The Political Devolution of George Bernard Shaw. From “Candida” to “Man and Superman” to “The Apple Cart.” Unraveling a tangle of democracy, autocracy, evolution, and eugenics.

The Political Devolution of George Bernard Shaw.

From Candida to Man and Superman to The Apple Cart.

Unraveling a tangle of democracy, autocracy, evolution, and eugenics.

Burton Weltman

Prologue: The Best of Times and the Worst of Times.

I am writing this piece in late-August, 2020 during times that are politically both extremely perilous in the United States but also hopeful.  We have a would-be authoritarian President whose life has been one-long effort to dominate over others, and who is busy fomenting racism, misogyny, xenophobia, violence, and pernicious lies of all sorts toward that end.  He is, in effect, promoting a killer pandemic through criminal negligence and misinformation, all for self-serving political purposes.  In this context, we have a national election coming up in November that could determine whether democracy will long survive in the country.  That’s the bad news.

The good news is that we also have movements for racial and gender justice that currently have the support of majorities of people in the country.  And a majority of the public seems to oppose Trump and his policies.  So, maybe he will be voted out in November and some sense and sanity will return to our government.  It is a perilous but also a hopeful situation for people like me who believe in making the world better through caring rather than worse with hating.

The situation raises many social and political questions for which we can look to history and literature for answers.  Among these questions is one posed by the upcoming election as to whether Americans are willing to support democracy.  How can it be that someone as vile as Donald Trump was elected President, and how can it be that some forty percent of the public still support him after almost four years of misrule?   Is there something in our political ideology that predisposes Americans toward would-be strong men and a politics of enmity?

Another question is posed by the Me-Too, Black Lives Matter, and other current social movements as to how to think about people whose social and political views were acceptable in their times but are abhorrent to us today.  Should some of them be cancelled, to use a current phrase?  Can some of them be critiqued but still saved from complete rejection?

I think that George Bernard Shaw provides a useful test case for these questions.   

Presenting Problem: Should we cancel George Bernard Shaw?

What to do about George Bernard Shaw?  Shaw has often been considered the second-best playwright in the English language, second to only Shakespeare.  He is a wonderfully witty writer who satirized everything, including himself and his own ideas.  Shaw was very popular during his lifetime.  He won a Nobel Prize for literature in 1925.  And his plays continued to be very popular after his death in 1950.  There is even a highly-regarded theater festival in Ontario, Canada dedicated to Shaw’s plays.  He has been widely esteemed, that is, until recently.

In recent years, Shaw has come under criticism for anti-democratic and illiberal statements that he made later in his life.  His reputation has suffered and critics have questioned whether we should still consider him to be a great playwright and to perform his works.  Shaw’s politics evolved, or rather devolved in my opinion, over the course of his long career. Having begun as an advocate for democracy and diversity, he ended up supporting dictators and eugenics.  Having begun as a supportive satirist of democracy, he moved to skepticism and finally to cynicism.

Shaw’s ironical and self-mocking style allowed most people for most of the last century to gloss over his increasingly antidemocratic and illiberal pronouncements.  But his views have come under closer critical scrutiny in recent years, and they don’t stand up to the scrutiny.

A reevaluation of Shaw raises at least two important questions.  First, what happened to Shaw that led him to go down the antidemocratic path, and can we identify ideas in his earlier works that predisposed him to the positions he took later?  Was there something in his earlier ideas, some flaw or skewing, that predisposed him to move from liberalism to authoritarianism?  And do other progressives share similar illiberal ideas that might undermine their own efforts and even help their right-wing opponents?

Second, what should we think about Shaw, and others like him, whose social and political views were within the range of respectability in their times but are abhorrent to us today?   How do we reckon with someone like Shaw, whom we have reason to admire but also reason to reject?  Is it morally feasible for us to continue to enjoy his plays while critiquing their messages and him?

Shaw lived ninety-four years, from 1856 to 1950, during which time he wrote dozens of plays and essays.  He was a prodigious writer and left a lot to look at.  I think, however, that by looking at a small sample of his works, I can hazard some answers to the questions I have asked about him.  Toward that end, I am going to examine the Fabian Essays, written in part and edited by Shaw in 1888, and three of Shaw’s plays that reflect the contours of his devolution.

The first play, Candida, was written in 1893 and represents Shaw’s early days of optimism.  The second play, Man and Superman, was written in 1903 and reflects a turning point in Shaw’s ideas.  It seems to exemplify the ambivalence of a person who doesn’t quite know which way he is going.  The third play, The Apple Cart, was written in 1928, and it reflects Shaw’s cynical turn against democracy and toward dictatorship.  In looking at these works, I think we can see tendencies in his earlier writings – an elitism coupled with impatience – that predisposed him to his later positions. At the same time, I think there are reasons still to read and perform his plays.

The Devolution of George Bernard Shaw.

Shaw’s plays are ironical, satirical, extremely witty, and full of provocative ideas.  He gloried in making controversial statements, claiming that his goal was to epater le bourgeois, that is, to shock and stick it to the staid, conventional middle class.  Shaw was, nonetheless, much to his ostensible chagrin, very popular among his bourgeois audience during his life.

Shaw was an avowedly political playwright whose plays promoted his ideas.  He insisted that writers, and everyone else for that matter, needed to believe in and strive for something bigger than themselves, and their works should reflect these goals.  Shaw’s life was, however, a particularly long one that extended over many social and political eras, and his works reflect the different positions that he took over those years.  And therein lies the problem.

Shaw started in the late nineteenth century as an advocate of democracy, socialism, and cultural diversity.  As the years went by, he continued to advocate for socialism but became increasingly disenchanted with diversity and democracy, and increasingly enchanted with eugenics and dictatorship.  His idea of socialism took on a distinctly authoritarian cast.

By the 1920’s and 1930’s, Shaw was speaking favorably of Mussolini, Stalin, and even Hitler.  He did not support the totalitarianism or brutalitarianism of these dictators, nor did he support their racism, sexism, antisemitism or xenophobia.  But he came to admire dictators for their alleged efficiency – Mussolini, after all, supposedly made the Italian trains run on time – a view that was shared by many respectable people.  Shaw also came increasingly to promote eugenics as a means of genetically producing intelligent people capable of living in modern society.

In delineating the devolution of Shaw’s political ideas, I think that a key factor was his understanding of Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution and Friedrich Nietzsche’s concept of the ubermensch.  Or rather, his misunderstanding.  I think Shaw misread Darwin and Nietzsche, and misread them in elitist, illiberal and antidemocratic ways similar to the right-wing Social Darwinians of the late nineteenth century and the Nazis of the twentieth century.

When Shaw became frustrated with the slow pace of social reform and with what he saw as the ignorance of the general public, his misreading of Darwin and Nietzsche put him on an intellectual path that trended downhill from democracy to autocracy and from diversity to eugenics.  And he found himself in what he later conceded was some pretty nasty company.

As I will explain more fully below, Shaw portrayed evolution as a teleological process that aims at producing creatures with ever-higher levels of intelligence.  In his view, biological evolution is a straight-line development of ever-more intelligent beings from amoebas on upward, with human beings currently at the highest point.

In this view, fitness, as in survival of the fittest, is defined as having a high IQ, in particular a high level of linguistic and logical intelligence.  The sort of intelligence possessed by Shaw and people like him.  This is a view of evolution that predisposed Shaw to elitism and to scorn for the democratic masses who did not have Shaw’s linguistic and logical intelligence.  And it was not, in any case, the view of Darwin.

Shaw also viewed both social evolution and biological evolution as deterministic processes.  That is, what is had to be, and what will be has to be.  In Shaw’s view, a mark of wisdom is to recognize which way things are flowing and go with the flow, albeit getting ahead of the flow so that we can individually and collectively take the best advantage of it.  Intelligent people will do this. The unintelligent won’t, and they are the problem.

Shaw shared with right-wing Social Darwinians and Nazis the view of evolution as a competition for dominance among species, social groups, and individuals, each trying to get over on each other.  This view predisposed him to miss the cooperation that often drove biological and social change.  Shaw was not big on cooperation in his writings.  People are usually trying to get over on each other.  Shaw used this view of evolution to argue for the workers’ getting over on the capitalists, but it was also used by Social Darwinians who sought to maintain the dominance of the rich over the poor and by Nazis who sought to kill off the Jews.  In any case, it was not Darwin’s view of either biological or social change.

I think that Shaw also misused Nietzsche’s concept of the ubermensch.  Ubermensch is conventionally and misleadingly translated as superman but it literally means overman.  The concept is usually mistaken to refer to someone who dominates over other people, and this domination is then taken to be a good thing for the progress of humanity.  On this basis, the concept was usually rejected by progressives but welcomed by Social Darwinians and Nazis.

But Nietzsche intended the concept of ubermensch to primarily mean someone who dominates over himself, someone who is never satisfied with what he is but is continually trying to get over and beyond himself.  And that, in Nietzsche’s view, is how humanity progresses.  Shaw’s misunderstanding of ubermensch predisposed him to favor dictators, which Nietzsche did not.

Shaw’s misreadings of Darwin and Nietzsche were common in his day and are still common today.  They are, however, misreadings with consequences to Shaw’s political ideas and to the political ideas of other people, both then and now.  Shaw was by nature elitist and impatient.  His misreading of evolution and the ubermensch provided a channel for his elitism and impatience, and a rationalization for the devolution of his political ideas from democratic to autocratic.  His goals were always progressive and humane, but he ended up in the company of fascists.

When progressives turn toward authoritarianism, it is generally out of elitism and impatience.  They think they know what is in the best interests of the public and they want to make it happen fast.  When conservatives turn toward authoritarianism, it is generally out of fear and loathing of the masses.  They want to keep the masses in their lowly place and stomp out any threats to the status quo.  Right-wingers are invariably better at authoritarian politics than progressives and, as a consequence, left-wing authoritarianism generally ends up feeding a right-wing narrative.

Based on his misreading of Darwin and Nietzsche, Shaw was intellectually predisposed to go down an antidemocratic path when he became frustrated with the way things were going in the world.  That does not mean his devolution was predetermined or inevitable.  He had alternative routes along the way that he could have taken, and that others took, but he chose not to.

Other progressives – impatient or impelled by a sense of urgency – have gone down similar paths, some of them channeled through misreading Darwin or Nietzsche, others by reading or misreading Marx and other theorists.  Ideas make a difference, and the wrong ideas can lead you in the wrong direction.  Shaw’s antidemocratic inclination and predisposition toward authoritarianism were not obvious in his optimistic early writings.  But they were there.

Shaw as Evolutionary Socialist: Democratic Socialism made painless and easy.

Fabian Essays on Socialism: Capitalists will pave the way.

Shaw was a founding member of the Fabian Society, a thinktank that was organized by a group of intellectuals and literati in 1884 with the purpose of promoting the gradual and peaceful transition of English society from capitalism to democratic socialism.  Among its early members were Beatrice and Sydney Webb, Emmeline Pankhurst, H.G. Wells, Edith Nesbit, Bertrand Russell, Annie Besant, and Shaw.

The Fabians were a group of what we today would call public intellectuals who sought to influence social and political development through their research, writing and teaching.  In 1889, they published a book of essays on the politics, economics, and morality of socialism, with Shaw as the editor and the author of a key essay defining socialism.[1]

The gist of the Fabians’ argument was presented by Shaw.  It was that with the rise of large-scale factories, and the growth of large-scale cities, socialism had become inevitable in England and America, despite the laissez-faire capitalist ideology that was predominant in those countries at that time.  In describing the evolution toward socialism, Shaw focused on three key trends.

The first was the ever-increasing growth of public services and government regulations within the capitalist system.  From roads, ports, tariffs and other government services and regulations that make trade possible, to police, sanitation, fire fighters and other public services that make cities livable, capitalism and capitalists couldn’t survive without ever-increasing government involvement in the economy, and this pointed the way toward socialism.

The second trend was the growth of the largest corporations into oligopolies and monopolies.  This development would make simple and painless a government takeover of those industries. The Fabians expected a government takeover to naturally occur once the public service sector and other public controls of the economy had gotten big enough.  In an argument that paralleled that of Karl Marx but that concluded without the need for a revolution, the Fabians claimed that capitalists were themselves creating the circumstances of their own demise.  The decline of capitalism and rise of socialism was a simple process of social evolution that had started with the Industrial Revolution.

The third trend was development of an organized and educated working class that had gained the right to vote and would eventually vote to replace capitalism with socialism.  This socialist working class was the creation of the capitalists themselves.  They are the ones who congregated the workers together in large factories and cities which made it possible for the workers to organize themselves and get over on their bosses.  And the capitalists are the ones who pushed for schools to educate the workers so that they could function in the new factories and cities.  Having taught the workers to read, the capitalists had enabled the workers to read the Fabians’ socialist literature.

In the end, Shaw concluded, as industrial conglomeration proceeds and small-scale businesses run by the owners themselves are replaced by mammoth corporations run by salaried managers, capitalism will eliminate the need for capitalists and it will be simple to replace private ownership in the hands of a small group of do-nothing capitalist owners with public ownership in the hands of workers.  The transition from capitalism to socialism, and getting over on the few remaining capitalists, will be so smooth that hardly anyone will notice the change.

The tone of Shaw’s writing in the Fabian Essays was optimistic.  Democratic socialism seemed inevitable in his view.  But there are at least two aspects of Shaw’s political views here that point toward his problematical positions later.  First, from Karl Marx, the father of scientific socialism, he took the idea of capitalism morphing into socialism albeit, in Shaw’s view, this would occur through elections and without a revolution.  People would recognize the increasing collectivism that was developing under capitalism and would take the logical last step toward socialism.

This last step depended, however, on democratic electoral action by the workers.  When in the course of time this transition did not seem to be occurring fast enough or at all – that is, workers were not electing Fabian socialists who would take the necessary action – Shaw became frustrated with a gradual democratic path to socialism.  From this frustration came his increasing interest in dictators who he thought could unilaterally make the necessary decisive changes.

Second, from Robert Owen, the father of English socialism, Shaw took the idea of workers raising their intellectual levels through education so that they would be able to support a democratic socialist society.  Shaw seemed, however, to assume that higher intellectual levels meant workers becoming high-brow intellectuals like him and his colleagues.  When Shaw did not see this happening to his satisfaction, he became frustrated with education and became interested in eugenics as the means of producing a sufficiently intellectual populace.  But not yet.

Candida: Updating and upstaging Voltaire in an age of feminism and socialism.

Shaw wrote the play Candida in 1893, four years after the Fabian Essays.[2]  It is a drawing room comedy that revolves around a competition for the affections of a beautiful young lady named Candida between her clergyman husband, James Morell, and a young poet, Eugene Marchbanks.  The play is a fitting complement to the Fabian papers that Shaw wrote and edited in the late 1880’s.  It exemplifies the seemingly blithe belief of the Fabians that socialism will naturally and inevitably evolve from industrial capitalism, and that socialists need merely promote the idea of socialism and intellectually prepare the public for the transition.

Morell is a clergyman who espouses Christian Socialism and a gospel of love.  He is in general a staid and mundane man who loves, honors and generally obeys his wife.  He comes alive when the welfare of humankind is the subject, and especially the subject of socialism.  Morell is a wonderfully impressive speaker and is immensely popular, receiving a continuous stream of invitations to speak at meetings and conferences, and a continuous stream of plaudits.  His life’s goal is to educate people about socialism as the fulfillment of Christian love.  He is personally kind and generous to a fault, and he is devoted to the happiness of his wife to the point of being willing to bless her going off with Marchbanks if that is what will make her happy.

