University of Toronto Schools - Twig Yearbook (Toronto, Ontario Canada)

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THE T WIC the internal fear of evil and the vivid, reali- ties of a time to which he does not belong. The victor is apparent. It is because we see that Macbeth is fighting a losing battle that we can find some sympathy fand we doll for a man who is a hypocrite, traitor and regicidef' colcl to all suffering but his own. This earthly terror, as distinct from the supernatural, was accentuated in the per- formance of Samuel Phelps in 1847, who even went so far as to accept literally the stage direction at the end of the play, and introduce the gory, dripping head of Mac- beth stuck on the end of a pike. The fear which drives Macbeth to final desperation and insane fury is the last and most overwhelming. The Thane was a powerful man physically, or he could not, when fighting Macdonwald, have . . . . unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps, And f1x'd his head upon our battlementsf' Although his frame was somewhat worn down by events, at the end of the play he is still powerful enough to overcome several assailants before he tackles Macduff. This strong physique combined with a mind nearly mad with fear produces an individual who little thinks what he does, but struggles blindly and frantically in a last effort to de- feat the fate which has so cunningly de- ceived him. This frantic, drowning, desper- ately pathetic wreck of a man is the last pic- ture we behold of Macbeth. It was so beautifully illustrated in the performances of particularly Carrick, Kean and Booth, that the audiences are said to have wept at the death of Hmad Macbeth. He was broad and sincere, superstitious and imaginative, strong yet weak: suscept- ible to flattery, because he was poetic: of average intelligence, leaning heavily on his wife's ability: vigorous, hopelessly romantic, -don't you recognize him? He is you or I. He is the infinite every- body. He is the most complex and yet the 50 most simple of human beings. He is mor- ally weak faren't we all?J, and circum- stances combined to make him the object of Fate's ironic whim. He is the pitiful result of internal struggle lost to the enemy. His only hope is despair. His courage is com- pact of fears. He is alone. He will be alone, The Pay-Off M. FINN NTHONY KRUGER practiced black- mail. He possessed a certain cold, pasty perfection of features that might be taken for handsomeness. This rather doubt- ful attribute, an expensive wardrobe, and a railroad ticket constituted the elegant gentleman's entire substance. Until now he had enjoyed a certain smug safety, but the inevitable slip had occurred, a determined father was after him, and five thousand dol- lars had automatically been subtracted from Kruger's income. ln the second room of his cheap hotel suite he was busily packing his apparel, his only claim to membership in the social world that had been his hunting-ground. The feverish haste of this operation betrayed the shallow bravado in the creature who cowed women but could not face a man. He was pale, his hands trembled. The small amount of poor blood in his veins would not flow freely. When danger came, he was not a stag at bay, but a hyena trapped against a wall. Kruger crammed the last shirt into a shabby portmanteau, and glanced about the place that had served as lodgings for the past two months. He switched off the lights in the bedroom, and, picking up his hat and coat, turned to leave. As his hand reached for the handle of the door, the knob was slowly moved from without. A quiet and dignified old man stepped into the room. His words were almost whispered- lVlr. Kruger?

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T H E Macready brought forth the kingly, upright man, wasting away from the fear of the evil enveloping him. Carrick and Kean pre- sented the man as full of fiery vigour, but awed by the suggestion of the supernatural, -combining the fear of the weird sisters with the physical fury inspired by terror. Phelps showed the man in terror of fate and the future. Booth managed to express all the fears, but, it seems, from a purely poetic standpoint. lrving excelled, as we have said, in the expression of intellectual struggle, and must therefore have been most of the supernatural, the internal evil, and the future. effective in the scenes depicting fear Superstition, or fear of those things which are beyond human understanding, has been of his- Third incor- This belief, of course, made it impossible for a powerful agent in the construction tory. Until the time of George the witches were thought to exist, and to porate the tempting evils of the world. people to understand that evil is a part of every human being,-an internal, not an external force. For this reason they could not gather from the play the ultimate func- tion of the weird sisters as an enemy within the fortress. Edmund Kean, in l8l4, was the first to realize this. I'll have the witches played properly, he said. Previously they had been accustomed to sweep on and off the stage in the voluminous skirts of the day, with lace caps, mittens, and muffs. Kean changed their appearance, their style of act- ing, and their atmosphere, thus restoring them to their proper place as the embodi- ment of the subconscious mind. This is the first of Macbeth's apprehensions. The second is fear of the evil in himself. The renowned Fanny Kemble has said: From the first scene of the play till the last the wounded soul of Macbeth writhes and groans over its own deterioration. lrving's performance illustrated this remarkably well. Obviously one must either despise or fear that which he hates. Macbeth hates the evils in himself which prompted these crimes: but he cannot despise them for the T 49 WIC reason that they are able to overcome him. He can and does fear them. Before the fear of the future could over- take Macbeth he must have become a com- plete villain. Whether the change from a good man to a knave is possible or not, we must discover. The English commentator Dowden doubts whether such a radical transformation could take place in any man, but such changes occur. Liquor, for one, may effect that change: and Macbeth was partaking of a much more intoxicating drink. He drained to its glittering depths the poisoned chalice of Ambition. According to the play the Thane was a fine man at the beginning of the action. l-le is referred to as brave Macbeth and Bellona's bride- groom. l-le was not, as lrving wrote in his published pamphlet ftotally at variance with his performancej, a poet with his brain and a villain with his heart .... l-lypocrite, traitor and regicide, he threw over his crimes the glamour of his own poetic, self-torturing thought. This theory is, of course, utterly wrong. If we do not accept at the start the presence of good in Macbeth, there can be no struggle between good and evil in the man, and the whole structure of the play topples. What, then, turns Macbeth from a hero into an utter knave? It is the same power of evil which drew the Irish Cuchulain forth to his death, wooed by half-truths and indefinite prophecies. It is the fear-inspiring recognition of one's own sin. Present also, however, is the fear the Thane bears for material things which show him up as a rogue and which will not let him escape the realities of his crime. The Ger- man authority Gervinus suggests that Mac- beth Was far behind his times: that he re- sented the advancement and culture of the English: that he was a warrior, pure and simple, and would have lived splendidly three or four hundred years earlier. Here we have a man whose sympathies are with a Wilder, less intellectual age ffrequent mention of the good old days is found in his speechesl, possessed of a hypersensitive imagination, and morally weak, opposed by

