.
Afterwards, of course, there were endless discussions about the shooting of the elephant. The
owner was furious, but he was only an Indian and could do nothing. Besides, legally I had done
the right thing, for a mad elephant has to be killed, like a mad dog, if its owner fails to control it.
Among the Europeans opinion was divided. The older men said I was right, the younger men
said it was a damn shame to shoot an elephant for killing a coolie, because an elephant was
worth more than any damn Coringhee coolie. And afterwards I was very glad that the coolie had
been killed; it put me legally in the right and it gave me a sufficient pretext for shooting the elephant.
I often wondered whether any of the others grasped that I had done it solely to avoid looking a fool.
IN Moulmein, in lower Burma,
I was hated by large numbers of people—the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me.
I was sub-divisional police
officer of the town, and in an aimless, petty kind of way anti-European feeling was very bitter.
No one had the guts to raise a riot, but if a European woman went through the bazaars alone
somebody would probably spit betel juice over her dress. As a police officer I was an obvious
target and was baited whenever it seemed safe to do so. When a nimble Burman tripped me up
on the football field and the referee (another Burman) looked the other way, the crowd yelled
with hideous laughter. This happened more than once. In the end the sneering yellow faces of
young men that met me everywhere, the insults hooted after me when I was at a safe distance,
got badly on my nerves.
The young Buddhist priests were the worst of all. There were several
thousands of them in the town and none of them seemed to have anything to do except stand on
street corners and jeer at Europeans.
All this was perplexing and upsetting. For at that time I had already made up my mind that
imperialism was an evil thing and the sooner I chucked up my job and got out of it the better.
Theoretically—and secretly, of course—I was all for the Burmese and all against their
oppressors, the British.
As for the job I was doing, I hated it more bitterly than I can perhaps
make clear.
In a job like that you see the dirty work of Empire at close quarters. The wretchedprisoners huddling in the stinking cages of the lock-ups, the grey, cowed faces of the long-term
convicts, the scarred buttocks of the men who had been flogged with bamboos—all these
oppressed me with an intolerable sense of guilt. But I could get nothing into perspective. I was
young and ill-educated and I had had to think out my problems in the utter silence that is
imposed on every Englishman in the East.
I did not even know that the British Empire is dying,
still less did I know that it is a great deal better than the younger empires that are going to
supplant it. All I knew was that I was stuck between my hatred of the empire I served and my
rage against the evil-spirited little beasts who tried to make my job impossible. With one part of
my mind I thought of the British Raj as an unbreakable tyranny, as something clamped down, in
sæcula sæculorum, upon the will of prostrate peoples; with another part I thought that the
greatest joy in the world would be to drive a bayonet into a Buddhist priest’s guts. Feelings like
these are the normal by-products of imperialism; ask any Anglo-Indian official, if you can catch
him off duty.
One day something happened which in a roundabout way was enlightening. It was a tiny incident
in itself, but it gave me a better glimpse than I had had before of the real nature of imperialism—
the real motives for which despotic governments act. Early one morning the sub-inspector at a
police station the other end of the town rang me up on the phone and said that an elephant was
ravaging the bazaar.
Would I please come and do something about it? I did not know what I
could do, but I wanted to see what was happening and I got on to a pony and started out. I took
my rifle, an old .44 Winchester and much too small to kill an elephant, but I thought the noise
might be useful in terrorem. Various Burmans stopped me on the way and told me about the
elephant’s doings. It was not, of course, a wild elephant, but a tame one which had gone “must.”
It had been chained up, as tame elephants always are when their attack of “must” is due, but on
the previous night it had broken its chain and escaped. Its mahout, the only person who could
manage it when it was in that state, had set out in pursuit, but had taken the wrong direction and
was now twelve hours’ journey away, and in the morning the elephant had suddenly reappeared
in the town. The Burmese population had no weapons and were quite helpless against it. It had
already destroyed somebody’s bamboo hut, killed a cow and raided some fruit-stalls and
devoured the stock; also it had met the municipal rubbish van and, when the driver jumped out
and took to his heels, had turned the van over and inflicted violences upon it.
The Burmese sub-inspector and some Indian constables were waiting for me in the quarter where
the elephant had been seen. It was a very poor quarter, a labyrinth of squalid bamboo huts,
thatched with palmleaf, winding all over a steep hillside. I remember that it was a cloudy, stuffy
morning at the beginning of the rains. We began questioning the people as to where the elephantby
had gone and, as usual, failed to get any definite information. That is invariably the case in the
East; a story always sounds clear enough at a distance, but the nearer you get to the scene of
events the vaguer it becomes. Some of the people said that the elephant had gone in one
direction, some said that he had gone in another, some professed not even to have heard of any
elephant. I had almost made up my mind that the whole story was a pack of lies, when we heard
yells a little distance away. There was a loud, scandalized cry of “Go away, child! Go away this
instant!” and an old woman with a switch in her hand came round the corner of a hut, violently
shooing away a crowd of naked children.