Marchbanks is a ne’er-do-well young nobleman who claims to have had a horrid childhood in a family that mentally abused him and derided his incipient creativity.  Marchbanks is a self-styled poetic genius, a superior person who is above the mundane affairs of ordinary people.  His idea of a good life is to live off the labor of others: “To be idle, selfish and useless, that is, to be beautiful and free and happy.”  Marchbanks continually whines about his supposed misfortunes: “My heart cries out bitterly in ITS hunger.”  He is a weak person who is intuitive about others’ weaknesses and uses his intuition as a means of getting over on them.  Marchbanks uses passive-aggressive emotional techniques to manipulate Morell into feelings of insecurity, inferiority and jealousy, and to manipulate Candida into feelings of protectiveness toward him which he hopes will lead her to elope with him.[3]

Candida is a smug, all-controlling, down-to-earth woman who mocks the socialistic idealism in Morell and the poetic idealism in Marchbanks.  She is a typical Shavian woman who uses her wiles to get over on the men in her life.  Shaw considered himself something of a feminist, and he was for his day.  The Fabians included women on equal terms as men and campaigned for women’s suffrage.  But Shaw was somewhat backhanded in expressing his esteem for women in his plays and essays.  He seemed to believe that men and women possessed equal intelligence and skills, but he had a somewhat jaundiced view of what he saw as women’s biologically-based motives, which he claimed were to find a suitable male mate and make children.  As a result, the women in Shaw’s plays tend to be on the make for a husband, and they generally get their man.

Candida is portrayed as like a cat playing with her prey.  Although she toys with both Morell and Marchbanks, there never is any real chance that she will abandon Morell and go off with Marchbanks.  Marchbanks is neither sufficiently needy nor sufficiently malleable.  Morell needs her most and is the most malleable.  In the end, when she announces her intention to stay with Morell, she proclaims that “I build a castle of comfort and indulgence and love for him, and stand sentinel always to keep little vulgar cares out.”  That is, she takes care of home and hearth so that he can go out and try to take care of the world.  She represents the moral proclaimed by her namesake Candide in Voltaire’s Candide that taking care of hearth and home should be the first order of a person’s business.[4]  But I don’t think that is the moral of the play.

Candida thinks Morell is a noble fool to preach socialism to a populace that has been so thoroughly indoctrinated with the capitalist gospel of selfishness. She tells him that he is right in what he says about socialism and human rights, and that people who hear him preach invariably agree with him. “But,” she insists, “what’s the use of people agreeing with you if they go out and do just the opposite?”[5]  But the point of Morell’s preaching is not to make people change their ways.  It is to prepare them for the changes that are taking place despite them.

The underlying message of the play is, I think, that while Morell seems to be an idealistic fool – like Candide in Voltaire’s play before Candide concludes that there is no place like home – Morell is actually preparing people intellectually for the inevitable evolution to socialism predicted by Shaw and the other Fabian Socialists.  Morell is softening them up.  And that, I think, is the message and moral of the play.

This message is illustrated in the play by the actions and reactions of Burgess, Candida’s father, who is a nasty, greedy capitalist.  At the beginning of the play, Burgess berates Morell for wanting him to raise his workers’ wages.  Burgess complains that “You never think of the harm you do, putting money into the pockets of working men that they don’t know how to spend, and taking it from people that might be making good use of it.”  But at the end of the play, Burgess discloses that he has raised the wages of his workers because he wants to get some local government contracts, and the local government is requiring higher wages and better working conditions for the employees of its contractors.[6]

This turn of events exemplifies the message of the Fabians that capitalism will inevitably evolve into socialism, and do so with the help of the capitalists themselves.  It is a Panglossian world view that everything is ultimately for the best.  Morell is a wise fool and Candida is his helpmate in his wise foolishness.  And in this play, Shaw still seems confident in the beneficent outcome of social evolution.  But he does not stay so for long.

Shaw as Eugenics Socialist: A Race of Super(sic)men will save us.

Man and Superman: Shaw in Transition.

Man and Superman is a remarkable work.  And I use the word work to describe it because it is more than just a play.  It has four distinct parts.  First, there is a twenty-six-page introductory letter from Shaw addressed to a friend of his in which Shaw explains his reasons for writing the play and ostensibly outlines the philosophy behind the play. Then there is a forty-one-page pamphlet on social and political philosophy that has supposedly been written by the main character in the play just before the action in the play begins.

Then there is the play itself.  Finally, in the middle of the third act of the play, there is a long dream sequence which essentially constitutes a one-act play in itself, and is often performed by itself.  Each of the parts reflects a slightly different take on the ideas that the work discusses, including democracy and eugenics.  The different takes seemingly reflect Shaw’s ambivalence.

Man and Superman was written in 1903, ten years after Candida.  During that time Shaw’s belief in the inevitability of democratic socialism had been shaken.  The right to vote had been extended to virtually every male citizen in England, but progress toward democratic socialism had seemingly been stalled.  Shaw seemed unsure now whether the social evolution he had previously predicted in the Fabian Essays was going to come true, and whether ordinary people were willing and able to support such a change.  Eugenics now becomes a major issue for him.

Shaw is known for his ironic and satirical portrayal of almost everything, including his own pet ideas.  But in Man and Superman, he seems to be arguing with himself, satirically but seriously, and making fun of things in each part of the work that he takes seriously in other parts.  The ideas in the work are in turmoil, and their convolution seem to point toward Shaw’s devolution.

Introduction to Man and Superman: Letter to Arthur Bingham Walkeley.

Shaw’s introduction to Man and Superman purports to be a letter to his friend Arthur Bingham Walkeley explaining why Shaw has decided to fulfill Walkeley’s wish that Shaw write a play about the famous fictional character Don Juan.  It is a mock letter because Walkeley apparently never made any such request and because the play is not about Don Juan, with the partial exception of the dream sequence in the third act which features a character named Don Juan but isn’t about Don Juan’s well-known adventures.

The gist of the twenty-six-page letter is, instead, a diatribe about the need to breed a biological race of genius supermen who would be capable of choosing socialism as their economic system and running it as a democracy.  Such a development would also fulfill what Shaw sees as the underlying purpose of the universe, which is to produce beings of ever higher intelligence.

Shaw claims that the social evolution toward democratic socialism was being stymied by the low intelligence level of the average person.  He dismisses education as having failed as a means of elevating the intelligence of the general public, and he no longer has “illusions left on the subject of education, progress, and so forth.”  He insists that the problem is biological rather than educational and that there aren’t enough genetically intelligent people.  He is not advocating the elimination of unintelligent people because he thinks dumb people will not survive in the long run anyways in modern society.  What Shaw wants is for intelligent people to be directed to mate with other intelligent people.[7]

Shaw condemns what he calls the current system of promiscuous baby-making which is superficially controlled by men but actually controlled by women who invariably get over on the men.  Women are the baby-makers and in the process of natural selection, they determine the fate of the human race.  The problem is that women do not prioritize intelligence in choosing mates.  So, the system of natural selection must be replaced by a system of intelligent selection that will promote the artificial evolution of intelligent people.  The artificial evolution of super intelligent people will, in turn, supplement the social evolution of capitalist society toward democratic socialism.

While acknowledging that kings, aristocrats, and dictators of the past were even worse than democracy is today, Shaw complains that “We are all now under what Burke called ‘the hoofs of the swinish multitude.’”  He warns that “our political experiment of democracy, the last refuge of cheap misgovernment, will ruin us if our citizens are ill-bred.”  And he concludes his Jeremiad by predicting that “We must either breed political capacity or be ruined by Democracy.”[8]

At this point in his devolution, Shaw has not abandoned democracy, apparently deeming it the worst form of government except for all the rest.  But he is clearly disappointed with democratic government, society and culture.  Citing Nietzsche as his inspiration for the idea of the superman, Shaw claims that Man and Superman promotes intelligent breeding as a serious solution to the major social problems of his day.  But the seriousness of this suggestion is undercut by the mocking tone of the next part of the work.

The Revolutionist’s Handbook and Pocket Companion.

The Revolutionist’s Handbook and Pocket Companion is a forty-one-page political pamphlet supposedly written by John Tanner, who is the hero of the play Man and Superman.  On the title page of the pamphlet, Tanner identifies himself as “John Tanner, MIRC (Member of the Idle Rich Class).”  Then in the opening sentence of the pamphlet, Tanner defines a revolutionist as “one who desires to discard the existing order and try another.”  The flippancy of “MIRC” and the words “and try another” are a tip-off that this document is being written in a whimsical style.  Tanner seemingly does not intend for readers to take him seriously.  This is a different tone than that claimed by Shaw speaking as Shaw in his introductory letter to Walkeley.[9]

Although Tanner describes himself as an erstwhile revolutionist and declares that “any person under the age of thirty who, having knowledge of the existing order, is not a revolutionist, is an inferior,” he goes on to claim that all revolutions have been and must be failures.  “Revolutions,” he insists, “have never lightened the burden of tyranny: they have only shifted it to another shoulder.”  Setting himself up as a revolutionary and then knocking himself down, all on the first three pages.  So, what is the point of the handbook?  What does the revolutionist Tanner want?[10]

Eugenics.  Alluding to Nietzsche’s declaration that God is dead, Tanner claims that “Man must take in hand all the work he used to shirk with an idle prayer” to God.  Citing Nietzsche’s concept of the superman, Tanner claims that merely changing social institutions, such as transitioning from capitalism to socialism, would be irrelevant without creating a race of supermen to function in the new institutions.  “We must, therefore, frankly give up the notion that Man as he exists is capable of progress.”  Like Shaw in his introduction, Shaw speaking as Tanner promotes intelligent breeding, but he takes it a step further.[11]

Whereas Shaw focused on breeding for intelligence in his letter to Walkeley, Tanner insists that supermen must not merely be superior in intelligence but must also be creative, and be able to think outside of the box as we say today.  Tanner explains that “we want a superior mind,” but not if those minds are “conventional.”  Conventional geniuses will merely find ingenious ways to perpetuate the existing order.  They are worse for society than dummies.  Echoing Nietzsche, Tanner says that “Man must rise above himself.”[12]

Tanner does not want to pave the way for rule by individual supermen or an elite class of supermen.  He does not aim for dictatorship or aristocracy.  He wants to create a genuine democracy which he says can happen only if there is true equality among people.  In turn, true equality can happen only through controlled, intelligent breeding to produce a human species consisting completely of supermen.

Unlike many proponents of eugenics, such as the Social Darwinians, Tanner is not a racist and does not want to create a homogeneous or pure race.  To the contrary, he wants diversity in breeding so that combining all the best characteristics of the world’s racial and ethnic groups will make for the fittest human species.  Echoing Shaw in his prefatory letter, Tanner wants to breed for fitness and let the unfit die out naturally as part of the evolutionary process.

Fitness is a Darwinian term, as in the evolutionary survival of the fittest species.  Social Darwinians in the late nineteenth century defined fitness primarily in terms of strength and wealth.  The rich and the powerful were ostensibly the fittest people and the goal of evolution.  This was a misconstruction of Darwin’s evolutionary theory.  In Darwinian terms, fitness means being able to adapt to changing circumstances.  Adaptation could be hindered by great wealth, brute strength, and conventional intelligence, all of which might lead a person to insist on maintaining the status quo rather than changing to meet changing circumstances. Which is what Social Darwinians did then and their right-wing descendants do today.

Tanner is not a Social Darwinian.  He adopts Darwin’s conception of fitness and insists that “the survival of the fittest means finally the survival of the self-controlled.”   The fittest are those who can stay calm in the face of crises, can critique their habitual behavior, and can change their ways to fit a changing environment.[13]

In his plan for creating people fit for democracy and socialism, Tanner goes a step further than Shaw did in the introduction and he calls for the abolition of marriage.  Tanner claims that marriage is an obstructive and obsolete institution.  The institution of marriage tries to keep fit partners from procreating if they are not married or are married to someone else.  That is silly, Tanner claims.  And, in any case, it doesn’t work well.

Promiscuity abounds despite the restraints of marriage.  With all the promiscuity among married and unmarried couples, and with all the unwed mothering of children, Tanner claims that marriage won’t be missed by many when it is gone.  Just as the Fabians claimed that ninety-nine percent of people wouldn’t even notice the abolition of capitalism, Tanner claims they won’t miss the abolition of marriage.  Marriage is a fraud and an obstacle to genuinely diverse breeding.  With the end of marriage, intelligent breeding can fully proceed.

Tanner concludes his pamphlet with the proclamation that “Our only hope, then, is in evolution.  We must replace man by the Superman.”   And “The only fundamental and possible Socialism is the socialization of the selective breeding of Man.”  Dismissing Fabian Socialists as merely a bunch of talkers, he proposes that the British government create “a State Department of Evolution” to coordinate breeding policy.  But Tanner provides no specifics as to how this could or would be done.  Thus, he seemingly consigns himself to the class of mere talkers and relegates his big ideas to humorous oblivion.[14]

The Play Man and Superman.

Man and Superman is a delightfully witty play but it is intellectually the least interesting part of the work in which it is placed.  The first two acts are a drawing room comedy in which the self-styled revolutionist John Tanner is being stalked by a young woman, Ann Whitefield, who wants to marry him.  Ann is a smug, all-controlling woman, not unlike Candida in this respect, but Ann is also passive-aggressive in her relations with others.  She plays on their guilt feelings to get over on them and get them to do what she wants, and she eventually guilt trips and guilt traps Tanner into marrying her.  Tanner complains of her “damnable woman’s trick of heaping obligations on a man, of placing herself so entirely and helplessly at his mercy,” that he has to do what she wants.  Ann is being pursued by Tanner’s best friend Octavius Robinson who desperately wants to marry Ann.  Ann toys with Octavius while maneuvering to snare Tanner.[15]

Tanner struts and spouts radical anti-marriage epigrams throughout the play.  He is described as “a megalomaniac” who exudes “a sense of the importance of everything he does.”  He carries himself with “Olympian majesty” and “his frockcoat would befit a prime minister.”  He is “prodigiously fluent of speech,” a wise guy always ready with a wise crack rejoinder.  As Shaw says of himself in his introduction to the play, Tanner’s stated goal is to epater le bourgeois and make himself obnoxious to most of those around him.  And Tanner thinks that his authorship of The Revolutionist’s Handbook and Pocket Companion has put him completely beyond the pale of middle-class acceptability and beyond the reach of any middle-class woman.  He is wrong.[16]

As with Morell in Candida who is patronized by his wife for his radical views, Tanner is patronized for his views by Ann, who doesn’t think he really believes the things he says in his pamphlet.  And, seemingly he doesn’t because he lets himself get caught in Ann’s marital web.  This is a key difference between Morell, who really does believe in his socialist views, and Tanner who is seemingly too flippant to really believe in anything.  In moving from Candida to Man and Superman, the heroes of Shaw’s plays have gone from sincere to cynical, which seemingly reflects Shaw’s own descent.  Another key difference in the plays is that Candida tried to help her husband promote his socialistic views, whereas Ann tries to wean Tanner from his views and seemingly succeeds.

Tanner is a self-styled know-it-all, but he is completely oblivious that Ann is maneuvering and manipulating him until he finds himself trapped.  At that point, he makes a desperate run for freedom in the third act to the Sierra Nevada Mountains in Spain.  There, he falls in with a band of bandits who identify with various left-wing ideologies, as anarchists, social democrats, or nihilists.  Tanner and the bandits bandy about various socialistic ideas that seem ridiculous in the circumstances.  The play essentially mocks the ideas of socialism that were seriously promoted in the Fabian Essays and Candida, as well as the ideas promoted in Tanner’s pamphlet and Shaw’s introduction to the play.

Tanner is followed by Ann to the Spanish mountains and in the fourth act, he gives in to marrying her and settling down.  “Marriage is to me an apostasy,” he complains, and “the young men will scorn me as one who has sold out.”  But he, nonetheless, seems reconciled to marriage and happy to do it.  In the last lines of the play, Tanner is still ranting to his fiancé and their friends against marriage and middle-class respectability.  When someone engages in a side conversation, he looks around to see if anyone is listening to him.  Ann tells him: “Never mind dear, go on talking.”  Tanner responds in seeming bewilderment with the word “Talking,” and everyone laughs.  All he has been doing throughout the play is meaningless talking.[17]

The play ends up essentially as a lot of ado about nothing.  Shaw has promised us something radical in his introduction and in Tanner’s pamphlet, but he has delivered a fairly conventional comedy of manners.  Witty and well done, but rather tame and quite cynical in its overall tone.  A far cry from the sincere tone of the Fabian Essays and the underlying optimism of the play Candida.  Shaw is seemingly a man arguing against himself and losing the argument.

