HOW
THE CLASSICS MADE SHAKESPEARE
Jonathan Bate
ISBN 978-0-691-16160-0
The first of this volume’s fourteen chapters,
The Intelligence of Antiquity,
begins with a question: What did Shakespeare believe? Bate’s answer
is that we can only guess. It would be difficult to say the same of
any modern writer.
From, say, Defoe, we have a relatively clear idea about writers’
beliefs and from the beginning of the twentieth century it was
almost de
rigueur for a writer’s
colours to be nailed to some mast. When Tom Stoppard speaks of the
courage of his lack of convictions, it hardly convinces. Which side
of the modern political divide he’s on is obvious. How could
Shakespeare make himself our greatest writer and at the same time
conceal his beliefs, not to mention most of the detail of his life?
Part of the explanation may be provided by Bate’s thesis: his
gaze was essentially retrospective. Educated in the classics in his
Stratford grammar school ( a type of institution about which he made
not entirely flattering remarks) he shaped his plays and poems out
of what he found in Aeschylus, Aristophanes, Aristotle, Cicero,
Seneca, Ovid, Virgil, Horace. He made himself a classic by drawing
on the classics. The writers of the classic Greek and Roman worlds
were free of our plague: an obsession with the future. Henry Ford’s
view of history is typical. It would be easy to be reductive and
explain the prevailing mentality in terms of economic arrangements.
Yet, however we try to resist this, it looks feasible that we have
trapped ourselves. There is no money to be made in the past.
Shakespeare, like the writers he made use of, was part of a
culture which valued the arts as a source of wisdom. They provided
lessons and a guide to life. They were neither mere entertainment
nor a good business venture. What Shakespeare as a schoolboy learnt
from Ovid, Bate argues, is that “the only constant is change”. This
delight in motion, in mutability, as a literary procedure is known
as energeia. Shakespeare
had the knack of combining it with Quintilian’s
enargeia, vivid
scene-making. Added to these is the rhetorical composition which
pervaded public discourse in Elizabethan England, the ability,
essentially to put all sides of an argument. These, Bate suggests,
are the three elements which combine to lift Shakespeare’s writing
to its supremacy.
Rhetoric, however, was his primary technique. Today the term
is debased, meaning not much more than speechifying, but as defined
by Aristotle it meant the ability to think logically and
insightfully, to comprehend human motivations. Bate claims
Shakespeare elaborated his characters from what he calls:
a personalised rhetoric of
illustrative parallel. Characters are drawn from paradigms. They
are what they are because they aren’t something else: Horatio is not
a warrior, Coriolanus is not a thinker. Shakespeare builds character
by making the parallels apparent through the employment of rhetoric
such as, at its highest, Hamlet’s soliloquies. Plays rely on
character types. By setting one against the other each is thrown
into relief. Shakespeare’s audiences would have been familiar with
the classics and would have referred what they were seeing on stage
to what they had in their heads. Thus, Lady MacBeth declaring that,
had she vowed to, she would have plucked her baby from her breast
and smashed its brains, would remind the audience of Medea.
The Tudors were engaged in nation-building. The word
“national” entered the language in the early seventeenth century, at
about the time that notions of “country” and “posterity” became
current, Quintilian being the principle source. His
Institutio Oratoria
provided the basis for attribution of genre. William Webbe, one of
our earliest literary critics, who regretted the “infinite
fardles..” of pamphlets proliferating in 1586, was engaged in the
effort to shape a gentlemanly literature based on classical form.
From Webbe to Hemmings and Condell’s classification of Shakespeare’s
works was a short step. Given that the idea of originality didn’t
take hold till the late eighteenth century, Shakespeare was working
in a culture where writers were expected to play a role in the
formation of a national consciousness, works were expected to fit
into classical genres and draw on classical material, and literature
was by definition the province of an educated minority.
Shakespeare, however, Bate argues, saw the lack of dramatic
power in some aspects of, for example,
Virgil’s heroic idiom. In an ingenious argument about the
hiatus at the end of the Pyrrhus speech in
Hamlet, he establishes
Shakespeare as an originator, an iconoclast who could ransack the
classics for what he found valuable but was no slavish imitator;
rather, he could be a mischievous and witty satirist.
The book is peppered with this kind of satisfying argument.
