Читать книгу The open sea - Edgar Lee Masters - Страница 8

Yes, so I said: ’twas labored “Cataline”

Insufferable for learning, tedious.

And so I said: the audience was kept

There at the Globe twelve years ago to hear:

“It is no matter; let no images

Be hung with Cæsar’s trophies.”

And to-day

They played his Julius Cæsar at the Court.

I saw it at the Globe twelve years ago,

A gala day! The flag over the Theatre

Fluttered the April breeze and I was thrilled.

And look what wherries crossed the Thames with freight

Of hearts expectant for the theatre.

For all the town was posted with the news

Of Shakespeare’s “Julius Cæsar.” So we paid

Our six-pence, entered, all the house was full.

And dignitaries, favored ones had seats

Behind the curtain on the stage. At last

The trumpet blares, the curtains part, Marullus

And Flavius enter, scold the idiot mob

And we sat ravished, listening to the close.

We knew he pondered manuscripts, forever

Was busy with his work, no rest, no pause.

Often I saw him leave the theatre

And cross the Thames where in a little room

He opened up his Plutarch. What was that?

A fertilizing sun, a morning light

Of bursting April! What was he? The earth

That under such a sun put forth and grew,

Showed all his valleys, mountain peaks and fields,

Brought forth the forests of his cosmic soul,

The coppice, jungle, blossoms good and bad.

A world of growth, creation! This the work,

Precedent force of Thomas North, his work

In causal link the Bishop of Auxerre,

And so it goes.

But others tried their hand

At Julius Cæsar, witness “Cæsar’s Fall”

Which Drayton, Webster, others wrote. And look

At Jonson’s “Cataline,” that labored thing,

Dug out of Plutarch, Cicero. Go read,

Then read this play of Shakespeare’s.

I recall

What came to me to see this, scene by scene,

Unroll beneath my eyes. ’Twas like a scroll

Lettered in gold and purple where one theme

In firmest sequence, precious artistry

Is charactered, and all the sound and sense,

And every clause and strophe ministers

To one perfection. So it was we sat

Until the scroll lay open at our feet:

“According to his virtue, let us use him

With all respect and rites of burial,”

Then gasped for breath! The play’s a miracle!

This world has had one Cæsar and one Shakespeare,

And with their birth is shrunk, can only bear

Less vital spirits.

For what did he do

There in that room with Plutarch? First his mind

Was ready with the very moulds of nature.

And then his spirit blazing like the sun

Smelted the gold from Plutarch, till it flowed

Molten and dazzling in these moulds of his.

And lo! he sets up figures for our view

That blind the understanding till you close

Eyes to reflect, and by their closing see

What has been done. O, well I could go on

And show how Jonson makes homonculus,

And Shakespeare gets with child, conceives and bears

Beauty of flesh and blood. Or I could say

Jonson lays scholar’s hands upon a trait,

Ambition, let us say, as if a man

Were peak and nothing else thrust to the sky

By blasting fires of earth, just peak alone,

No slopes, no valleys, pines, or sunny brooks,

No rivers winding at the base, no fields,

No songsters, foxes, nothing but the peak.

But Shakespeare shows the field-mice and the cricket,

The louse upon the leaf, all things that live

In every mountain which his soaring light

Takes cognizance; by which I mean to say

Shows not ambition only, that’s the peak,

But mice-moods, cricket passions in the man;

How he can sing, or whine, or growl, or hiss,

Be bird, fox, wolf, be eagle or be snake.

And so this “Julius Cæsar” paints the mob

That stinks and howls, a woman in complaint

Most feminine shut from her husband’s secrets;

Paints envy, paints the demagogue, in brief,

Paints Cæsar till we lose respect for Cæsar.

For there he stands in verity, it seems,

A tyrant, coward, braggart, aging man,

A stale voluptuary shoved about

And stabbed most righteously by patriots

To avenge the fall of Rome!

Now I have said

Enough to give me warrant to say this:

This play of Shakespeare fails, is an abuse

Upon the memory of the greatest man

That ever trod this earth. And Shakespeare failed

By just so much as he might have achieved

Surpassing triumph had he made the play

Cæsar instead of Brutus, had he shown

A sovereign will and genius struck to earth

With loss irreparable to Time and ruin

To Cæsar’s dreams; struck evilly to death

By a mad enthusiast, a brutal stoic,

In whom all gratitude was tricked aside

By just a word, the word of Liberty.

Or might I also say the man had envy

Of Cæsar’s greatness, or might it be true

Brutus took edge for hatred with the thought

That Brutus’ sister flamed with love for Cæsar?

But who was Brutus, by the largest word

That comes to us that he should be exalted,

Forefronted in this play, and warrant given

To madmen down the ages to repeat

This act of Brutus’, con the golden words

Of Shakespeare as he puts them in his mouth:

“Not that I loved him less, but loved Rome more.