Don Juan in Hell

In the middle of the third act of the play, Tanner is camping with the bandits in the Spanish mountains when one night he has a dream.  It is a dream about Don Juan in Hell, and it consists of a debate between Don Juan and the Devil about the advantages and disadvantages of Heaven and Hell.  They are joined by other characters from the traditional Don Juan story, including Ann whom Don Juan was in the process of seducing when her father intervened and Don Juan killed him.  Don Juan in the dream looks like Tanner and Ann in the dream looks like Ann in the play.

In this dream, dead people get to choose between an afterlife in Heaven or in Hell.  Hell is a festive place of selfish pleasure.  Heaven is a dull place of good intentions and good works.  Many people who were good in life choose to spend their afterlife in Hell.  Many people who were bad in life choose to spend their afterlife in Heaven.  Having spent many hundreds of years in Hell, Don Juan has decided to move up to Heaven.  

In so doing, Don Juan inveighs against an existence of mere pleasure and in favor of a purposeful existence.  This was a major theme of Shaw’s introduction: that the universe has an evolutionary purpose and that man’s purpose was to further that of the universe.  The Devil replies that in the overall scheme of things a purposeful life is really a meaningless life: “You think,” he tells Don Juan,” that because you have a purpose, Nature must have one.”  Based on his eternity of existence, the Devil assures Don Juan that the universe has no purpose and that the idea of making things better is foolish.  “Where you now see reform, progress,” he explains, is really “nothing but an infinite comedy of illusion.”  And he cites numerous examples of human perfidy and the failure of reformers.”[18]

Reformers, the Devil claims, invariably do awful things in the name of reform.  And “Men,” he chides Don Juan, “are never at a loss for an excuse for killing one another.”  When Don Juan accepts the idea of killing for a good cause with “What of that?” I think we are expected to see that the Devil is right in his cynicism toward Don Juan’s newly found moralism.  And when Don Juan then cites Nietzsche in support of his goal to make men into supermen, I think we are expected to agree with the Devil’s reply to “Beware of the pursuit of the Superhuman.  It leads to an indiscriminate contempt for the Human.”  As in Milton’s Paradise Lost, the Devil has most of the best lines in this playlet, except that Shaw, unlike Milton, seems to mean it.   It’s a cynical message and just the opposite of the message Shaw conveyed in his introductory preface.  Shaw seems in this work to be in the throes of contradiction.[19]

Shaw as Dictatorial Socialist.  A Super(sic)man will save us.

The Apple Cart: The Preface.

As Shaw became steadily more discouraged by the prospects and practices of democracy, he became more interested in authoritarian solutions to social problems.  In 1929, he premiered a play called The Apple Cart.  In the play, the prime minister of England is trying to get the King to stop publicly criticizing the prime minister’s policies.  He wants to muzzle the King.  The King’s response is to threaten to resign as King, run for Parliament, and try to become prime minister.  Since the King is apparently more popular than the current prime minister, the King would probably win and, thereby, “upset the apple cart.”  In the end, the prime minister backs down and things go on as before.[20]

As was Shaw’s usual practice, he wrote a long preface to the play, a twenty-three-page preface for a seventy-page play.  In the preface, Shaw explains his ideas behind the drama and defends autocrats.  He claims that kings, who serve for life, generally have more governmental experience and expertise than elected politicians since “the king works continually whilst his ministers are in office for spells only.”  And kings, Shaw claims, must gain their ends aboveboard.  Elected politicians, in contrast, gain their ends through sleazy “selfish methods of dominating the feebly recalcitrant, the unreasonable, the timid, and the stupid.”  Citing Mussolini for support, Shaw justifies kings and others autocrats “making a desperate bid for dictatorship on the perfectly true plea that democracy has destroyed all other responsibility.”[21]

Shaw goes on to claim that Abraham Lincoln was a “demagogue” and a “humbug” when Lincoln proclaimed that government should be “of the people, for the people, and by the people.”  Of and for the people, yes.  By the people, absolutely no.  Ordinary people, Shaw sardonically wrote, can’t write good laws any more than they can write good plays.  As capitalism has become more socialistic, he explains, with “a huge communistic framework of public services and regulations,” it has become imperative “to construct a political system for rapid positive work.”  So, Shaw concludes, we must get rid of “all the pseudo-democratic obstructive functions” of our political system.  That is, we must get rid of what most of us think of as democracy and replace it with an authoritarian regime that can get things done quickly and efficiently.[22]

The Apple Cart: The Play.

The Apple Cart is a genial but immensely cynical play.  It is witty but wordy, consisting entirely of debates among the various characters about politics.  King Magnus, a fictional King of England, is the main and most sympathetic character.  He is jousting for power with the elected Prime Minister Proteus and Proteus’ cabinet ministers, and he has been making public statements critical of Proteus and his ministers.  He is making life hard for them.

Proteus and the other ministers complain that the King is interfering with their efforts to do the public weal, and is undermining democracy in the country.  The King replies that “democracy is humbug” and that he is only trying to protect the public from the unbridled incompetence and corruption of the elected government, and “the tyranny of popular ignorance.”  “Only the king,” he claims, “is above that tyranny” and he alone stands for “conscience and virtue.”[23]

Democracy and the public take a complete beating in the play, even from the democratically elected officials.  The economics minister, Bill Boanerges, for example, is the leader of the country’s trade unions, a worker who has worked his way up from poverty to officialdom.  In describing his relationship to his constituents, Boanerges says “I say to them ‘You are supreme: exercise your power.’ They say, ‘That’s right: Tell us what to do.’”  So, he does.  The public wants “a strong man,” Boanerges claims, someone to tell them what to do.  “That’s democracy,” Boanerges concludes and, although he is portrayed as a pompous ass, he seems to be speaking for Shaw.[24]

A side theme in the play is Shaw’s ongoing portrayal of women as predators and as the power behind the male throne, in this case literally.  King Magnus has an enchanting mistress, Orinthia, whom he can’t do without.  She is a self-styled goddess who claims that ordinary people exist “to sweep the streets for me.”  Her claim to greatness consists in her being, not in her doing. “Do not pretend,” she tells the King, “that people become great by doing great things.  They do great things because they are great.”  She essentially articulates Shaw’s case for supermen.[25]

Orinthia wants the King to divorce his dowdy housewife Jemima so she can have a chance to do great things as his Queen.  He won’t do it.  “You gathered me in like a daisy,” he replies to Orinthia, and he tells her that he cannot give her up, but he cannot marry her.  He needs his housewife Queen.  She takes care of him so that he can play the role of King.   This is very similar to Candida’s relationship with Morell in Candida.  In the last lines of the play, the King whines that he does not want to eat his dinner, but his nanny wife leads him off to the dining room with the words “Come on, like a good little boy.”[26]

Although Shaw claims in his preface to The Apple Cart that the play deals with socialism, there is nothing in the play about socialism.  All the characters seem to agree that big corporations run everything and that neither they, the politicians, nor the public have any real power or ability to change things.  The play consists entirely of witticisms and political backtalk, and it is all about the game of politics and politics as a game.  Nothing about social and economic policy.  It is as though all that matters is who is in power, not what anyone stands for or actually does.  It is a thoroughly cynical play.

By the time of The Apple Cart, Shaw had come a long way ideologically since his contributions to the Fabian Essays.  Although he still supported what he called socialism, his support for democracy had virtually disappeared along with his faith in the intelligence of the general public.  And as Shaw’s support for dictators increased, so did his support for eugenics.  Although he ostensibly based his political views on Darwin and Nietzsche, Shaw’s ideas reflected a misreading of them both.  A common misreading by many people then and now, and a source of ideological confusion from then to the present-day.

Evolution and Supermen: Shaw’s Misunderstanding of Darwin and Nietzsche.

Like most intellectuals in Europe and America during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Shaw was strongly influenced by what he took to be Darwin’s theories of evolution.  Like many intellectuals during this period, Shaw was also greatly influenced by what he took to be Nietzsche’s theory of the superman.  And like some intellectuals during this time, Shaw tried to put the two theories together.  The problem is that Shaw got Darwin and Nietzsche wrong, and he got them wrong in ways that fueled his increasingly illiberal and undemocratic views, and that continue to fuel people’s illiberal and undemocratic views to the present day.

Shaw’s misreadings of Darwin and Nietzsche have been especially common in right-wing political circles. The theory of evolution and the idea of the superman were misused to justify right-wing Social Darwinism in the late nineteenth century and Nazism later in the twentieth century.  Shaw did not intend to find himself in this right-wing company.  Even as his views devolved, he always meant well and hoped to do something to help humankind, and remained committed to socialism.

In his support for Mussolini, Hitler, and Stalin, Shaw was seemingly misled in part by the fact that Mussolini had been a leader of the Italian Socialist Party before he turned fascist, that Hitler was the leader of the National Socialist People’s Party, the full name of the Nazis, which initially had some self-styled socialist members, and that Stalin was the Communist leader of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.  They were dictators who used the word socialism.  Shaw was a wordsmith who was often a captive of words.  He got fooled by their socialistic rhetoric or, rather, fooled himself.  Other progressives who have supported revolutionary dictators and dictatorial regimes that were ostensibly socialistic have similarly been fooled or fooled themselves, and their thinking has often followed an anti-democratic path similar to Shaw’s.

Nietzsche and Napoleon.[27]

Shaw’s illiberal and undemocratic ideas flowed naturally and logically from his misunderstanding of Darwin and Nietzsche.  His flawed premises led him to right-wing conclusions, despite himself.  Other progressives have started with similar premises and followed a similar path although they did not specifically cite Darwin or Nietzsche as their mentors.  The ideas were essentially the same, as were the consequences.

Shaw’s misunderstanding of Nietzsche began with his acceptance of the common mistranslation of the German word ubermensch as superman.  Shaw effectively became a captive of that mistranslation.  Nietzsche was a proponent of what he called the ubermensch, which both literally and figuratively translates into English as overman.  An overman is a very different being from a superman.  Although Nietzsche’s language with respect to the overman is inflated and extravagant and he portrays the overman as a superior person in power and glory – Napoleon Bonaparte is his model – Nietzsche’s overman is not necessarily superior to other people in his natural powers.  He is not a superman with super powers.[28]

Nietzsche’s overman is an uncommon man because he overcomes what is common in himself and overcomes the conventions of common people.  He is continually making and remaking himself.  “I teach you the overman.  Man is something to be overcome” Nietzsche’s alter ego Zarathustra proclaims in Thus Spoke Zarathustra.[29] The overman is in a continual state of becoming, never satisfied with what he has done or become, but always seeking to go beyond himself.

Nietzsche’s language is bombastic, caustic and elitist, but his ideas, including the idea of the overman, don’t have to be interpreted that way.  Nietzsche wrote in the style of epater le bourgeois that was popular among avant garde writers in the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and that Shaw adopted.  Shaw, however, seemed to get caught up in Nietzsche’s rhetoric, lost the track of Nietzsche’s reasoning, and got led astray.

The overman essentially lives according to Jean Paul Sartre’s existentialist formulation that “we are not what we are and we are what we are not,” that is, we are continually making choices that define who we are and the definition of ourselves is continually changing.  We are our choices, and an overman is continually changing through those choices.  In this view, overcoming can be done by anyone who is willing to go beyond themselves and beyond the conventionalities.  And you do not have to be a high-brow intellectual like Shaw and his colleagues to do this.

Nietzsche’s praise for Napoleon was not primarily based on his military conquests and his overcoming of other people but on Napoleon’s conquest and overcoming of himself.  There is a story about Napoleon that I think can be used to illustrate Nietzsche’s idea of the overman.  It is said that at the start of some battle, Napoleon’s adjutants came hurriedly up to him with the worrisome news that the enemy was adopting a tactic for which they had not prepared.  “What should we do,” they wailed.  Napoleon supposedly replied with complete calmness, “First, we will commit ourselves, and then we’ll see.”  It was a characteristically enigmatic response, and there is at least a triple-entendre embedded in Napoleon’s reply.

First, there is the pragmatic meaning that we will decide what is best to do once we have seen the way things develop from our first forays.  Such a pragmatic response was typical of the resourceful Napoleon, who could change tactics at will.

Second, there is an epistemological meaning, that seeing comes from commitment.  You see only through commitment to something that requires that seeing.  Seeing is purposeful, and seeing a thing is a pragmatic consequence of deciding to do something about that thing.

Finally, there is an ontological meaning that self-development is based on commitment.  We commit ourselves and then we see what we become.  In this regard, it is almost an existentialist statement similar to Sartre’s existentialist formulation on becoming.  With each tactical change, Napoleon was overcoming his past practices, evolving in a new way, and redefining himself.

Each of these meanings is inherent in Nietzsche’s idea of the overman.  They are very different from the reading of Nietzsche that Shaw fell into, a reading that extols domination over other people.  In Shaw’s case, it was the domination by progressive intellectual politicians over the masses of people for their own good, but the same misreading was used by the Nazis to rationalize their brutalitarian domination over the masses.

Darwin and Cockroaches.[30]

Shaw got Darwin wrong because he read two consequential ideas into evolutionary theory that aren’t there.  First, he read evolution teleologically, as though it has some preordained purpose and goal.  Second, he claimed that the driving force behind evolution, its preordained purpose and the meaning of the universe, was the rise of intelligence, with human intelligence as the goal.

Evolution, in Shaw’s view, was the preordained ascent of humans from amoebas in the primeval muck to masters of the universe.  Evolution was based on survival of the fittest, and intelligence was the key to fitness.  Measures of intelligence would indicate which species, which societies, and which individuals would have the ability to adapt and survive in changing circumstances.

Shaw’s was a view that was common among scientists in his time and is still common among laypeople today.  In this view, evolution has been a straight-line development of ever-higher high-brow intelligence, that is, the kind of logical and linguistic intelligence that has historically been most valued in Western culture.  Individuals evolve, species of individuals evolve, and societies evolve, and the key to all of this evolution is intelligence.

In this view, humans are uniquely capable of using their intellects to creatively adapt their environment to themselves, to change their circumstances to fit themselves, rather than merely responding to circumstances mechanically through instinct and trying to adapt themselves to their environment.  And for this reason, humans are supposedly the fittest creatures on earth.  This view is, however, a misreading of Darwin and is not supported by science.

In evolutionary theory, adaptability does not require high-brow intellectuality.  And evolution does not seem to go in a straight line with respect to the development of any biological characteristics or any species, let alone a trend toward greater intelligence.  Species come and go, survive, thrive and die out, in ways that do not seem logical or preordained toward any goal. But like many people, Shaw fell prey to the sort of human-centered thinking that kept people for so many centuries from recognizing that the earth is not the center of the universe.

One of the longest surviving and most adaptable creatures in the world, for example, is the cockroach, which has been around for some three hundred and fifty million years, far longer than humans have and far better equipped to survive the environmental disasters that humans are wreaking on the world.  And cockroaches are not known for their high-brow intellectual abilities.

Adaptability, in fact, comes in many different forms and many creatures have the ability to creatively adapt their circumstances to themselves.  Beavers are well known for their engineering skills in building dams to make homes for themselves.  Giraffes act as foresters when they make room for acacia trees, the leaves of which they particularly like, by killing the seedlings of other types of trees.  Black ants act as shepherds when they cultivate herds of black flies for food, anesthetizing them so that they won’t fly away, and then milking them for a fluid that the ants consume.  Termites act as farmers when they regurgitate wood to fertilize fungi that they cultivate for food.  Humans are not the only creatures that creatively work with their environments, nor are we the best or most efficient.  Just say “global warming.”

