One distinction can at least be called obvious. Garrick did not care much for the historical costume of Macbeth; but he cared as much as Shakespeare did. He did not know much about that prehistoric6 and partly mythical7 Celtic chief; but he knew more than Shakespeare; and he could not conceivably have cared less. Now the Victorian age was honestly interested in the dark and epic8 origins of Europe; was honestly interested in Picts and Scots, in Celts and Saxons; in the blind drift of the races and the blind drive of the religions. Ossian and the Arthurian revival9 had interested people in distant dark-headed men who probably never existed. Freeman, Carlyle, and the other Teutonists had interested them in distant fair-headed men who almost certainly never existed. Pusey and Pugin and the first High Churchmen had interested them in shaven-headed men, dark or fair, men who did undoubtedly10 exist, but whose real merits and defects would have startled their modern admirers very considerably11. Under these circumstances it is not strange that our age should have felt a curiosity about the solid but mysterious Macbeth of the Dark Ages. But all this does not alter the ultimate fact: that the only Macbeth that mankind will ever care about is the Macbeth of Shakespeare, and not the Macbeth of history. When England was romantic it was interested in Macbeth’s kilt and claymore. In the same way, if England becomes a Republic, it will be specially3 interested in the Republicans in Julius C?sar. If England becomes Roman Catholic, it will be specially interested in the theory of chastity in Measure for Measure. But being interested in these things will never be the same as being interested in Shakespeare. And for a man interested in Shakespeare, a man merely concerned about what Shakespeare meant, a Macbeth in powdered hair and knee-breeches is perfectly12 satisfactory. For Macbeth, as Shakespeare shows him, is much more like a man in knee-breeches than a man in a kilt. His subtle hesitations13 and his suicidal impenitence14 belong to the bottomless speculations15 of a highly civilized16 society. The “Out, out, brief candle” is far more appropriate to the last wax taper17 after a ball of powder and patches than to the smoky but sustained fires in iron baskets which probably flared18 and smouldered over the swift crimes of the eleventh century. The real Macbeth probably killed Duncan with the nearest weapon, and then confessed it to the nearest priest. Certainly, he may never have had any such doubts about the normal satisfaction of being alive. However regrettably negligent19 of the importance of Duncan’s life, he had, I fancy, few philosophical20 troubles about the importance of his own. The men of the Dark Ages were all optimists21, as all children and all animals are. The madness of Shakespeare’s Macbeth goes along with candles and silk stockings. That madness only appears in the age of reason.
So far, then, from Garrick’s anachronism being despised, I should like to see it imitated. Shakespeare got the tale of Theseus from Athens, as he got the tale of Macbeth from Scotland; and having reluctantly seen the names of those two countries in the record, I am convinced that he never gave them another thought. Macbeth is not a Scotchman; he is a man. But Theseus is not only not an Athenian; he is actually and unmistakably an Englishman. He is the Super-Squire22; the best version of the English country gentleman; better than Wardle in Pickwick. The Duke of Athens is a duke (that is, a dook), but not of Athens. That free city is thousands of miles away.
If Theseus came on the stage in gaiters or a shooting-jacket, if Bottom the Weaver23 wore a smock-frock, if Hermia and Helena were dressed as two modern English schoolgirls, we should not be departing from Shakespeare, but rather returning to him. The cold, classical draperies (of which he probably never dreamed, but with which we drape ?gisthus or Hippolyta) are not only a nuisance, but a falsehood. They misrepresent the whole meaning of the play. For the meaning of the play is that the little things of life as well as the great things stray on the borderland of the unknown. That as a man may fall among devils for a morbid24 crime, or fall among angels for a small piece of piety25 or pity, so also he may fall among fairies through an amiable26 flirtation27 or a fanciful jealousy28. The fact that a back door opens into elfland is all the more reason for keeping the foreground familiar, and even prosaic29. For even the fairies are very neighbourly and firelight fairies; therefore the human beings ought to be very human in order to effect the fantastic contrast. And in Shakespeare they are very human. Hermia the vixen and Helena the maypole are obviously only two excitable and quite modern girls. Hippolyta has never been an Amazon; she may perhaps have once been a Suffragette. Theseus is a gentleman, a thing entirely30 different from a Greek oligarch. That golden good-nature which employs culture itself to excuse the clumsiness of the uncultured is a thing quite peculiar31 to those lazier Christian32 countries where the Christian gentleman has been evolved:
For nothing in this world can be amiss
When simpleness and duty tender it.
