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From their gross Matter she abstracts the Forms,
And draws a kind of Quintessence from things,
Which to her proper nature she transforms
To bear them light on her celestial wings.
This doth She when from things particular
She doth abstract the Universal kinds….

But it is time to descend from these heights (such as they are) of philosophising, and illustrate the difference between true and false “idealising” in Poetry by concrete example: and no two better examples occur to me, for drawing this contrast, than Webster’s Duchess of Malfy and Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Each of these plays excites horror and is calculated to excite horror; both have outlived three hundred years, there or thereabouts; both may be taken as having established an indefinitely long lease on men’s admiration–but to any critical mind, how different an admiration! Webster is an expert, a virtuoso in horrifics; in flesh-creeping effects lies his skill; and, indulging that skill, he not only paints the lily, but repaints it and daubs it yet a third time. There is no reason on earth–she has offended against no moral law on earth or in the heavens–that could possibly condemn the Duchess to the hellish tortures she is made to endure. At the worst she has married a man beneath her in station. To punish her in Webster’s extravagant fashion every other character, with the whole story of the play, has to be dehumanised. To me–as I penetrate the Fourth Act–the whole business becomes ludicrous: not sanely comic, or even quite sanely absurd: but bizarre, and ridiculously bizarre at that. It has no “idea” at all, no relation to the Universal in the shape of any moral order, “law,” fate, doom, destiny. It is just a box of tricks, of raw heads and bloody bones, left with the lid open. That is false “idealising”; Webster choosing his effect and “improving” it for all he was worth–which (let it be added) was a great deal.

* * * * *

Turn from The Duchess of Malfy to Macbeth, and you find an English poet as sensitive of fate, doom, destiny, “law,” the moral order, as ever was Aeschylus; nay, interpreting it perhaps more effectively than ever did Aeschylus. In the First Act we see it suggested to Macbeth by witchcraft (which is the personified foe of moral order) that he can achieve an ambition by an unlawful path, the ambition itself being suggested along with the way to it and growing as the way opens. We see them both communicated to a feminine mind, narrower, more intent and practical; because narrower, because more intent and practical, for the moment more courageous. (It was Eve that the Serpent, wily enough, selected to tempt.) Both Macbeth and his lady move to the deed under a law which–for a while–has usurped the true moral order and reversed it, he not without misgivings: the spectators all the while knowing the true order, yet held silent, watching the event. Outside the castle an owl hoots as Duncan is slain. The guilty man and woman creep back, whispering; and thereupon–what happens? A knocking on the door–a knocking followed by the growls of a drowsy if not drunken porter: “Here’s a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of hell-gate, he should have old turning the key. (Knocking again.) Knock, knock, knock! Who’s there, i’ the name of Beelzebub?” The stage direction admits Macduff, who in due course is to prove the avenger of blood: but the hand that knocks, the step on the threshold, are in truth those of the moral order returning pede claudo, demanding to be readmitted. From the instant of that first knock the ambitions of the pair roll back toward their doom as the law they have offended reasserts itself, and the witches’ palindrome In girum imus noctu, ecce! steadily spells itself backward, letter by letter, to the awful sentence, Ecce ut consumimur igni!