Shaw also had it wrong when he claimed that intellectuality was the key to human development and evolutionary success.  While human intellectuality is probably the most spectacular thing about humans as compared to other species, it is not the most important thing about humans that has enabled us to survive and thrive.  It is our sociability, our ability to live and work together, too cooperate with each other and care for each other, that has enabled us to adapt to changing circumstances and fit us, so far, for survival.  What is called “interpersonal intelligence” by Howard Gardner and other psychologists is the key.  We humans have a naturally high level of interpersonal intelligence or empathy, some of us more than others, but all of us are capable of being cooperative.

We are “social animals” in Aristotle’s words. So that even though we humans have few survival instincts and have to invent most of the things and skills we need to survive, it is through cooperation that we do this.  It is cooperation that extends to the past, as we learn from our predecessors’ failures and build upon their achievements.  It is the cooperative accumulation of knowledge and skills over time, passed down through the generations, that has enabled humans to survive and thrive.  It is cooperation that extends to the future as we try to make the world better for our descendants.  Most of all, it is cooperation with our comrades as we try to make our way together in the world.  Shaw never seemed to get the importance of cooperation and did not portray it well in his plays.  His characters were merely groupings of individuals without any sense of solidarity.  His failure to understand cooperation was a key factor in his political devolution.

Shaw’s advocacy of eugenics was based on his belief that human intelligence had reached a point at which humans could have some effect on evolution, still riding the wave of evolution’s predetermined course, but able to make some useful adjustments to that course.  He wanted people to use their intelligence to breed for even greater intelligence and for greater equality in intelligence. Shaw believed that a human race of super-intelligent supermen could be genetically produced like breeding purebred dogs.  But the traits that he wanted people to have, namely intellectual flexibility and pragmatic adaptability, do not seem to be biologically inheritable.  Whether Shaw liked it or not, these are traits that are learned and then honed through practice.  And they are not confined to bookish intellectuals like Shaw and his colleagues.

Educators from the turn of the twentieth century to the present day, including John Dewey then and Howard Gardner more recently, have shown that humans are endowed with multiple types of intelligence.  Bookish intelligence is only one among a half dozen or more different types of natural aptitude.  Every person has more or less of each aptitude, and different people can be more or less taught to excel in each of the aptitudes.  Contrary to Shaw’s contention, no one is uneducable and everyone can learn to think outside the box and creatively respond to their circumstances.  This is something that I learned from embarrassing personal experience.

When I was in college, I had a summer job as a temporary worker on a cleanup crew at the Merchandise Mart in Chicago.  None of the regular members of the crew had gone to college, some of them were barely literate.  Most of them were racists and anti-Semites, and they often targeted me with bigoted comments because I am Jewish.  I began the job with feelings of superiority over these guys.  My coworkers were clearly worse than ignoramuses when it came to academic subjects, cultural issues and social relations, the sorts of things in which I excelled.  But they sure knew how to clean a building.

This was not a simple broom and dust cloth operation.  There were lots of cleaning products and equipment to deal with, and different treatments were necessary for different surfaces.  It was complicated.  The work required intelligence, expertise, and even creativity, and my coworkers had invented many novel ways of doing things.  They took pride in what they did, and they did it well.  Time and again, they would have to instruct me in how to do something.  And despite the bad feelings between them and me, they made sure I knew how to do things right, and that the work was properly done.  I often felt like a fool.  In my memory of those times, I still do.

But I learned some important things that summer that I have tried not to forget ever since.  The first was that I was not as smart and superior as I had thought.  The second was that people can be dumb about some things but smart about others.  Finally, I learned that people who are otherwise bigoted and hostile may be willing to cross boundary lines to work with outsiders on a common project.  Those guys were willing to overcome, or at least overlook, their prejudices to work with me – a privileged member of a despised ethnic group – and to teach me and mentor me when it came to doing the work we had in common.  And I learned to overcome my arrogance and to work with them, despite their prejudices and their rude and crude behavior.  Perhaps my experience at the Merchandise Mart can be seen as a model of democracy at work.

Shaw was able to recognize the talents of unintellectual people and attribute what we would call multiple types of intelligence to them.  In Man and Superman, he has a character who is a chauffeur and auto mechanic.  The man is portrayed in favorable terms as a clever mechanic and down-to-earth thinker.  But he is also portrayed as the kind of person in whom the government could not be entrusted.  This disparaging view of unintellectual people is what ultimately led Shaw to become increasingly authoritarian in his politics, and it’s where I think he went wrong.

The Bad News and the Good: Democracy and Education.

Shaw had it wrong when he claimed that a high level of high-brow intellectuality was the key to a successful democracy.  Resting his hopes for democracy on the evolution of a race of super-intellectuals, at first through education and then through eugenics, Shaw was setting himself up for a rejection of democracy.  His race of super intellectuals was impossible.

But it was also unnecessary.  It is our natural and necessary cooperativeness that makes democracy possible.  And it is through the cultivation of that cooperativeness, through education and experience, that social progress can occur.  Historically, lasting social reform has come from the bottom-up and not from the top-down as Shaw would have it.  Unfortunately, not all of us recognize or accept the fact of our natural sociability.

Dark periods in history are almost invariably a consequence of egoism and selfishness or fear and hatred coming to the fore.  Those emotions are part of the human makeup, and they can be cultivated or provoked so that hostility overcomes our empathy and sociability.  It is also the case that some of us are incapable of feeling empathy or acting socially.  Think Donald Trump.

We in United States have been bombarded with right-wing Social Darwinism in various forms, with its emphasis on selfish individualism and hostility to others, for the last one hundred twenty-five years.  This miseducation has colored most Americans’ ideological responses to social issues. As result, when Americans are asked ideological questions, they generally give right-wing answers. When, for example, people over the last century have been asked whether or not they support social programs to help the poor or minorities, the results have generally been that two-thirds of the respondents are against such programs based on their adherence to an individualist ideology.

But, when people have been asked more concrete and personal questions as to whether the government should keep people from starving or being discriminated against, the results have generally been two-thirds in favor.  Ideologies and ideological questions are cold blooded and generally get cold-blooded answers.  But concrete questions about specific people evoke empathy, and the overwhelming majority of Americans then support a cooperative response.

The bad news of our time is that systematic racism and sexism permeate American society, and some one-third of the people could reasonably be considered fascists.  They are inspired by fear and hatred against blacks, Hispanics, immigrants, liberals, Muslims, Jews, gays, peaceniks, and anyone else who seems to them to be a threat to their privileged existence as white people.  These Americans are anti-democratic in ideology and authoritarian by nature.  They are encouraged by the current President of the United States and they support him.

But these are mostly old people, especially old white men, who remember the good old days of unrestricted white male dominance over everyone else.  And although they are mounting a last ditch, scorched earth-defense of their privileges in the form of Trumpism, their day is passing.  The good news is that every generation of young people since the 1960’s has been more progressive than the last, and these progressive young people will soon be running the country.  If we survive the damage of the “apres moi, le deluge” assault on the world by the Trumpists, there should politically be better days ahead.

As I am writing this essay, the world is engulfed in a pandemic that is being spread by people breathing, coughing and sneezing on each other.  We have been told by all the leading scientists and doctors that the single best way to prevent the spread of the disease is for people to wear face masks.  Wearing a mask is, thus, largely an empathetic and cooperative action that helps others and the society as a whole.   Unfortunately, the President and his right-wing supporters have made wearing masks an ideological issue.

Some two-thirds of the American public say that they support wearing masks and wear masks themselves.  The one-third who oppose the masks and don’t wear them generally do so on the grounds of either individualistic ideology or pure I-don’t-want-to-be-bothered selfishness.  While the individualistic behavior of this minority of people has so far wreaked havoc on efforts to contain the disease, it is still significant that the overwhelming majority of Americans support the cooperative effort.

The guys that I worked with at the Merchandise Mart were filled with fears and hatreds of people unlike themselves.  But they had sufficient empathy to work with me toward a common goal.  That, I think, is the key to adaptability and survival.  It is a natural human attribute that needs today to be applied to broader social and political ends, as it has been in the past and still can be.  That is a task for education and it is the test for democracy.

Finale: Should we cancel Shaw?  I say “No.”

So, what are we to make of Shaw?  Shaw got a lot of things wrong but I think he didn’t mean it and he wasn’t mean about it.  Shaw promoted eugenics and railed against democracy in ways that were similar to those of racists and fascists in his day.  But his intentions were humane.  He hoped to use eugenics to breed a more egalitarian human race of highly intelligent beings. Shaw’s intentions were in sharp contrast with those of the Social Darwinians and the Nazis who wanted to use eugenics for inegalitarian and inhumane purposes.

Shaw also promoted dictators in terms similar to those used by the fascists.  But, again, his intentions were humane.  Shaw hoped that dictators could bring about a socialist transformation that would make a better life for the masses of people. His goal was in sharp contrast to that of the right-wing authoritarians who wanted dictators to keep down the masses and force people to accept a miserable existence.

So, what to do with Shaw?  When dealing with ideas and actions that are unacceptable to us today but that were within the range of respectability in the past, I try to make a distinction between what could be called genteel wrongheadedness and vicious wrongdoing.  Genteel wrongheadedness is often a kind of snobbery.  It is looking down on others as inferiors, as when some people say that Jews are socially unacceptable or that Jewish businessmen are all shysters.

Vicious wrongdoing is an attempt to actively do harm to another group, as with the Nazis and the QAnon people who think that Jews are running and ruining the world and must be wiped out.  Genteel wrongheadedness is unacceptable but not necessarily unforgivable. Vicious wrongdoing is unacceptable, unforgivable, and unforgettable.  Charles Dickens was, for example, a genteel racist toward Jews, but he is still one of my favorite authors.

I think we can characterize Shaw as genteelly wrongheaded, as someone who looked down upon ordinary people but meant them no harm.  To the contrary, he hoped to make the world a better place for everyone through eugenics and dictators.  He explicitly refused to target any group for oppression.  He expressly rejected any restrictions on people he considered unintelligent.  He merely wanted to encourage mating among the intelligent.  I think that Shaw was idiotic in his support for eugenics and dictators, but not vicious.  His views are unacceptable and must be condemned, but I don’t think he need be cancelled.

I think we can continue to enjoy his plays without moral qualms, albeit with the cautious and critical attention with which we should approach any work from another time and place.  To those of us who believe in democracy, his plays offer an intellectual challenge to see the flaws in his works and hone our own beliefs.  Shaw was very smart and very clever.  If you are not careful, he can snare you into his way of thinking without your being aware of it.  Reading him with critical attention is good practice.

His plays also offer us an opportunity to analyze how and why a person devolves politically in the way that Shaw did.  His example might help us to understand the devolution of American politics, and help explain how a populace that twice elected Barack Obama could have then elected Donald Trump.  For these reasons, I think his plays should continue to hold a place in the literary canon of our times.

BW   8/30/20

Footnotes:

[1] Fabian Essays.  George Bernard Shaw, Ed. Kindle Books: Pantianos Classics:

[2] Candida. George Bernard Shaw.  New York: Signet Classic, 1960.

[3] Ibid. Pp.201, 208.

[4] Ibid. P.233.

[5] Ibid. P.210-211.

[6] Ibid. P.186.

[7] Man and Superman. George Bernard Shaw. “To Arthur Bingham Walkley.” New York: Signet Classic, 1960. P.251

[8] Ibid. Pp.250, 251.

[9] Man and Superman. George Bernard Shaw. “The Revolutionist’s Handbook and Pocket Companion.”  New York: Signet Classic, 1960. P 406

[10] Ibid. P.407

[11] Ibid. P.408

[12] Ibid. P.416

[13] Ibid. P.417

[14] Ibid. Pp.432, 433.

[15]  Man and Superman. George Bernard Shaw. “The Play.” eBook: Start Publishing LLC., 2012. P.33.

[16] Ibid. P.10.

[17] Ibid. P.134

[18] Man and Superman. George Bernard Shaw. “Don Juan in Hell.”  New York: Signet Classic, 1960. Pp.370-371

[19] Ibid. Pp.350, 352, 373.

[20] Plays Political. George Bernard Shaw. “The Preface.” London: Penguin Books, 1986. P.95

[21] Ibid. P.11, 12, 14.

[22] Ibid. Pp.15, 18-19, 21, 28.

[23] Plays Political. George Bernard Shaw. “The Play.” London: Penguin Books, 1986. Pp 62,66, 67

[24] Ibid. Pp.43-44

[25] Ibid. P.77

[26] Ibid. Pp.79, 102

[27] On Nietzsche, see Walter Kaufmann. Nietzsche: Philosopher Psychologist Antichrist. New York: Meridian Books, 1966.

[28]Friedrich Nietzsche. Beyond Good and Evil. New York: Vintage Books, 1966. P.178.

[29]Friedrich Nietzsche. Thus Spoke Zarathustra in The Portable Nietzsche. New York: Viking Press, 1954. P.124.

[30] On Darwin, see Janet Browne. Charles Darwin: The Power of Place, Vol. II. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2002. 

J.M. Barrie’s “Peter Pan” Cynical Celebration of a Serial Killer  Or Cautionary Tale?

J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan

Cynical Celebration of a Serial Killer

Or Cautionary Tale?

 Burton Weltman

A Kids’ Story?

In this story, there is a charismatic boy, almost mesmerizing in his charm.  He lures some children away from their happy home and their loving parents with promises of great adventures.  He takes them to an isolated place where he has gathered other children whom he has charmed into being his devoted followers.  It is a place from which they cannot escape and he kills anyone who wants to leave.  The boy is a cold-blooded serial killer who has no memory of any of those he has killed.  He and his kidnapped followers play murderous games in which some of them and other people are routinely killed.  The deaths are graphically described.

The newcomers become his adoring followers, and they gradually forget their past lives.  He teaches them to kill and they relish their kills, caring nothing about those they have murdered.  The children eventually return to their home, but thereafter think nothing but good about the boy and their experiences with him.  And all of this is narrated in a lighthearted and jovial tone.

Is this a children’s story?  Is this a story you should tell children?   It is J.M. Barrie’s story of Peter Pan and we have been regaling children with it for over one hundred years.[1]  What does that say about us?

Peter Pan, Serial Killer.

Peter Pan is a book that seems forever fresh and eternally appealing.  Despite the book’s age, its freshness seems fitting since the main character in the book, Peter Pan, is in his own view, and in the view of most readers, an exemplar of eternal youth.  He is the boy who refuses to grow up, and who appeals to the nostalgia in all of us for what we think we remember as the innocence of childhood.  He is the youth we think we would liked to have been.  Or would we?

In the closing words of the book, the narrator exclaims over Peter’s everlasting appeal, and predicts that Peter will forever have followers “so long as children are gay and innocent and heartless.”[2]  And, given the enormous ongoing popularity of the character Peter Pan and of his story, so it has seemed.  But, wait a minute, what’s with this “heartless?”  What does the narrator mean by “heartless?”  Well, when you think about what the narrator might mean, I think you might come to some important conclusions about Peter Pan that are generally missed.

For most people, Peter Pan is read, or is seen in its various cartoon and musical versions, as a sentimental and nostalgic representation of an idyllic childhood.  Peter is generally seen as a model of the boy hero, and is widely idealized by readers as the sort of boy who led the fun and games of their own younger days.  There is even a peanut butter for kids that is named after Peter Pan, who is pictured on the jar as a fun loving, flying sprite.  But that is, I believe, a major misreading of the story.

If you read the book with clear eyes, and read between the lines of the sanitized productions of the story, I think you are forced to a very different conclusion.  It is a conclusion that includes the word “heartless” in the description of Peter Pan and what he represents.  That most people seemingly do not see this says, I contend, some troubling things about us and our society.

The first thing I think you have to notice about Peter Pan is that Peter is a cold-blooded killer and that Neverland is a bloody place of continual carnage.  People in the book are really killed and really die.[3]  The slaughter is treated as a game by the inhabitants of the island, and presented as such by the sardonic narrator of the story, but it is a life-and-death game, mostly death.