He was ambitious so I slew him. Tears

For his love, joy for his fortune, honor for valor,

Death for ambition. Would you die all slaves

That Cæsar might still live, or live free men

With Cæsar dead?”

And so it is the echo

Of Cæsar’s fall is cried to by this voice

Of Shakespeare’s and increased, to travel forth,

To fool the ages and to madden men

With thunder in the hills of time to deeds

As horrible as this.

Did Shakespeare know

The worth of Cæsar, that we may impute

Fault for this cartoon—caricature? Why look,

Did he not write the “mightiest Julius,” write

“The foremost man of all the world,” “the conqueror

Whom death could conquer not,” make Cleopatra,

The pearl of all the east, say she was glad

That Cæsar wore her on his hand? He knew

What Cæsar’s greatness was! Yet what have we?

A Cæsar with the falling sickness, deaf,

Who faints upon the offering of the crown;

Who envies Cassius stronger arms in swimming,

When it is known that Cæsar swam the Tiber,

Being more than fifty; pompous, superstitious,

Boasting his will, but flagging in the act;

Greedy of praise, incautious, unalert

To dangers seen of all; a lust incarnate

Of power and rulership; a Cæsar smashing

A great republic like a criminal,

A republic which had lived except for him.

So what was Rome when Cæsar took control?

All wealth and power concentered in the few;

A coterie of the rich who lived in splendor;

A working class that lived on doles of corn

And hordes of slaves from Asia, Africa,

Who plotted murders in the dark purlieus;

The provinces were drained to feed the rich;

The city ruled by bribery, and corruption;

Armed gladiators sold their services.

And battled in the Forum; magistrates

Were freely scoffed at, consuls were attacked;

And orators spat in each other’s faces

When reason failed them speaking in the Forum;

No man of prominence went on the streets

Without his hired gladiators, slaves.

The streets were unpoliced, no fire brigade,

Safe-guarded property. Domestic life

Was rotten at the heart, and vice was taught.

Divorce was rife and even holy Cato

Put by his wife.

And this was the republic

That Cæsar took; and not the lovely state

Ordered and prospered, which ambitious Cæsar,

As Shakespeare paints him, over-whelmed. For Cæsar

Could execute the vision that the people

Deserve not what they want, but otherwise

What they should want, and in that mind was king

And emperor.

And what was here for Shakespeare

To love and manifest by art, who hated

The Puritan, the mob? Colossus Cæsar,

Whose harmony of mind took deep offense

At ugliness, disharmony! See the man:

Of body perfect and of rugged health,

Of graceful carriage, fashion, bold of eye,

A swordsman, horseman, and a general

Not less than Alexander; orator

Who rivalled Cicero, a man of charm,

Of wit and humor, versed in books as well;

Who at one time could dictate, read and write,

Composing grammars as he rode to war,

Amid distractions, dangers, battles, writing

Great commentaries. Yes, he is the man

In whom was mixed the elements that Nature

Might say:—this was a man—and not this Brutus.

Look at his camp, wherever pitched in Gaul,

Thronged by young poets, thinkers, scholars, wits,

And headed by this Cæsar, who when arms

Are resting from the battle, makes reports

Of all that’s said and done to Cicero.

Here is a man large minded and sincere,

Active, a lover, conscious of his place,

Knowing his power, no reverence for the past,

Save what the past deserved, who made the task

What could be done and did it—seized the power

Of rulership and did not put it by

As Shakespeare clothes him with pretence of doing.

For what was kingship to him? empty name!

He who had mastered Asia, Africa,

Egypt, Hispania, after twenty years

Of cyclic dreams and labor—king indeed!

A name! when sovereign power was nothing new.

He’s fifty-six, and knows the human breed,

Sees man as body hiding a canal

For passing food along, a little brain

That watches, loves, attends the said canal.

He’s been imperator at least two years—

King in good sooth! He knows he is not valued,

That he’s misprized and hated, is compelled

To use whom he distrusts, despises too.

Why, what was life to him with such contempt

Of all this dirty world, this eagle set

Amid a flock of vultures, cow-birds, bats?

His ladder was not lowliness, but genius.

Read of his capture in Bithynia,

When he was just a stripling by Cilician

Pirates whom he treated like his slaves,

And told them to their face when he was ransomed

He’d have them crucified. He did it, too.

His ransom came at last, he was released,

And set to work at once to keep his word;

Fitted some ships out, captured every one

And crucified them all at Pergamos.

Not lowliness his ladder, but the strength

That steps on shoulders, fit for steps alone.

So on this top-most rung he did not scan

The base degrees by which he did ascend,

But sickened rather at a world whose heights

Are not worth reaching. So it was he went

Unarmed and unprotected to the Senate,

Knowing that death is noble, being nature,

And scorning fear. Why, he had lived enough.