Some more women followed, clicking their tongues
and exclaiming; evidently there was something that the children ought not to have seen. I
rounded the hut and saw a man’s dead body sprawling in the mud. He was an Indian, a black
Dravidian coolie, almost naked, and he could not have been dead many minutes. The people said
that the elephant had come suddenly upon him round the corner of the hut, caught him with its
trunk, put its foot on his back and ground him into the earth. This was the rainy season and the
ground was soft, and his face had scored a trench a foot deep and a couple of yards long. He was
lying on his belly with arms crucified and head sharply twisted to one side. His face was coated
with mud, the eyes wide open, the teeth bared and grinning with an expression of unendurable
agony. (Never tell me, by the way, that the dead look peaceful. Most of the corpses I have seen
looked devilish.) The friction of the great beast’s foot had stripped the skin from his back as
neatly as one skins a rabbit. As soon as I saw the dead man I sent an orderly to a friend’s house
nearby to borrow an elephant rifle. I had already sent back the pony, not wanting it to go mad
with fright and throw me if it smelt the elephant.
The orderly came back in a few minutes with a rifle and five cartridges, and meanwhile some
Burmans had arrived and told us that the elephant was in the paddy fields below, only a few
hundred yards away. As I started forward practically the whole population of the quarter flocked
out of the houses and followed me. They had seen the rifle and were all shouting excitedly that I
was going to shoot the elephant. They had not shown much interest in the elephant when he was
merely ravaging their homes, but it was different now that he was going to be shot. It was a bit of
fun to them, as it would be to an English crowd; besides they wanted the meat. It made me
vaguely uneasy. I had no intention of shooting the elephant—I had merely sent for the rifle to
defend myself if necessary—and it is always unnerving to have a crowd following you. I
marched down the hill, looking and feeling a fool, with the rifle over my shoulder and an evergrowing
army of people jostling at my heels. At the bottom, when you got away from the huts,
there was a metalled road and beyond that a miry waste of paddy fields a thousand yards across,
not yet ploughed but soggy from the first rains and dotted with coarse grass. The elephant was
standing eight yards from the road, his left side towards us. He took not the slightest notice of the
crowd’s approach. He was tearing up bunches of grass, beating them against his knees to clean
them and stuffing them into his mouth.
I had halted on the road. As soon as I saw the elephant I knew with perfect certainty that I ought
not to shoot him. It is a serious matter to shoot a working elephant—it is comparable to
destroying a huge and costly piece of machinery—and obviously one ought not to do it if it can
possibly be avoided. And at that distance, peacefully eating, the elephant looked no more
dangerous than a cow. I thought then and I think now that his attack of “must” was already
passing off; in which case he would merely wander harmlessly about until the mahout came back
and caught him. Moreover, I did not in the least want to shoot him. I decided that I would watch
him for a little while to make sure that he did not turn savage again, and then go home.
But at that moment I glanced round at the crowd that had followed me. It was an immense
crowd, two thousand at the least and growing every minute. It blocked the road for a long
distance on either side. I looked at the sea of yellow faces above the garish clothes-faces all
happy and excited over this bit of fun, all certain that the elephant was going to be shot. They
were watching me as they would watch a conjurer about to perform a trick. They did not like me,
but with the magical rifle in my hands I was momentarily worth watching. And suddenly I
realized that I should have to shoot the elephant after all. The people expected it of me and I had
got to do it; I could feel their two thousand wills pressing me forward, irresistibly. And it was at
this moment, as I stood there with the rifle in my hands, that I first grasped the hollowness, the
futility of the white man’s dominion in the East. Here was I, the white man with his gun,
standing in front of the unarmed native crowd—seemingly the leading actor of the piece; but in
reality I was only an absurd puppet pushed to and fro by the will of those yellow faces behind. I
perceived in this moment that when the white man turns tyrant it is his own freedom that he
destroys. He becomes a sort of hollow, posing dummy, the conventionalized figure of a sahib.
For it is the condition of his rule that he shall spend his life in trying to impress the “natives,”
and so in every crisis he has got to do what the “natives” expect of him. He wears a mask, and
his face grows to fit it. I had got to shoot the elephant. I had committed myself to doing it when I
sent for the rifle. A sahib has got to act like a sahib; he has got to appear resolute, to know his
own mind and do definite things. To come all that way, rifle in hand, with two thousand people
marching at my heels, and then to trail feebly away, having done nothing—no, that was
impossible. The crowd would laugh at me. And my whole life, every white man’s life in the
East, was one long struggle not to be laughed at.
But I did not want to shoot the elephant. I watched him beating his bunch of grass against his
knees, with that preoccupied grandmotherly air that elephants have. It seemed to me that it would
be murder to shoot him. At that age I was not squeamish about killing animals, but I had never
shot an elephant and never wanted to. (Somehow it always seems worse to kill a large animal.)