Lost boys, Indians, and pirates are almost continuously butchered by each other throughout the story.  While there is lots of make-believe in the book, the killing is portrayed as real.  The Indians, for example, wear around their necks the “scalps of boys as well as pirates.”[4] The lost boys and the pirates are similarly savage.  Since, however, the narrator takes an ironic view of Peter and his various antics, it is easy for readers to take all of the killing in stride as cute, humorous, and harmless.  But it isn’t.  And Peter isn’t.

Perhaps the most telling and chilling passage in the book comes as the narrator is explaining how things work in Neverland.  Describing who and what are the lost boys, the narrator says with what seems to be casual irony that “The boys on the island vary, of course, in numbers, according as they get killed and so on.”  Not so idyllic this Neverland where boys being killed is so casually accepted.  But for Peter they are disposable and replaceable.

When Peter needs new recruits, he seemingly finds them among abandoned kids and orphans or he lures them from their families, as he did Wendy, Michael and John Darling.  Whether or not they were orphans to begin with, the children quickly lose all memory of their past lives, as was happening in the story to Wendy, Michael and John.[5]  Then Peter introduces them to the deadly games he plays, and they come to like the killing, as when Michael brags to Wendy about the pirate he has killed and proudly shows her the body.  He has been sucked into the joy of killing.[6]

The narrator then goes on to say that when some boys insist on growing up, “which is against the rules, Peter thins them out.”  The clear implication is that Peter kills these boys.  And then forgets about them.[7]  He neither cares for his followers nor cares about them.

Peter is a creature of the moment and of his impulses.  He has chronic amnesia, an inability to remember anything for very long.  It is one of his key characteristics and a key to his character, particularly his callousness.  If you cannot remember what you’ve done, you cannot have a conscience or apply moral rules to your actions.  Conscience builds on recollection.  In turn, if you cannot remember people, you cannot care about them.  Peter is always in the moment, and the moment is generally filled with enmity.

The narrator tells us that Peter would go out and kill someone, and then forget about it by the time he got back.  He could not remember to tell you about it, the narrator explains, but “then when you went out you found the body.”[8]  At the end of the book, when Peter comes to get Wendy for her annual spring-cleaning visit to Neverland, Peter has no memory of Captain Hook or his thrilling fight to the death with Hook that was the centerpiece of the book.  “’I forget them after I kill them,’ he replied carelessly” to Wendy in explaining his inability to remember Hook.[9]  Peter Pan is a serial killer without caring or conscience.

Peter is almost completely self-centered.  If you cannot remember anybody or anything, you have only your immediate self to be concerned with, and he is.  Peter is both arrogant and overly sensitive to insult.  He needs to dominate any situation.  Having no memory of his past deeds, he has no track record of achievement to fall back upon, no foundation for self-confidence.  Motivated by a pre-adolescent striving for recognition, he has an overwhelming need to keep proving himself to himself and to others.  Over and over again, endlessly into eternity.

Peter is also extraordinarily vain, and his followers are expected to continually go on about how great he is.  His vanity and arrogance are what Hook, himself an extraordinarily arrogant and vain man, hates most in Peter.[10]  Peter and Hook have much in common and are competitors in many of the same attributes, another facet of Peter Pan that is generally overlooked.  Peter loves adulation, craves it, needs it, and insists on it from his followers.  It can be dangerous to disagree with him or fail to praise him sufficiently.  Peter needs an audience and needs the applause of that audience.  And he is constantly seeking applause in everything he does.

Finally, Peter is almost completely ignorant, and proudly so.  The narrator says that he was the only boy in Neverland who could not read or write. “He was above all that sort of thing.”  At the same time, the boys in “his band were not allowed to know anything he did not know,” so they often pretended their own ignorance when he was ignorant of something.  Unlike the other boys, Peter could not distinguish between make-believe and reality.  “Peter, you see, just said anything that came into his head,” the narrator explains and concludes that “I don’t believe he ever thought.”  Nonetheless, Peter expected his followers to believe anything he said even if they knew it was nonsense, and his hold on them was such that they did.[11]

The story of Peter Pan is a horror story grimmer than Grimm.  Grimm’s fairly tales are full of gruesome things happening to children, but they are portrayed in the interests of some moral lesson that is being taught to kids.  Grimm’s carnage is depicted in a negative light, usually as a punishment of someone for their disobedience of authority or their departure from middle class ways and mores.  In Peter Pan, the carnage serves no moral purpose, and it is described as fun and even funny.  Rather than morality, the story promotes amorality and immorality.  The narrator notes, for example, that Peter is not opposed to Hook because Hook is evil, but because Peter sees Hook as a competitor.  Killing for Peter is fun and games.

All of this is described by the narrator in amused supercilious terms, as though “children will be children, and what can you do?”  But the benign sarcasm of the narrator is a thin gloss over a very ugly situation.  The book is almost a prequel to the adolescent savagery in Lord of the Flies.  But the evil in Lord of the Flies is obvious and easily rejected.  Not so in Peter Pan.  The ironic narration is a cover-up that mostly works since most people seemingly don’t see through the narrator’s sarcastic patter to the cruelty of Peter and the horror of life in Neverland.  Like the denizens of Neverland, most readers, and most producers of the lighthearted plays and musicals based on Peter Pan, get lulled by Peter’s charisma into overlooking the carnage he wreaks.

The Moral of the Story: Epater la Bourgeoisie?

So, what are we to make of this story?  Barrie was writing in early twentieth-century England. There was a widespread movement among European and North American writers and artists during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries that rejected what they saw as the prevailing stiff and stuffy bourgeois values and materialistic middle-class mores.  This movement was epitomized by the slogan of Baudelaire and other French poets that they should “epater la bourgeoisie,” that is, audaciously astonish the middle classes and stick it to them.

Peter Pan can be considered an example of that idea.  For most of the book, the narrator treats Mr. and Mrs. Darling, the middle-class parents of Wendy, Michael and John, with scorn.  Mr. Darling is a businessman who is obsessed with calculating the costs of anything and everything.[12]  Mr. Darling is also a social climber.  He is “very sensitive to the opinion of neighbors, and continually fretted about what the neighbors might think of him and his family.”[13]  Mrs. Darling truly cares for her children, but her vanity overcomes her concerns for them on the fateful night they go off with Peter.  The family is stiff, boring, and thoroughly bourgeois.  Peter Pan, flying through the window into the Darling nursery, represents a literal breath of fresh air in this stiff and stuffy bourgeois household.

Peter Pan is the antithesis of bourgeois values and an antidote to middle-class mores.  He is both magnetic and pathetic, heroic and vulnerable, noble and needy, all things that make him attractive and make people flock to him as their leader.  He mesmerizes adults as well as children.  The problem is that, most of all, he is a cold-blooded killer and a vain and heartless monster.  We admire him at peril to our moral selves.  That the reaction of most people to Peter Pan is admiration, and even longing, represents a dangerous tendency in our society.

This tendency can be summarized as a tendency to choose leaders on the basis of their charismatic personalities and their appeal to the worst in us instead of the strength of their characters and their appeal to our better angels.  Peter Pan is an exemplar of a life based around grievance and taking revenge on those whom he sees as the source of his grievance.

As a creature of the moment, and lacking a foundation of self-confidence, Peter reacts defensively to all comers, and adopts a posture that mixes arrogance and vanity.  Continually seeing and responding to what he perceives as slights from others, he has an endless supply of enemies he must vanquish.  Peter exemplifies, in turn, a leadership based on cultivating the grievances and potential violence in others.  You can read Donald Trump into this description of Peter Pan.  And that is, I think, the moral of the story of Peter Pan and the point of this essay.

Bluntly put, Peter Pan is a moral monster.  But is that what the author Barrie wants us to think?  If so, why has he couched the story in a narration that underplays and obscures the awfulness of Peter’s actions and of life in Neverland?  Bluntly put again, is Barrie a moral monster who wants us to be pulled by the charisma of Peter and the charming tone of the narrator into approving Peter’s monstrous character and awful deeds?  Is Barrie trying to astonish and make fools of his middle-class readers with a cynical celebration of a serial killer?

Or is Barrie setting up a test for us to see if we can see through Peter’s charisma and the narrator’s charm so that we reject what Peter stands for?  That is, is Barrie trying to astonish us middle-class readers to reject the kind of leadership represented by Peter?  Is this a cautionary tale?  I like to think that the latter is the case.

But if so, we seem to be failing the test both in continuing to teach the story of Peter Pan to our children as an innocent idyll and in electing a Pan-like moral monster as our President.  Maybe it is time to eschew both Peter Pan and Donald Trump.  I am writing this in early July, 2020.  A national election in the United States is forthcoming.  This is our chance to get rid of Trump.  I hope we take advantage of it.

B.W.  July 8, 2020

Footnotes.

[1] J.M. Barrie.  Peter Pan. New York: Scholastic Inc. 1993.  Barrie’s story about Peter Pan was published by him in several slightly varying versions during the early twentieth century.  The version that I am using for this essay is one that has become standard.  It is simply titled Peter Pan and is published by Scholastic Inc., a premier publisher of children’s books.

[2]Ibid. P.200

[3] Ibid. P.135 for example, describing “a massacre” of Indians and pirates.

[4] Ibid. P.62.

[5] Ibid. Pp.88-89.

[6] Ibid. P.174

[7] Ibid. P.58.

[8] Ibid. P.90.

[9] Ibid. P.92.

[10] Ibid. Pp.136, 143.

[11] Ibid. Pp.27, 44, 59, 78, 89.

[12] Ibid. P.27

[13] Ibid. P.189

Tom Stoppard’s “The Coast of Utopia.” Old Left/New Left. Old New Left/Newer New Left. What goes around keeps coming around. But are we getting anywhere?

Tom Stoppard’s The Coast of Utopia.

Old Left/New Left. Old New Left/Newer New Left.

What goes around keeps coming around.

But are we getting anywhere?

 

Burton Weltman

 

“So, you say you want a revolution.”

The Beatles.

Generational Rebellion Today and the Relevance of The Coast of Utopia.

Tom Stoppard’s The Coast of Utopia is a trilogy of plays that dramatize the trials and tribulations of a group of mid-nineteenth century exiled Russian dissidents who sought to reform from abroad the repressive Czarist regime in their home country.  It is a historical drama that draws upon real historical figures as its main characters, including the journalist Alexander Herzen, the insurrectionist Michael Bakunin, the novelist Ivan Turgenev and other members of what has been called the Russian Generation of the 1840’s.  The plays focus on conflicts among the exiles as they try to figure out how to move Russia from a decadent old order to a new and better one.

Differences among the exiles are both ideological and generational. While all of them consider themselves progressives of some sort, some are liberal democrats, others are socialists, anarchists, or communists.  Some are more militant and utopian, others are more moderate and pragmatic.  These ideological differences are exacerbated by generational differences.  The younger among them push for more extreme measures, and each generation of young people is more radical than the last.  The exiles become more moderate as they get older, or at least appear so to the next generation of young people.  And while members of the Generation of the 1840’s pride themselves on being more radical than reformers of the prior generation, they are, in turn, scorned as milk-toasts by more radical members of the next generation.

The plays portray the sorts of conflicts that can arise between militant and moderate factions of a progressive political movement, and the complications that can emerge when these conflicts are intergenerational.  The plays treat the utopian hopes of the younger militants with sympathy, but the moral of the story seems to be that getting to the coast of utopia, getting nearer to a good society but never actually getting there, is about as close as people can plausibly hope to get.  Utopia is out of reach and utopianism, insisting on perfection and on all-or-nothing, is not a wise strategy.  A pragmatic moderation with a step-by-step strategy is a wiser alternative.

This essay is being written during the spring of 2020 in the midst of a horrible world-wide pandemic, the ongoing disaster of global climate change, and the worst Presidential administration in American history.  In the midst of these problems, progressives are in danger of being split by conflicts between those who are more utopian and militant – disproportionately younger activists – and those who are more pragmatic and moderate – mostly middle-aged folks.  What is largely a generational rebellion threatens to undermine the ability of progressives to defeat President Trump and his cadre of right-wingers in the upcoming elections, and to address problems that all progressives agree need remedying.  As a self-styled progressive, that is of great concern to me and is why I think The Coast of Utopia is particularly relevant to our times.

Cycles of Generational Rebellion: What goes around comes around.

It has become a commonplace rite of passage in modern Western society for young people to seek to establish unique identities of their own.[1] Being able to define oneself by oneself is considered by most young people to be a sign of maturity.  It is something they often try to do by distinguishing themselves from their parents, and sometimes by rebelling against them. This rebellion usually takes one of two forms.  In the most common form, young people go off in a different direction than that taken by their parents.  Spurning their elders’ values, goals and/or achievements, these rebels look for worthwhile means and ends in other places.

But some young rebels take a different tack.  They accept their elders’ values and goals but then try to push them to a higher level of commitment, effort and ofttimes risk.  Defining adulthood in terms of self-assertion, doing one’s own thing and becoming somebody thereby, they spurn as an old person’s copout the conventional idea of maturity as consisting of forethought, patience and prudence.  Instead of rejecting their parents as fools, these rebels condemn them as hypocrites, phonies and cowards.  Often a significant cohort of young people within a generation will rebel in similar ways, mounting a massed assault on their elders, and therein lies the problem.

In-your-face generational rebellions of this sort have occurred many times in many ways in many countries, especially among political progressives and within progressive political movements.  Progressives tend toward utopianism in any case, that is, toward seeking The Solution to all of the world’s problems in one fell swoop, and young progressives have a penchant for trying to reach even further in this quest than their elders.  This frequently results in generational factionalism between younger radicals and middle-aged moderates.  While factionalism is almost inevitable in any political movement, generational factionalism taken to the point of disaffection and estrangement has historically been one of the fatal flaws afflicting progressive movements.

Generational rebellions tend to occur in cycles, and the history of progressive movements in America over the course of the last century provides an example of these cycles.  Within each new generation of young progressives, leading members have pushed progressive theories and practices to a new extreme.  Each generation of young radicals has then invariably either flamed out in pseudo-revolutionary failure or fallen back in middle age into some sort of pragmatic reformism similar to what they had previously rejected in their elders.  That was true in turn of the Populists, Socialists, Communists, and New Leftists alike.  Each started as a militant tendency, ended as moderate, and became the target of the next generation of young radicals.

Populism was a political movement of the late nineteenth century made up mainly of small farmers who were seeking fair treatment from banks, railroads, and wholesale buyers, and who were demanding that the government do something to help them.  It was considered a radical movement in its time.  But come the early 1900’s, young Socialists, who were seeking a democratic overhaul of the whole capitalist economy, rejected their Populist elders as small-minded petty-bourgeois businessmen.

Socialists did not, however, avoid their own comeuppance.  During the 1930’s, young Communists, who sought a revolutionary overthrow of the capitalist system, rejected their now aging Socialist elders as weak-kneed bourgeois petty-liberals.  The extremism of the Communists’ position did not save them from their own reckoning with young radicals.  Youthful anarcho-syndicalists of the self-styled New Left, ardent proponents of what was called participatory democracy, attacked their Old Left Communist elders during the 1960’s as hopelessly boring, stodgy authoritarians.  Finally, in the present-day, what could be called Newer New Leftists have recently been rejecting the ways and means of the aging New Leftists, condemning them as middle-class cop-outs.[2]  And, so it goes.

In condemning their predecessors as phonies and refusing to work with them, successive generations of young progressives split and weakened the progressive movement of that day.  In then moving from militant self-assertion to prudent moderation as they aged, generally retaining their goals but moderating their methods and message, each generation of aging progressives opened the door for the next generational rebellion.  It is a cycle that has been repeated so often it has become an example of déjà vu all over again.  And this is the case not merely in America but in much of the rest of the world as well. What goes around keeps coming around, but are we getting anywhere?  This is a question that underlies Tom Stoppard’s The Coast of Utopia.

1848/1968: The Past as Prologue.