The night before he dined with Lepidus,

To whom he said the death that is not seen,

Is not expected, is the best. But look,

Here in this play he’s shown a weak old man,

Propped up with stays and royal robes, to amble,

Trembling and babbling to his coronation;

And to the going, driven by the fear

That he would be thought coward if he failed.

Who was to think so? Cassius, whom he cowed,

And whipped against strong odds, this Brutus, too,

There at Pharsalus! Faith, I’d like to know

What Francis Bacon thinks of this.

My friend,

Seeing the Rome that Cæsar took, we turn

To what he did with what he took. This Rome

At Cæsar’s birth was governed by the people

In name alone, in fact the Senate ruled,

And money ruled the Senate. Rank and file

Was made of peasants, tradesmen, manumitted

Slaves and soldiers—these the populares,

Who made our Cæsar’s uncle Marius

Chief magistrate six times. This was the party

That Cæsar joined and wrought for to the last.

He fought the aristocracy all his life.

His heart was democratic and his head

Patrician—was ambitious from the first,

As Shakespeare is ambitious, gifted by

The Muses, must work out his vision or

Rot down with gifts neglected; so this Cæsar

Gifted to rule must rule—but what’s the dream?

To use his power for democratic weal,

Bring order, justice in a rotten state,

And carry on the work of Marius,

His democratic uncle. Now behold,

He’s fifty when he reaches sovereign power;

Few years are left in which he may achieve

His democratic ideas, for he sought

No gain in power, but chance to do his work,

Fulfill his genius. Well, he takes the Senate

And breaks its aristocracy, then frees

The groaning debtors; reduces the congestion

Of stifled Italy, founds colonies,

Helps agriculture, executes the laws.

Crime skulks before him, luxury he checks.

The franchise is enlarged, he codifies

The Roman laws, and founds a money system;

Collects a library, and takes a census;

Reforms the calendar, and thus bestrode

The world with work accomplished. Round his legs

All other men must peer; and envy, hatred

Were serpents at his heels, whose poison reached

His heart at last. He was the tower of Pharos,

That lighted all the world.

Now who was Brutus?

Cæsar forgave this Brutus seven times seven,

Forgave him for Pharsalia, all his acts

Of constant opposition. Who was Brutus?

A simple, honest soul? A heart of hate,

Bred by his uncle Cato! Was he gentle?

Look what he did to Salamis! Besieged

Its senate house and starved the senators

To force compliance with a loan to them

At 48 per cent! This is the man

Whom Shakespeare makes to say he’d rather be

A villager than to report himself

A son of Rome under these hard conditions,

Which Cæsar wrought! Who thought or called them hard?

Brutus or Shakespeare? Is it Plutarch, maybe,

Whom Shakespeare follows, all against the grain

Of truth so long revealed?

Do you not see

Matter in plenty for our Shakespeare’s hand,

To show a sovereign genius and its work

Pursued by mad-dogs, bitten to its death,

Its plans thrown into chaos? Is there clay

Wherewith to mould the face of Cæsar; take

What clay remains to mould the face of Brutus?

Do you not see a straining of the stuff,

Making that big and salient which should be

Little and hidden in a group of figures?

And why, I ask? Here is the irony:

Shakespeare has minted Plutarch, stamped the coin

With the face of Brutus. It’s his inner genius,

The very flavor of his genius’ flesh

To do this thing. Here is a world that’s mad,

A Cæsar mad with power, a Brutus madder,

Being a dreamer, student, patriot

Who can’t see things as clearly as the madman

Cæsar sees them, Brutus sees through books.

A mad-man butchered by a man more mad.

His father mad before him. Why, it’s true

That every one is mad, because the world

Cannot be solved. Why are we here and why

This agony of being? Why these tasks

Imposed upon us never done, which drive

Our souls to desperation. So to print

The tragedy of life, our Shakespeare takes,

And by the taking shows he deems the theme

Greater than Cæsar’s greatness: human will,

A dream, a hope, a love, and makes them big.

Strains all the clay to that around a form

Too weak to hold the moulded stuff in place.

Thus from his genius fashioning the tales

Of human life he passes judgment on

The mystery of life. Which could he do

By making Cæsar great, and would it be

So bitter and so hopeless if he did,

So adequate to curse this life of ours?

Why make a man as great as Nature can

The gods will raise a manakin to kill him,

And over-turn the order that he founds.

A grape seed strangles Sophocles, a turtle

Falls from an eagle’s claws on Aeschylos,

And cracks his shiny pate.

So at the last

The question is, is history the truth,

Or is the Shakespeare genius, which arranges

History to speak the Shakespeare mood,

Reaction to our life, the truth?

And here

I leave you to reflect. Let’s one more ale

And then I go.