Besides, there was the beast’s owner to be considered. Alive, the elephant was worth at least a
hundred pounds; dead, he would only be worth the value of his tusks, five pounds, possibly. But
I had got to act quickly. I turned to some experienced-looking Burmans who had been there
when we arrived, and asked them how the elephant had been behaving. They all said the same
thing: he took no notice of you if you left him alone, but he might charge if you went too close to
him.
It was perfectly clear to me what I ought to do. I ought to walk up to within, say, twenty-five
yards of the elephant and test his behavior. If he charged, I could shoot; if he took no notice of
me, it would be safe to leave him until the mahout came back. But also I knew that I was going
to do no such thing. I was a poor shot with a rifle and the ground was soft mud into which one
would sink at every step. If the elephant charged and I missed him, I should have about as much
chance as a toad under a steam-roller. But even then I was not thinking particularly of my own
skin, only of the watchful yellow faces behind. For at that moment, with the crowd watching me,
I was not afraid in the ordinary sense, as I would have been if I had been alone. A white man
mustn’t be frightened in front of “natives”; and so, in general, he isn’t frightened. The sole
thought in my mind was that if anything went wrong those two thousand Burmans would see me
pursued, caught, trampled on and reduced to a grinning corpse like that Indian up the hill. And if
that happened it was quite probable that some of them would laugh. That would never do.
There was only one alternative. I shoved the cartridges into the magazine and lay down on the
road to get a better aim. The crowd grew very still, and a deep, low, happy sigh, as of people
who see the theatre curtain go up at last, breathed from innumerable throats. They were going to
have their bit of fun after all. The rifle was a beautiful German thing with cross-hair sights. I did
not then know that in shooting an elephant one would shoot to cut an imaginary bar running from
ear-hole to ear-hole. I ought, therefore, as the elephant was sideways on, to have aimed straight
at his ear-hole, actually I aimed several inches in front of this, thinking the brain would be
further forward.
When I pulled the trigger I did not hear the bang or feel the kick—one never does when a shot
goes home—but I heard the devilish roar of glee that went up from the crowd. In that instant, in
too short a time, one would have thought, even for the bullet to get there, a mysterious, terrible
change had come over the elephant. He neither stirred nor fell, but every line of his body had
altered. He looked suddenly stricken, shrunken, immensely old, as though the frighfful impact of
the bullet had paralysed him without knocking him down. At last, after what seemed a long
time—it might have been five seconds, I dare say—he sagged flabbily to his knees. His mouth
slobbered. An enormous senility seemed to have settled upon him. One could have imagined him
thousands of years old. I fired again into the same spot. At the second shot he did not collapse
but climbed with desperate slowness to his feet and stood weakly upright, with legs sagging and
head drooping. I fired a third time. That was the shot that did for him. You could see the agony
of it jolt his whole body and knock the last remnant of strength from his legs. But in falling he
seemed for a moment to rise, for as his hind legs collapsed beneath him he seemed to tower
upward like a huge rock toppling, his trunk reaching skyward like a tree. He trumpeted, for the
first and only time. And then down he came, his belly towards me, with a crash that seemed to
shake the ground even where I lay.
I got up. The Burmans were already racing past me across the mud. It was obvious that the
elephant would never rise again, but he was not dead. He was breathing very rhythmically with
long rattling gasps, his great mound of a side painfully rising and falling. His mouth was wide
open—I could see far down into caverns of pale pink throat.
I waited a long time for him to die,
but his breathing did not weaken. Finally I fired my two remaining shots into the spot where I
thought his heart must be. The thick blood welled out of him like red velvet, but still he did not
die.
His body did not even jerk when the shots hit him, the tortured breathing continued without
a pause. He was dying, very slowly and in great agony, but in some world remote from me where not even a bullet could damage him further.
I felt that I had got to put an end to that dreadful
noise. It seemed dreadful to see the great beast Lying there, powerless to move and yet powerless
to die, and not even to be able to finish him. I sent back for my small rifle and poured shot after
shot into his heart and down his throat. They seemed to make no impression. The tortured gasps
continued as steadily as the ticking of a clock.
In the end I could not stand it any longer and went away. I heard later that it took him half an
hour to die. Burmans were bringing dahs and baskets even before I left, and I was told they had
stripped his body almost to the bones by the afternoon.
Afterwards, of course, there were endless discussions about the shooting of the elephant. The
owner was furious, but he was only an Indian and could do nothing. Besides, legally I had done
the right thing, for a mad elephant has to be killed, like a mad dog, if its owner fails to control it.
Among the Europeans opinion was divided. The older men said I was right, the younger men
said it was a damn shame to shoot an elephant for killing a coolie, because an elephant was
worth more than any damn Coringhee coolie. And afterwards I was very glad that the coolie had
been killed; it put me legally in the right and it gave me a sufficient pretext for shooting the elephant.
I often wondered whether any of the others grasped that I had done it solely to avoid looking a fool.
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