The Coast of Utopia dramatizes generational rebellions among nineteenth century Russian radicals.  First published and performed in 2002, it is focused around what was called the Generation of the 1840’s.  The plays portray their efforts to take the progressivism of their predecessors, what could be called the Generation of the 1820’s that included the Decembrists, and carry it forward both faster and further.  The plays portray, in turn, the rejection of the Generation of the 1840’s by a more radical and violent younger generation of radicals, the so-called Generation of the 1860’s that included a group of self-styled nihilists.

In addition to these generational differences, the plays highlight conflicts among the radicals of the Generation of the 1840’s that were based on their relative commitments to militancy and moderation, peaceful reform and violent revolution, education and direct action.  Within the generation of the 1840’s, Herzen was the philosophical leader of those promoting the peaceful reform of Russia through education. Bakunin was the flamboyant leader of those who wanted to incite a violent revolution to overthrow the repressive Russian regime.  Turgenev was a leading proponent of changing the world through education and cultivating the arts.

The focal event of the plays, and the main turning point in the lives of Herzen and the others was the European revolutions of 1848.  Democratic revolutionaries across Europe in 1848 attempted to overthrow repressive monarchial regimes, most importantly in France, Germany and Italy.  Herzen and his Russian comrades had high hopes that successful democratic revolutions in Western Europe would precipitate similar events in Russia.  After some initial successes, the revolutions failed.  The plays dramatize the hopes of the Russian radicals leading up to 1848, their disappointments thereafter, and the effects of 1848 on their political views.

The story of these Russian radicals is not merely of historical interest.  It is relevant to understanding more recent historical events and present-day conflicts.  The rebellious year 1968 in America and Europe, and the events surrounding that year, can be compared with 1848, and this analogy was seemingly intended by Stoppard. Although The Coast of Utopia was first published and performed in 2002, Stoppard has said that he started thinking about the plays in the late 1960’s, so that a comparison of the intergenerational and intragenerational conflicts among the rebels of the 1840’s in the plays to those of the 1960’s is pertinent.

The 1960’s were a period of rebellion in America and Europe just as the 1840’s had been.  The 1970’s were a reactionary period in America and Europe just as were the 1850’s.  And 1968 was a turning point just as 1848 had been.  The theories and practices of 1960’s rebels can be usefully compared to those of the 1840’s.  In turn, the intergenerational splits between the New Left and the Old Left during the 1960’s, the hopes of young leftists leading up to the rebellions of 1968, and their disappointments thereafter, are directly analogous to the 1840’s.  Stoppard was himself among the disappointed young progressives in 1968.

And as with the 1840’s, generational splits between the New Left and Old Left during the 1960’s were compounded by ideological conflicts within the New Left over the wisdom of militancy versus moderation, violent revolution versus peaceful reform.  Within the New Left in the United States there were, for example, community organizers, such as those who participated in the organizing efforts of SDS’s Economic Research and Action projects, and confrontationists, such as the so-called Weathermen who seemingly hoped to spark the overthrow of the government though random acts of violence.  The latter got the publicity which tarnished the movement as a whole.

As with the progressive movement of the 1840’s, the progressive movement of the 1960’s died.  And it was not because New Leftists became conservatives in the aftermath.  To the contrary, most pursued careers, especially in education and the social services, that furthered their progressive values.  But the movement died from a combination of right-wing backlash and self-inflicted wounds.  The net result was that the right wing surged back into power in Europe and America during the 1970’s.  Today, when conflict between pragmatists and ideologues, moderates and militants, utopians and realists, once again threatens to undermine the progressive movement, we can benefit from the example portrayed in The Coast of Utopia.

Historical Fiction/Fictional History: Feeling Ideas and Events.

Stoppard has said that the substance of The Coast of Utopia is primarily based on two works by the historian E.H. Carr and on writings by the political philosopher Isaiah Berlin.[3]  The books by Carr are a history of mid-nineteenth century radical Russian dissidents called The Romantic Exiles, first published in 1933, and a biography of Bakunin, first published in 1937.[4]  Carr is a sympathetic but critical historian of the escapades of the Russian exiles.  Berlin, who promoted a liberal pragmatic philosophy, is cited by Carr for a series of essays on Russian thinkers.  I think the plays reflect Carr’s history and Berlin’s philosophy.

Carr’s history books read almost like novels.  They are wonderfully written, and they plumb the depths of his subjects’ psyches.  His subjects were wordy, self-dramatizing intellectuals who left behind loads of letters and memoirs for Carr to work with.  From these, Carr was able to construct brilliant psychological profiles of his main subjects.  The debt of Stoppard to Carr is obvious. There is almost nothing of significance that happens in The Coast of Utopia that isn’t described in Carr’s The Romantic Exiles, except for some dream sequences that Stoppard invented seemingly in order to stage conversations among people that did not actually happen.

Since Stoppard’s plays follow Carr’s history books so closely, the question arises as to what is the purpose of the plays?  And how should we characterize them, as art or as history, and as historical fiction or fictional history?  The lyricist Yip Harburg once described the purpose of art as enabling people to feel ideas.  Thinking is intellectual, he said, and feeling is emotional.  But “to feel a thought is an artistic process.”[5] This is seemingly what Stoppard was trying to achieve – to have his audience feel the ideas and events in the plays.  I think he achieved his purpose, but unnecessarily did it in a way that undermines his credibility.  While he seemingly considered his plays to be historical fiction, I think they are actually fictional history. The difference between the two is significant.[6]

Historical fiction is an art form that recreates factual situations but then peoples those situations with fictional main characters.  These characters face real historical circumstances and make choices similar to those that were made by real historical people, but the fictional characters are also provided with thoughts, words, and deeds that are clearly the invention of the author.  In historical fiction about the American Revolution, for example, actual people such as George Washington may appear in the background saying and doing factual things, but the main characters will be fictional and their thoughts, words and deeds will be clearly fictional.

Historical fiction can make a real contribution to the study and appreciation of history. While history books can explain ideas and events of the past, historical fiction can help readers to identify with people in the past, and feel what it would be like to be in a past time and place.  Through recreating past ways of life, historical fiction can put readers or an audience into the picture.  It can enable them to vicariously face the circumstances and choices that people in the past faced, and reflect on what they might have done in those situations.

I think it is important, however, to distinguish historical fiction from fictional history.  In contrast to historical fiction, fictional history takes actual people and then has them think, say and do fictional things.  The author makes up things that are then attributed to real historical figures.  In fictional history, actual people such as Washington will say and do fictional things.  Fictional history is very troublesome because it is essentially a lie presented in the guise of truth.

It is only since the late nineteenth century that the study of history has been established on a professional basis, and that historians have been able to reject fictions that were being justified as truth because they were ostensibly the way things should have happened or the way a historical personage would have acted.  Historians could now, for example, reject the fictional story invented by Parson Weems that six-year-old George Washington had confessed to chopping down a cherry tree because he could not tell a lie.  Even though this story was long known to be a fiction, it had been widely accepted as a historical truth about Washington because it was ostensibly the way he would have reacted and, therefore, was a truth about him.

While the story about Washington and the cherry tree may seem innocuous, fictional history can have an unwholesome effect on factual history.  This harm is exemplified by one of the greatest plays by perhaps the world’s greatest playwright, Richard III by Shakespeare.  Richard III is a spectacular play that imprinted on students of history for some three hundred years a picture of King Richard III as a mentally and physically deformed demon.  The picture, however, is false.  Richard was not the hunchbacked evil demon he is so chillingly pictured by Shakespeare.  He was seemingly a fairly popular and fair-minded king, and he was not a hunchback.  The problem with the play lay with Shakespeare’s sources.  His sources were supporters of the Lancasters in the War of the Roses between the Lancasters and the Yorks, and they were politically biased against the Yorkist Richard.  Shakespeare started with bad facts and then brilliantly expanded and fictionalized them into a false picture that everyone thought was true.[7]

Crossing and confusing the line between fact and fiction is a dangerous practice, especially in our times when so many people, including President Trump, regularly exaggerate and downright lie about past and present events, often for political purposes.  Public opinion in the modern world has become a struggle between those trying to convince people through facts and reason, and those trying to manipulate people with lies.  And the liars seem to have the edge.

The Coast of Utopia is a mix of historical fiction and fictional history.  It is very effective but I think Stoppard could have accomplished his intellectual and dramatic purposes if he had stuck to historical fiction and had used fictional characters in recreating the debates among nineteenth century Russian intellectuals.  He could even have created characters who resembled Herzen, Bakunin, Turgenev and the rest, but given them different names.  In that way, he could have avoided lying to his audience, which is what he essentially does by having actual people do a mix of factual and fictional things.

Setting the Historical Stage: E.H. Carr’s The Romantic Exiles.

The main themes of Carr’s Romantic Exiles are highlighted in the book’s title. Almost all of the characters in the book are exiles. The main characters are from Russia, but they mix with exiles from other European countries.  And, according to Carr, almost all them, male and female, Russians and the others alike, but especially the Russians, were intoxicated with romanticism.  Carr describes romanticism as “a movement for the worship of Human Nature and the liberation of the individual from the yoke of moral and political absolutism.”  In personal relations, the romanticism of the exiles promoted a morality founded “on the apotheosis of the feelings, or like George Sand, on the religion of love.”  In political affairs, “Its supreme expression was the French Revolution,” which the romantics perennially sought to replicate, only better this time.[8]

In their personal relations, Carr’s Russians were devotees of the novelist George Sand, and they enthusiastically adopted her credo that the purpose of life is love, that true love conquers all obstacles, and that nothing should be allowed to stand in the way of true love.  Nothing, not conventions such as marriage, not other moral commitments, not concern for the feelings and welfare of others, not care for children or other innocent bystanders.  Carr quotes Sand as proclaiming: “Why should it be a sin to abandon oneself to one’s own heart?”[9]  He pokes fun at Sand’s philosophy and the devotion of the Russian exiles to her.  In turn, the love-lives of Carr’s main characters are described as a succession of melodramatic relationships, all of them doomed, and each one initially ecstatic but eventually smashed.

Carr’s description of Herzen’s amorous entanglements provides an example of the tangled romantic webs the exiles wove, and the burlesque melodramas they enacted.  As a young man, Herzen eloped with his first wife Natalie in a whirlwind of romantic love, wooing her with the adjuration that “You are I; Alexander and Natalie do not form a WE, but only my own I. My I is full, for you have been completely swallowed up and you no longer exist.” This was seemingly a Russian version of the old English saying that “A husband and wife are one, and the husband is the one.”  Natalie wholeheartedly accepted this sexist pseudo-romanticism, and was willing to subordinate herself to Herzen’s “I” until Herzen seduced a serf woman which, Carr reports, “rudely tore down the romantic halo” that had surrounded their marriage.[10]

Despite being let down by Herzen, Carr reports that Natalie continued her pursuit of true love, and she subsequently started a torrid affair with an exiled German poet named Herwegh who was at the time living with his wife in Herzen’s house.  Herzen was a wealthy and extremely generous person who frequently housed and subsidized needy exiles.  In what Carr characterizes as true romantic fashion, Natalie expected Herzen not merely to accept the adulterous situation in his own household, but to applaud it. She saw her affair with Herwegh as an example of true love triumphing, and she insisted that Herzen ought to recognize and honor that.  Herwegh’s wife Emma, who was like Natatlie a devotee of George Sand, accepted the situation.  Herzen did not.

Herzen declared that he was not willing to live in the same house with his wife’s lover.  He was, however, willing to leave Natalie so she could be with Herwegh.  Natalie rejected that offer.  Herzen was a wealthy and well-regarded author.  Herwegh was a penniless minor poet who was dependent on his wife Emma for financial support.  In sum, Natalie wanted both Herzen and Herwegh.  Herzen wasn’t having any of that and he insisted that Herwegh leave his house.  Herwegh eventually left, but the romantic complications remained unresolved.

As a means of resolving them, Herwegh’s wife Emma offered to leave Herwegh and let Natalie have Herwegh all to herself.  Natalie rejected that offer.  She was not about to leave the well-to-do and well-regarded Herzen for an impoverished Herwegh.  The ever-melodramatic Herwegh then offered to let Herzen kill him.  Herzen refused that offer. So, Natalie then offered to have Herwegh kill her.  Herwegh refused that offer.  Finally, Herwegh challenged Herzen to a duel.  Herzen refused that offer.  Shortly thereafter, Natalie died of tuberculosis[11]

That was not, however, the end of Herzen’s romantic imbroglios.  Having been the victim in a bizarre romantic entanglement, he now became a perpetrator.  Not long after Natalie’s death, Herzen began an affair with Natasha the wife of his best friend Ogarev.  Ogarev and Natasha were living with Herzen and Herzen’s children at the time.  A devotee of George Sand, Natasha was disappointed with Ogarev.  So, she seduced Herzen.  Herzen took it from there and subsequently had several illegitimate children with Natasha.

Ogarev was himself no neophyte in these tangled marital matters.  He had previously had a long adulterous affair with Natasha when his first wife left him for a young painter.  When his estranged first wife died, Ogarev married Natasha, but she then almost immediately began her affair with Herzen.  As an erstwhile disciple of George Sand, Ogarev blessed the relationship between Herzen and Natasha.  He eventually established a permanent relationship with a prostitute, supporting her and her son in return for her taking care of him when he was ill.[12]

I have only briefly summarized Herzen’s amorous affairs here, and his imbroglios make up only one strand of the Russian exiles’ romantic complications as reported by Carr.  As Carr describes them, Herzen and the other Russian exiles were crazy for love, and they were people for whom life was an attempt to imitate art, albeit the highly romanticized and melodramatic art of George Sand.  They were way ahead of their Victorian times in sexual matters, and they can be compared in this regard with the free-loving counter-culturists of the 1960’s.  All of this is dramatized in The Coast of Utopia.

Romanticism also permeated the political ideas and activities of the Russian exiles, and they can also be compared in this regard to the New Leftists of the 1960’s.  Like many of the refugees from other European countries, the Russians made a cult of revolution.  They were utopians who believed in the magic of revolution to bring about a once-and-for-all perfect society.  Most were devotees of Rousseau, and adherents of Rousseau’s romantic philosophy that people are basically good, that they are corrupted by bad institutions, and that if only those institutions could be reformed or destroyed (depending on whether you were a reformer like Herzen or an anarchist like Bakunin), then all would be well in the world.  Carr describes the Russian exiles as a “collocation of Romanticism and Revolution.”[13]  Karl Marx, a German refugee, is the one character in Carr’s book who is described as a realist, and he was despised by all of the rest of the refugees as a cold-blooded ideologue.  This, too, is dramatized in Stoppard’s plays.

Herzen and other members of the Russian Generation of the 1840’s derived their political impetus from the failure of the prior generation of reformers, the Generation of the 1820’s, to effectuate political change Russia.  In the wake of the French revolutionary wars and the defeat of Napoleon, progressives in Russia had hoped that Czar Alexander would reform the government and liberalize society.  There was much organizing among Russian liberals during the late 1810’s and early 1820’s, and they had great hopes for future reforms that would make Russia more like a Western European country.  Alexander stoked those hope with gestures in favor of Westernizing Russia.  But then he died.

When Czar Alexander died in 1825, his younger brother Nicholas was named Czar.  Nicholas was an arch-conservative who was not going to follow through with the liberalizing reforms that Alexander had hinted at.  The Decembrists were a group of aristocratic army officers who wanted to replace Nicholas with another brother, the more liberal Constantine, as Czar, and to establish a constitutional monarchy in Russia.  They staged a mass demonstration in December of 1825, hence their name the Decembrists, calling on Nicholas to abide by their demands.