Or, again, in that noble scrap33 of sceptical magnanimity which was unaccountably cut out in the last performance:
These are obviously the easy and reconciling comments of some kindly35 but cultivated squire, who will not pretend to his guests that the play is good, but who will not let the actors see that he thinks it bad. But this is certainly not the way in which an Athenian Tory like Aristophanes would have talked about a bad play.
But as the play is dressed and acted at present, the whole idea is inverted36. We do not seem to creep out of a human house into a natural wood and there find the superhuman and supernatural. The mortals, in their tunics37 and togas, seem more distant from us than the fairies in their hoods38 and peaked caps. It is an anticlimax39 to meet the English elves when we have already encountered the Greek gods. The same mistake, oddly enough, was made in the only modern play worth mentioning in the same street with A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Peter Pan. Sir James Barrie ought to have left out the fairy dog who puts the children to bed. If children had such dogs as that they would never wish to go to fairyland.
This fault or falsity in Peter Pan is, of course, repeated in the strange and ungainly incident of the father being chained up in the dog’s kennel40. Here, indeed, it is much worse: for the manlike dog was pretty and touching41: the doglike man was ignominious42 and repulsive43. But the fallacy is the same; it is the fallacy that weakens the otherwise triumphant44 poetry and wit of Sir James Barrie’s play; and weakens all our treatment of fairy plays at present. Fairyland is a place of positive realities, plain laws, and a decisive story. The actors of A Midsummer Night’s Dream seemed to think that the play was meant to be chaotic45. The clowns thought they must be always clowning. But in reality it is the solemnity—nay, the conscientiousness—of the yokels46 that is akin47 to the mystery of the landscape and the tale.
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1 wig | |
n.假发 | |
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2 impudent | |
adj.鲁莽的,卑鄙的,厚颜无耻的 | |
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3 specially | |
adv.特定地;特殊地;明确地 | |
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4 dressing | |
n.(食物)调料;包扎伤口的用品,敷料 | |
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5 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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6 prehistoric | |
adj.(有记载的)历史以前的,史前的,古老的 | |
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7 mythical | |
adj.神话的;虚构的;想像的 | |
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8 epic | |
n.史诗,叙事诗;adj.史诗般的,壮丽的 | |
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9 revival | |
n.复兴,复苏,(精力、活力等的)重振 | |
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10 undoubtedly | |
adv.确实地,无疑地 | |
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11 considerably | |
adv.极大地;相当大地;在很大程度上 | |
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12 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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13 hesitations | |
n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 );踌躇;犹豫(之事或行为);口吃 | |
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14 impenitence | |
n.不知悔改,顽固 | |
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15 speculations | |
n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 );思考;投机活动;推断 | |
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16 civilized | |
a.有教养的,文雅的 | |
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17 taper | |
n.小蜡烛,尖细,渐弱;adj.尖细的;v.逐渐变小 | |
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18 Flared | |
adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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19 negligent | |
adj.疏忽的;玩忽的;粗心大意的 | |
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20 philosophical | |
adj.哲学家的,哲学上的,达观的 | |
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21 optimists | |
n.乐观主义者( optimist的名词复数 ) | |
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22 squire | |
n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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23 weaver | |
n.织布工;编织者 | |
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24 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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25 piety | |
n.虔诚,虔敬 | |
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26 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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27 flirtation | |
n.调情,调戏,挑逗 | |
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28 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
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29 prosaic | |
adj.单调的,无趣的 | |
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30 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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31 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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32 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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33 scrap | |
n.碎片;废料;v.废弃,报废 | |
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34 amend | |
vt.修改,修订,改进;n.[pl.]赔罪,赔偿 | |
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35 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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36 inverted | |
adj.反向的,倒转的v.使倒置,使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37 tunics | |
n.(动植物的)膜皮( tunic的名词复数 );束腰宽松外衣;一套制服的短上衣;(天主教主教等穿的)短祭袍 | |
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38 hoods | |
n.兜帽( hood的名词复数 );头巾;(汽车、童车等的)折合式车篷;汽车发动机罩v.兜帽( hood的第三人称单数 );头巾;(汽车、童车等的)折合式车篷;汽车发动机罩 | |
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39 anticlimax | |
n.令人扫兴的结局;突降法 | |
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40 kennel | |
n.狗舍,狗窝 | |
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41 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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42 ignominious | |
adj.可鄙的,不光彩的,耻辱的 | |
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43 repulsive | |
adj.排斥的,使人反感的 | |
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44 triumphant | |
adj.胜利的,成功的;狂欢的,喜悦的 | |
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45 chaotic | |
adj.混沌的,一片混乱的,一团糟的 | |
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46 yokels | |
n.乡下佬,土包子( yokel的名词复数 ) | |
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47 akin | |
adj.同族的,类似的 | |
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