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THE TWIG Kruger backed away until he clutched the edge of the table with his hands and steadied himself. It seemed that the paste of his face had become clammy and was running into lumps. Pouches of cringing flesh bulged under his staring eyes. His skin hung loosely. His whole figure drooped, for when he looked into those eyes that were clamped on his own, he saw something so terrible that his face was transparent with fear. He gasped. The upright old man spoke again, You have carried unhappiness into many homes. You have wrecked the lives of good people for too long. The misfortune you brought to others is now visiting you. You deserve to be squelched as a snake, but l am giving you an equal chance. When the speaker brought a revolver from his pocket, Kruger broke down. He mumbled hysterically. Cartridges had been placed in three of the six chambers of the gun. l-ie spun the cylinder several times and held the weapon. I Pull the trigger-if you can. The shaking, claw-like hands of the slumped criminal could scarcely hold the pistol whose weight seemed increased ten- fold. The intruder silently withdrew. The lock clicked audibly. The tortured soul sagged in a chair by the window, firelight glowing on his limp form. A5 36 35 -Hi 95 -15 An hour later a corpulent man fussed with his spectacles as he questioned the sleepy night-clerk. mls there a Mr. Anthony Kruger regis- tered here? There was, sir, but Mr. Kruger left a while ago. l-le didn't say where he was going. The other seemed disturbed. Alright, thank you, he mumbled. l-le walked to the doorway and lighted a cigar. As he passed the sandstand he tore up a cheque made out for five thousand dollars, and went out into the rainy night, shaking his head in perplexity. Dinner with Borgia MAURICE. CARELESS ERNANDO GUIZANTE, secret emissary of the Republic of Venice, was well pleased. That night, Cesare Borgia, Duke of Valentois and Romagna, pre-eminent power in ltaly and deadly enemy of Venice, was to dine at his house. For ten years Guizante had lived as a rich merchant of lVlantria. Now the enemy of his country came to borrow money from him-to obtain funds for an army to be used against Venice. Guizante smiled. He was attired in his richest garments. His gown was of thick velvet, trimmed with fur. An emerald from Tartary gleamed. cool and lustrous, on his hand. About his neck hung a thick gold chain bearing an ivory pendant, carved in Byzantine manner. As he smiled, he toyed with the ivory. ln the tessellated banquet hall, servants were preparing the dinner. Candles shed a soft radiance on the walls hung with Syrian arras. The warm light was reflected from golden plates, embossed and chased with the finest arts of the goldsmiths. It glintecl in dark fiagons of wine. touching them amber, crimson, purple. The oranges, sent by the Moslem lands of Egypt to Guizante at his special order, glowed with golden colour till they seemed part of the precious dish in which they lay. Guizante, looking down from the gallery on the preparations, smiled again. Now, to make certain other oreparations-of a verv different kind. Unlocking a heavy oak chest, he took out a golden cuo, a master- piece of Renaissance art. Chips of moss agate decorated its rim, delicately carved figures moved in life-like procession about the bowl. But that was not all. The pres- sure of a thumbnail in an indentation in the carving by one who knew the secret, would open a false bottom, allowing a virulent poison to mix with the wine that the goblet would contain. No man might drink from the poison cup, and live-Borgia would not. Guizante descended to the banquet hall and