The putative revolt was a shambles, with demonstrators fleeing en masse upon the approach of troops loyal to Czar Nicholas.  The leaders and many of the participants were either executed or exiled to Siberia.  Herzen and other members of the Generation of the 1840’s vowed to avenge the Decembrists, carry their reforms to revolution, and force change on the Russian government rather than merely tamely asking for change.  This was, however, easier said than done.[14]

Russian reformers had a particularly difficult task for at least two reasons.  First, Russia was ruled by a totalitarian Czarist regime that forbade all dissent and even any hint of dissent.  Herzen was, for example, imprisoned for merely knowing some people who had said some disrespectful things about the regime.  Many other people were suppressed for similarly trivial reasons. As a result, there was very little political and intellectual space in Russia for reformers to operate.  This was the reason that so many of them went into exile.  Herzen went into permanent exile starting in 1847, moving with his family and friends from country to country – France, Italy, Germany, Switzerland, wherever he felt able to set up shop.  Like most of his Russian comrades, he finally settled for good in England, which was the home during the nineteenth century to a host of political exiles from various European countries.

A second major difficulty facing Russian reformers was that the overwhelming majority of the Russian people were isolated and illiterate peasants.  They were not prime candidates for either political education or activism. Some three quarters of the people in Russia during the mid-nineteenth century were serfs, that is, peasants who were permanently tied to the land that they cultivated, land that was owned by Russian aristocrats.  Symbolic of the repressive situation, Russian landowners did not refer to their property in terms of how many acres they owned but in terms of how many peasant “souls” they owned on their land.

But in the minds of Herzen and many of his comrades, serfdom could be a source of opportunity for reformers.  Russian serfdom was like slavery except that serfs had some rights that slaves did not, and that was the key.  In particular, Russian serfs lived in peasant villages that were organized on a communal and cooperative basis.  As long as they gave the landlord his due in crops and labor, the villagers had the right to organize their work, allot plots of land on a rotating basis to each other, and distribute their remaining crops as they pleased.

Consistent with their Rousseauian romanticism, Herzen and his allies believed that the Russian village provided an ideal foundation for what they hoped would be a distinctly Russian form of socialism, a socialism that would not have to evolve out of industrial capitalism as Marx insisted.  Herzen’s was the utopian dream that if only the serfs were free, they would develop a peaceful peasant socialism that he saw presaged in the serfs’ peasant villages.  Toward this end, Herzen campaigned to end serfdom.

Herzen and most of the other exiles were wanted men in Russia, which persistently tried to get them back to Russia in order to silence them.  They engaged in two main forms of political activism, both of which were intended to motivate the Russian masses: political propaganda and incendiary action.  Most of them published revolutionary journals and tracts. Some also engaged in insurrections and attempted assassinations.  The activities of the various European exiles were shaped in large part by the nature of the regimes which they opposed and the tolerance of the countries in which they resided.  Stolid and solid mid-nineteenth century England was a perfect place for the exiles’ propagandizing which was done in foreign languages, addressed to foreign countries and, therefore, no threat to the stability of England.

The Russian exiles were almost all intellectuals who preened themselves on being a political force.  This self-regard was not merely the pomposity that one often finds in self-styled intellectuals, but was rooted in reality.  The Russian authorities treated the exiled intellectuals as dangerous and that, in and of itself, gave them attention and gave them power. A new word, “intelligentsia,” was even invented to describe this generation of Russian intellectuals.  The intelligentsia was a social class of intellectuals coalesced in opposition to the existing Russian regime.  Russian intellectuals were by definition revolutionaries.

Although Herzen was the most highly regarded of the Russian exiles, Bakunin was the most famous.  Carr claims that “Bakunin was incomparably the greatest leader and agitator thrown up by the revolutionary movement of the nineteenth century,” and describes him as “a figure at once subhuman and superhuman.”  Superhuman in his efforts and efficacy as an agitator but subhuman in his honesty and personal relations.  Carr quotes Herzen as saying that Bakunin had “great ability and a worthless character.” Bakunin was almost everywhere in Europe where there was an uprising during the mid-nineteenth century, or trying to get there.  He loved and lived for organizing secret societies and attempting to stir up rebellions.[15]

Bakunin was an anarchist.  This meant that he did not want to overthrow one form of government to establish another.  He wanted to destroy government altogether so that people could live collectively without being oppressed.  Carr quotes him as proclaiming that “The passion for destruction is a creative passion,” since destroying repressive institutions frees people.  He was not, however, what we would today call a libertarian.  He did not believe in every person for him/herself.  He was a socialist who believed in a cooperative society which operated on the principle of all for one and one for all.

When during the 1860’s, Bakunin was approached by younger radicals who considered themselves nihilists, that is, believers in nothing except rebellion for its own sake, he was initially attracted to their zest for action, but eventually pulled away.  Their violence seemed pointless.  He was not a nihilist but a socialist, and he deeply believed in his ideas, even if they were utopian and delusional. Carr says that when Bakunin died in 1876, he still held to “the same stubborn lifelong refusal to compromise with reality” that had carried him through his life.[16]

Herzen was a different sort of person.  He was constantly trying to reconcile his ideals with reality.  Carr states that for Herzen “Romanticism was his religion, liberalism his political faith, and constitutional democracy his ideal for Russia.”[17]  And unlike Bakunin who remained a utopian all his life, Herzen moved from utopianism to realism, with the events of 1848 as a turning point.  Still idealistic, but willing to compromise with circumstances.

In England, Herzen was a central figure among a colloquy of exiled would-be revolutionary leaders, which included Mazzini from Italy, Kossuth from Hungary, Worcell from Poland, Blanc and Ledru-Rollin from France, and occasionally Marx from Germany. All of them, as Carr tells it, were utopians who believed in the magic of revolution to resolve all problems, even including Marx who insisted his views were scientific and not utopian.

Prior to 1848, Herzen idolized Western Europe and especially the French for their democratic revolutionary tradition.  He was disillusioned by the events of 1848, not so much by the failure of the revolutions and the repressions in most of Europe, but by the disappointing success of the revolution in France.  Middle class and working-class French people united to overthrew their king and establish a democratic republic in the spring of 1848.   But then French voters elected a majority of conservative anti-democratic members to their new legislature and eventually acquiesced in Napoleon the Third’s seizure of dictatorial power.  Democracy committing suicide, Herzen mourned.

In Herzen’s eyes, both the “Proletariat and bourgeoisie were alike discredited.”  At that point, he gave up on the West, and he turned away from advocating European revolution as the prelude to a Russian revolution.  He veered, instead, toward the idea that the unique position of the Russian serfs made them the best bet for a better Russian society, and he began promoting the idea that the liberation of the serfs would be the first step toward a democratic socialist Russia.[18]

Czar Nicholas had died in 1855 and was succeeded by the more liberal Alexander II.  In 1857, Herzen began publishing a Russian language journal called The Bell which was secretly distributed in Russia.  The main purpose of the journal was to campaign against serfdom. The journal was a great success and widely read in Russia despite being illegal.  It was eventually being read even by the Czar and other high government officials, and the popular success of the journal was a factor in convincing the Czar to abolish serfdom in 1861.

At that point, Herzen and his comrades were ecstatic, until they heard about the terms of the abolition.  According to the Czar’s decree, the serfs were freed from bondage but they were not given any land.  Instead, they were forced to enter into rental contracts with their former owners which essentially made them into sharecroppers and debt slaves to their former masters.  In addition, there were new rules that undermined the role of the peasant communes, the institution upon which Herzen had based his long-range hopes for Russia.[19]

Bakunin took the disappointment with the terms of the liberation as proof that only insurrection would bring about real change.  Herzen disagreed and it resulted in a final split between them.  Herzen still believed in peaceful, gradual change, even if it meant going two steps forward and then one step backward.  But he was jeered by the younger Generation of the 1860’s.  Carr reports that “Herzen had lost the confidence of the rising generation” and that “He was a general without an army.”  Herzen died in 1870 a disheartened but still determined man.[20] 

The Plays: The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage.

The summary of Carr’s The Romantic Exiles that I have just provided is also a summary of the gist of The Coast of Utopia.  At the core of the plays are the generational conflicts between the Russian Generations of the 1820’s (accommodationists), 1840’s (revolutionary reformers), and 1860’s (nihilists), as well as the conflicts within the Generation of the 1840’s – Herzen the reformer, Bakunin the insurrectionist, and Turgenev the artiste.  Ideas, ideals, and ideologies predominate.  There is no action in the plays.  There is only talking.  But then, these are intellectuals and talking is what intellectuals do.  The chronology of the plays runs from 1833 to 1868, and the three plays are effectively one long complicated conversation among the main characters.

So, how does Stoppard take Carr’s engaging history and make it into a trilogy of plays in which the audience can feel the ideas?   For one thing, he makes his audience sit through three long plays so that they become immersed in the society and the company of his characters.  You come to feel that you know them personally, and you miss them when they are gone.

He does it, also, through techniques that lead the audience to experience the events as real.  The scenes proceed in roughly chronological order, but there are overlapping scenes, and flashbacks to former scenes that are then developed from a slightly different angle.  There are also fallbacks to previous times that start the clock over again with different people and places.  And there are false starts that lead you to think a scene is going in one direction but then leads to somewhere else.  Thoreau once said that time was just a stream in which he went fishing.  The plays run along like a stream of conversation out of which pieces of meaning are pulled, some are thrown back in, and somehow some overall messages are felt.

The feel of the characters’ ideas is also created by their ways of conversing and interacting.  Their talking is often confused and confusing, much like a Robert Altman movie with several conversations going on at once, some people talking over one another, and other people misunderstanding what is being said.  Their interactions are peripatetic, as they wander about from place to place.   We the audience struggle to make sense of what is being said and done just as the characters do.

The scenes are kaleidoscopic, rapidly changing, with lots of very short scenes – some consisting of only a couple of spoken sentences or a single gesture – mixed in with very long scenes that seem to go on forever.  When scenes overlap, there can be lengthy periods of time between them, but the characters will appear in the later scene in the same place and continuing the same conversation as in the earlier scene.  Characters who have not seen each other for long periods of time will continue, without missing a beat, conversations that began years ago.  The spasmodic nature of the scenes seems to reflect the way in which the characters experience them and we feel the disjuncture with them.

There two main subjects of conversation in the plays: love and revolution.   The characters feel very strongly about both, and we feel along with them.  We feel Herzen’s agony as he tries to work his way through his romantic entanglements and work out a plausible scheme for effecting change in Russia.  We experience Bakunin’s ecstasy as he imagines and plots one insurrectionist scheme after another.  We share Turgenev’s personal empathy and political apathy as he observes the personal and political affairs of his colleagues, and writes about them in his novels.

The characters frequently posture and speechify, as though they were actors in a melodrama with themselves as the stars.  In their view, art creates models for life, and then life models itself on art.  In the end, each of them, the male primary characters and the female secondary characters, is trying to find a way to live with himself or herself.  They have constructed self-images out of models provided by George Sand and Rousseau, they struggle to fulfill those self-images, and most often they don’t succeed.

Since the plays essentially follow the historical narrative in Carr’s The Romantic Exiles, what follows are short summaries of the events and snippets of the conversations that Stoppard has created for the characters.  It isn’t what they actually said but what Stoppard thinks they would have said.  It’s a sort of truth without being actually factual.  Like the story of Washington and the cherry tree, but with Carr’s book to support the historical plausibility of Stoppard’s creations.  The conversational highlights below are intended to indicate the drift of the characters’ arguments and the evolution of their ideas.  The goal is to try to provide some feel for the plays.

Part I: Voyage.

Voyage runs chronologically from the years 1833 to 1844.  It dramatizes the attempts of Bakunin, Herzen and other Russian intellectuals to find a perfect philosophy that expresses their ideals.  The play is a voyage of self and social discovery that results in their becoming dissidents and voyaging into exile.  Bakunin as a young adult is the main character.  The play opens and closes with Bakunin’s father, a man of the Generation of 1820’s, complaining about Bakunin.  Herzen, Turgenev and various others weave in and out of what is essentially Bakunin’s story.

Act One takes place between 1833 and 1841 on the verandah and in the garden of the large estate owned by Bakunin’s wealthy father in rural Russia.  Act One covers Bakunin’s young adulthood.  It is essentially an eight-year conversation centered around Bakunin as he moves from extolling one German philosophy of the self to the next, and repeatedly interferes in the love-lives of his four sisters.  The location stays the same throughout, and scenes often overlap, with the next scene starting as though the last had never ended despite time having passed, and with characters picking up on discussion in succeeding years as though no time had passed.

Bakunin comes across as a chronic adolescent.  He is the male heir of the family name and estate, and he is spoiled by his parents and especially by his four sisters who idolize him.  His father is a cultured man who considers himself something of a liberal, albeit he defends the monarchy as necessary for social stability, and serfdom as being in the best interests of the peasants who benefit from security in their bondage.  He expects Bakunin to study agriculture so as to take over management and modernization of the estate.

Bakunin rebels against his father’s expectations, but initially in an apolitical pursuit of philosophy.  He essentially takes his father’s pretense to culture and ups the ante in wanting to make a profession of philosophy rather than farming.  He is a socially maladjusted dilletante who continually says the wrong thing and offends people, and pretends to the role of a bohemian but lives as a rich aristocrat.  He playacts the romanticism of George Sand and pontificates about a succession of German romantic philosophers, each one of whom he proclaims as the best.

Bakunin begins his philosophical journey extolling Schelling, and lauding “the great discovery of the age! The life of the Spirit is the only real life: our material existence stands between us and our transcendence to the Universal Idea where we become one with the Absolute!”   He moves on to Fichte.  “I got led astray by Schelling,” he proclaims, “He tried to make the Self just another part of the world – but now Fichte shows that the world doesn’t exist except where I meet it – there is nothing but self.”  He finishes the act with Hegel.  “I was on the wrong track with Fichte, I admit it – Fichte was trying to get rid of objective reality, but Hegel shows that reality can’t be ignored.”[21]  He measures each of these philosophies as to how well they aggrandize the self, and his self in particular.  Bakunin wants his father to pay his way to study philosophy in Germany, but his father doesn’t go for it, and the first act ends with a breach between Bakunin and his father.

Act Two takes place between 1834 and 1844 in various locations in Moscow except for the last short concluding scene which is set back on the veranda of Bakunin’s father’s estate.  Act Two runs parallel to and overlaps with Act One, especially as to the ideas and antics of Bakunin.  We see Bakunin saying and doing similar things as in Act One but in a different context.  Act Two essentially complements Act One.

In Act One, Bakunin is primarily contrasted with his father and sisters.  In Act Two, he is contrasted with Herzen, Belinsky (a literary critic) and Turgenev.  In both Acts, Bakunin comes across as an egoistic ass.  Herzen comes across as a reasonable man and a man of reason.  Belinsky looks like a decent guy with idealistic literary ideas.  Tugenev is an outside observer.

Herzen is the hero of the plays and generally articulates the main points of the plays.  At the opening of Act Two, he effectively summarizes the position of Russian intellectuals and the consequences of the repressiveness of the Czarist regime, saying that “Words are become deeds.  Thoughts are deeds.  They are punished more severely than ordinary crimes.  We are revolutionaries.”   The Czarist regime has defined intellectuals as revolutionaries and, thereby, forced intellectuals to act as revolutionaries if they are to remain intellectuals.  This, in turn, gives Russian intellectuals influence over the rest of the restive Russian population.  The Czarist regime has essentially created its own opposition.[22]

Shortly thereafter, when Herzen criticizes and dismisses an older reformer of the past generation as being too timid and out-of-date with the needs of the progressive movement, the old man warns Herzen that “it will happen to you one day…some young man with a smile on his face, telling you ‘Get out of the way, you’re behind the times!’”  At which point, the old man leaves the stage and the play, but leaves behind a prescient prophecy.[23]

Bakunin weaves in and out of Act Two, each time extolling a new German philosopher as he did in Act I, before finally settling on Hegel. “You must read Hegel,” he insists, “Hegel is the man!”  Hegel, Bakunin claims, tells us how history shapes events and how events are the dialectical fulfillment of history.  Herzen, having just returned from six years’ exile in Siberia, gives Bakunin money to go to Berlin to study philosophy.   But Herzen opines that Hegel has the dialectic upside down.  “People don’t storm the Bastille because history proceeds by zigzags.  History zigzags because when people have had enough, they storm the Bastille.”  That is, people make history, history doesn’t make people.[24]

As Act Two closes, one of Bakunin’s sisters reports that he has finally found his true calling in Germany. Bakunin “has discovered Revolution,” she says, “Now he knows where he was going wrong.” The play ends with Bakunin’s aged and blind father, a remnant of the prior generation, sitting on his veranda bemoaning that his son has become a revolutionary.  As night symbolically falls on the old man, he claims that, blind though he is, he has seen the sunset.[25]

Part II: Shipwreck.