Bate reaches back to the classical sources, identifies how they made
an appearance in Shakespeare and conducts a thorough and
nimble-footed analysis of the relevant parts of the plays. He
structures his chapters around an idea,
The Good Life, which
permits him to explore how Shakespeare responded to Horace and
Epicurus, the ideas of
negotium and otium;
The Defence of Phantasms
where he can muse on the relationship between the fantastical nature
of theatre and the Protestant dislike of image-making. In that
regard, it’s worth asking whether Shakespeare adopted what might be
called a Protestant view of self. Catholics have to do what the Pope
or the priest tells them. They aren’t permitted to make their own
agreement with existence. Yet in Hamlet’s soliloquies, for example,
don’t we see exactly that? Isn’t Hamlet’s an essentially Protestant
conscience? Doesn’t Shakespeare show us, in play after play, the
experience of character’s fighting through to their own view of what
is right or necessary?
Here and there a question might be raised. He classifies
Measure for Measure as a
comedy, for example. It could be argued it isn’t a tragedy as no one
dies, but it’s hardly a straightforward comedy. Angelo’s
machinations and his willingness to effectively rape a nun aren’t
treated in a comic fashion (as such things might be by Joe Orton).
He talks of drama imitating life in which there is no “pure
tragedy”. It’s reasonable to observe that laughter is always nearby,
but hard to argue the Grenfell Tower event was anything but pure
tragedy.
Shakespeare, like the classical authors he learned from, was
writing for an educated minority. Perhaps it’s worth asking how this
influences what is written. There is a distinction in Shakespeare
between the characters with gravitas and what he calls in
Twelfth Night “the
lighter people”. The history plays, as Bate points out are haunted
by the plague of bellum
civile (the term was coined by Cicero). They are about the
struggle for power, and that took place amongst the landed classes.
The comedies may permit greater significance to the lower orders,
but doesn’t that imply tragedy can’t be theirs? As late as 1949
people were exercised by whether Willy Loman could be a tragic
figure, a question few would ask today. Did Shakespeare believe that
the social order mirrored genetic endowment? Was he in thrall to the
delusion of biological determinism? As Bate says, we can only guess;
but the evidence of the plays suggests he did, at least as far as
securing success as a playwright goes, fall in with the belief that
it is kings, dukes, lords, princes whose dilemma’s, thoughts and
emotions are worth putting at the centre of a play. Isn’t this part
of his classical inheritance? Weren’t the slaves and the lower
orders and women viewed as essentially lesser creatures by the
classical writers?
Contemporary culture shows us what happens when the
assumption is made that the masses must be condescended to. The
television dramas which draw huge audiences, lavish praise and
garlands are characterised by intellectual simplicity,
sensationalism and melodrama.
Can even the best television writing, say Dennis Potter,
stand comparison with Arthur Miller, Ibsen, Sheridan, O’Casey,
Orton? Does the reverse apply? When writing is aimed at an educated
minority, does it deliberately pander to that minority’s prejudices
while simultaneously upholding the standards it expects?
Shakespeare is our singular classic, Bate concludes, but in
what sense is he ours? How many people, this week, in the UK, who
don’t have to professionally or for an exam, will read or see a
Shakespeare play? How many people stopped on the street could tell
you who the author of Troilus
and Cressida is? How many could recite even a short speech?
Shakespeare is a subsidised writer. The RSC receives millions from
the public purse as do the regional theatres where Shakespeare is
produced. The schools in which he is taught are overwhelmingly
publicly funded. Yet is Shakespeare the people’s poet?
Many people find his work hard and have little or nothing to
do with it once they leave the education system. Perhaps his
classical roots don’t help: hardly anyone today is familiar with the
classics. How many people under forty have even a rudimentary
knowledge of Latin?
Shakespeare looked back. He was forced to if he wanted to be
a playwright in Elizabethan England. He could have had no idea what
was to come. Had he known schools would one day educate all children
for free; that coal miner’s sons would become major novelists or
establish the nation’s most popular institution; that grammar school
boys like himself could hold more power than kings, would he have
written differently? We can only guess.
Bate’s book is full of fascinating detail. Even those
familiar with the canon will find themselves surprised. His
scholarship is impeccable, his writing clear and vibrant. The study
is a real delight, never ponderous, wonderfully insightful. It is a
fitting addition to Bate’s already impressive Shakespeare criticism.
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