Shipwreck runs chronologically from 1846 to 1852, with flashbacks at the end of each act.  It takes place in several places in Russia and Europe.  The play portrays the failure of the exiles’ hopes for the revolutions of 1848 and the failure of most of their romantic relationships.

Herzen takes center stage in this play, with Bakunin and Turgenev weaving in and out of the action.  Herzen regularly quarrels with his friends about politics, religion and love, and breaks with them, only to welcome them back shortly thereafter.  He is wealthy and he is very generous toward his friends.  Herzen’s family-life is wrecked during this play, as his wife Natalie has an affair with the poet Herwegh, and his mother and son are drowned at sea in a shipwreck.

While Turgenev holds to his idealistic views of art, Herzen’s romantic ideals of love and his utopian political hopes are wrecked.  Bakunin retains his utopian dreams.

Act One runs chronologically from 1846 to 1848.  It opens with Herzen’s best friend Ogarev bemoaning that he had thought he would love his wife Maria for eternity and that their marriage would be eternal bliss, but she has just run off with a second-rate painter.  So much for George Sand’s idealism of love.

Herzen and Turgenev have a political argument that exemplifies their respective positions throughout the three plays. Turgenev dismisses Herzen’s hopes for political reform based on popular uprising.  The Russian people, he claims, are too ignorant and ill-behaved.  “The only thing that will save Russia is Western culture transmitted by people like us,” he proclaims, which is a long-term, top-down process of reform.  Herzen replies that “You judge the common people after they have been brutalized.  But people are good, by nature.  I have faith in them.”  And he continues to hope for bottom-up political reform.[26]

Herzen and Bakunin have a political discussion in which Bakunin announces the political philosophy that will guide him for the rest of his life.  Essentially renouncing his youthful search for the perfect German philosophy, he claims that The mistake is to put ideas before action. Act first. The ideas will follow. Start by destroying everything.”  When everything is destroyed, he insists, then the people will be free to live in peace and harmony.  “Destruction is a creative passion!” he proclaims.  Herzen thinks this is madness.[27]

The revolutions of 1848 come and go.  All the exiles are deeply disappointed by their outcome, and despair of using the West as a model and inspiration for social change in Russia.  In the aftermath of 1848, the literary critic Belinsky speaks for all of them when he tells Turgenev that “I’m sick of utopias. I’m tired of hearing about them.”  And then he dies.[28]

Act Two runs chronologically from 1849 to 1852.  The act centers around Herzen’s wife Natalie, including her romantic views of love derived from George Sand; her love affair with Herwegh; her devastation at the death of two of her children; and, finally, her own death.  At the end of the act, Herzen proposes a pragmatic political philosophy and a hope for reform in Russia based on the existing peasant communes.

Act Two opens with Herwegh reading Marx’s The Communist Manifesto to a skeptical Natalie.  Herzen states his support for socialism but opposition to communism because it suppresses individuality.  “Freedom,” he proclaims, “is what we give each other, not what we take from each other like a fought-over loaf.  We balance what we give up against our need for the cooperation of other people – who are each making the same balance for themselves.”  His is a pragmatic cooperative philosophy based on mutual caring and commitment.[29]

Natalie counters with her own romantic philosophy of life as a work of art, an ecstatic rather than pragmatic vision.  “The world we make for ourselves is the ultimate work of art trying to reach its perfection through us,” she says.   And she pursues this ideal through a burgeoning love affair with Herwegh.  The affair turns ugly, however, with all of the twists and turns described by Carr in The Romantic Exiles.  Through the homicidal threats and suicidal counterthreats, Natalie insists that  “All my actions spring from the divine spirit of love.”  In the midst of this imbroglio, Herzen’s mother and son are drowned.  And shortly thereafter, Natalie dies.[30]

Toward the end of the act, Herzen has a dream sequence in which he and Bakunin debate their respective political positions.  Bakunin has been in jail in Germany for trying to stir up a rebellion there.  Herzen has repeatedly sent money and other aid to Bakunin as a friend even though Herzen opposes Bakunin’s methods.  Bakunin continues to insist on his strategy of maximum destruction of the old order.  Herzen announces a pragmatic strategy of using aspects of the old order to build the new, in particular the peasant communes.

“Life’s bounty is in its flow, later is too late,” Herzen tells Bakunin.  It’s the movement and not the end that counts.  We think that life “is carrying us to the place we’re expected! But there is no such place, that’s why it is called utopia.”  Russia can be different, he insists, if the intellectuals can reach the peasants.  “The village commune can be the foundation of true populism,” by which he means “Russian socialism.”  But “There is no map,” Herzen cautions.  It is a voyage with only a moral compass, and there is no end, no utopia.  “Socialism, too, will reach its own extremes,” he warns, and then socialism will itself have to be changed.[31]

Part III: Salvage.

Salvage runs chronologically from 1853 to 1866, and takes place in England.  The play focuses on Herzen picking up the pieces of his personal and political lives, and making something of them, albeit not all that he had hoped.  His family life with Natalie having been shattered by her death, he begins a new family with Natasha, his best friend’s wife.  His hopes for a Russian revolution based on European models having been shattered by the failure of the revolutions of 1848, he begins publishing The Bell, a journal, secretly distributed in Russia, that calls for the abolition of serfdom.

Herzen’s new family life is modestly successful and he has children with Natasha.  His journal is politically very successful and is a factor in convincing the Czar to abolish serfdom.  But the abolition of serfdom is done in a way that undermines Herzen’s hopes for a Russian socialism based on peasant communes.  His disappointment is compounded when he finds himself scorned and rejected by a younger generation of Russian rebels.  The play ends with Herzen’s resignation to going forward as best he and his comrades can, even if it is in cycles of forward and then backward before going forward again.      

Act One runs chronologically from 1853 to 1857.  It deals mainly with the domestic affairs of Herzen and his entourage and ends with new complications in his life and the lives of his family and friends.  In between, Herzen and Bakunin further hammer out their political philosophies.

The act opens with a dream of Herzen’s in which there is a gathering at Herzen’s house in London of the leading exiled revolutionaries from all over Europe.  The gathering includes the Italian Mazzini, the Germans Marx and Ruge, the French Blanc and Ledru-Rollin, the Hungarian Kossuth, the Pole Worcell.   All of them are erstwhile opponents of the authoritarian regimes in their respective countries, and all of them are vainly plotting revolutions in their homelands.

The exiles in Herzen’s dream call themselves “The International Committee for Friendship and Cooperation between Democrats in Exile,” a pompous name for an impotent group.   No sooner does the meeting begin than Marx leaves in a huff.  The participants and their ideas are too bourgeois and not sufficiently radical for him.  Shortly thereafter, Herzen excoriates the other exiles for the opposite reason, as being too extreme.  He berates them as a bunch of “schemers, dreamers, monomaniacs from every failed insurrection from Sicily to the Baltic.”  He complains that they have not learned anything from the failure of the revolutions of 1848.  “You want to start it again at the moment when all was lost, so that you can make the same mistakes again.”[32]

Later in the act, Bakunin continues to insist to Herzen that “How can we make a new Golden Age and set men free again? By destroying order.”   But he then reveals the irreconcilable contradiction in his revolutionary position when he says “Left to themselves people are noble, generous, uncorrupted, they’d create a completely new kind of society if only people weren’t so blind, stupid, selfish.”  So, which is it?  Are the people uncorrupted and noble or are they stupid and selfish?[33]

The act ends with the death of the arch-conservative Czar Nicholas and the ascension of a more liberal Czar Alexander II.  Alexander II has apparently been a reader of Herzen’s journal and has been talking about abolishing serfdom.  Herzen has high hopes for the end of serfdom and for the possibilities of Russian socialism.  “Russian socialism is not utopian,” he insists.  The existing communes provide a realistic framework for it.  The act ends with Herzen kissing Natasha, his best friend Ogarev’s wife.  This will be the beginning of a long affair.[34]

Act Two runs from 1859 to 1866.  It deals with the abolition of serfdom by Czar Alexander II and its disappointing aftermath.  Herzen, Turgenev and Bakunin have their final disagreements.  Herzen and the Generation of the 1840’s are mocked and rejected by younger radicals, the so-called Generation of the 1860’s.  The play closes with Herzen pragmatically resigned to doing what he can as best he can.

The act opens with Herzen rejoicing in the success of his journal in reaching tens of thousands of Russians, and in influencing the Czar who has just announced his intention to abolish serfdom.  Flushed with success, Herzen regales the members of his household with the names of the various political thinkers from whom he derived his own philosophy.  They include Proudhon, from whom he got his antipathy to authority; Rousseau, from whom he derived the nobility of natural man; Fourier, from whom he got the ideal of the harmonious community; Blanc from whom he learned the important role of workers; and, Saint-Simon, from whom he learned about the development of the whole man.  He is very full of himself.[35]

Turgenev throws cold water on Herzen, belittling him and Ogarev for thinking that the liberation of the serfs will lead to socialism.  “Personally,” he proclaims, “I only denounce you as sentimental fantasists.”  Turgenev also informs Herzen that the new generation of young radicals scorn Herzen and his liberal followers.  “The word ‘liberal’ has now entered the scatological vocabulary like ‘halfwit’ or ‘hypocrite’…It means anyone who supports peaceful reform over violent revolution – like you and The Bell [Herzen’s journal]”[36]

Herzen is later confronted by a young radical, Nikoley Chernyshevsky, who berates Herzen as being out of date and out of time.  “Your generation were the romantics of the cause,” Chernyshevsky says, “And now I find that I cannot read you anymore.” “Above all,” he declares, “I won’t listen to babbling about reform in The Bell.  Only the axe will do.” And the goal of the revolution, Chernyshevsky concludes, is “Not communal socialism, but communistic socialism” in which all people will be and do the same.[37]  Herzen denounces Chernyshevsky’s ideal of communism as “the utopia of the antheap,” and bemoans that he never thought the progressive movement could be so dramatically split.[38]

In 1861, the Czar abolishes serfdom and Herzen is ecstatic.  “We won,” Herzen exclaims.  “Progress by peaceful steps.  You have conquered,” Ogarev says.  But then Natasha pours cold water on the celebrating: She reads that the peasants have been are told they are free but they have to pay for the land that they till.  They are effectively debt slaves.  Peasants have rioted all over Russia and the army has massacred them.  Herzen moans that “Chernyshevsky must be laughing into his whiskers.”  Peaceful reform has succeeded in form but failed in substance.[39]

In the wake of their disappointments with the liberation of the serfs, Bakunin is back and ready for more secret societies and insurrections.  But the contradictions in his position are revealed once again in a tirade he directs against Herzen.  First he proclaims that “true freedom is spontaneity…All discipline is vicious.  Our first task is to destroy authority. There is no second task.”  But then claims that this will be done by “a dedicated group of revolutionaries under iron discipline, answerable to my absolute authority.”  So, first Bakunin says that all discipline is vicious and the revolution will rid humanity of discipline, and then he says that the revolution will be achieved through iron discipline.  Which is it?  And does he think you can make freedom through dictatorship?  In this sequence, Stoppard seems to be taking a swipe at the Bolsheviks who eventually did make a revolution in Russia.   In any case, Bakunin is still the self-centered adolescent who began the first play.  He has not grown.[40]

But Herzen has and that seems to be the point of the three plays.  When some young radicals attempt to assassinate the Tzar, Herzen condemns it.  He is then accosted by a young nihilist who condemns Herzen.  The nihilist says that “The young generation has understood you, and we have turned away in disgust.”  Fulfilling the prediction made by the old reformer whom Herzen had himself dismissed as being over the hill in the first play, the young radical snarls at Herzen: “Get out of the way, you’re behind the times.  Forget that you’re a great man.  What you are is a dead man.”  What goes around comes around, and Herzen is now on the receiving end.[41]

Thereafter, Herzen pronounces his final philosophy and what seems to be the moral of The Coast of Utopia.  The new generation of radicals, Herzen says, are “let down by the ancient dream of a perfect society where circles are squared and conflict is cancelled.  But there is no such place and Utopia is its name.”  We must stop killing each other, he insists, for an impossible perfection.  “Our meaning is in how we live in an imperfect world, in our time. We have no other.”  Our goal must be “To open men’s eyes and not tear them out.”  What is to be done, he concludes, is “To go on, and to know there is no landfall of the paradisal shore, and still to go on.”[42]

Commenting specifically on the weather but implicitly on the political future, Natasha has the last words in the plays: “There’s going to be a storm.”

A Socialist Candide?

“Let dreamers dream what worlds they please

Those Edens can’t be found

The sweetest flowers

The fairest trees

Are grown in solid ground.”

Candide.  Leonard Bernstein & Richard Wilbur

So, what are we to make of The Coast of Utopia?  Like Stoppard’s other plays, these plays raise more questions than they provide answers.  In his final peroration, Herzen sounds a lot like Candide in Voltaire’s novel and Leonard Bernstein’s musical of that name.  At the end of Candide’s long travails in search of a perfect society, he settles down on a small patch of land with his comrades.  And when the philosopher Pangloss begins a long discourse on the nature of perfection in the universe, Voltaire’s Candide stops him.  “That is very well put, said Candide, but we must go and work our garden.”   Bernstein’s musical likewise ends with Candide saying: “We’re neither pure, not wise, nor good. We’ll do the best we know. We’ll build our house and chop our wood. And make our garden grow.”  The ending of Candide is frequently taken as a pragmatic but anti-social avowal of individualism.  Herzen’s pledge to go on as best he and his comrades can seems instead, like a pragmatic avowal to go on as socialists, step by step and not in one big revolutionary leap.  But Herzen does not have the last word of the play.  Natasha has the last word in predicting a storm.

And a storm did come to Russia.  Although Herzen is the sympathetic hero in the plays, Bakunin could be seen in retrospect to have had the better of the argument.  It did take a violent revolution by a group of conspirators, the Russian Revolution of 1917 led by the Bolsheviks, to bring about significant changes to Russian society.  But were the consequences of that revolution good or bad?  By the 1930’s, Stalin had essentially made himself the Communist Czar of the Soviet Union, and ruled over a regime at least as oppressive as that in nineteenth century Russia.  So, from the vantage point of the 1960’s when Stoppard first started thinking about writing the plays, maybe Bakunin could be said to have been right about what it took to make a change in Russia, albeit wrong about what would be the outcome.

But then starting in November of 1989 in Stoppard’s birthplace of Czechoslovakia and continuing for the next two years, Communist regimes fell from power all over Eastern Europe and in the Soviet Union.  In Czechoslovakia, it was called the Velvet Revolution because it was completely peaceful and was led by intellectuals such as Vaclav Havel.  The other revolutions were also essentially peaceful and were disproportionately led by intellectuals.  In the wake of the downfall of Communism, liberal democratic regimes were established in Russia and the countries of Eastern Europe.  From the vantage point of 2002 when The Coast of Utopia was first published and performed, things looked very hopeful for these countries.  So, maybe from the perspective of 2002, Herzen looked right and Bakunin looked wrong.

But we are now almost twenty years down the road since The Coast of Utopia was first published and performed, and things do not look good any longer in Russia and most of Eastern Europe.  The liberal democracies are long gone from Russia and most Eastern European countries, and repressive authoritarian regimes have taken power.  So, from our vantage point today, it looks like both Herzen and Bakunin were wrong, and maybe it was Turgenev who was right.  Turgenev kept saying that you cannot make democracy through a political revolution, and that it takes hundreds of years of cultural development before people will be willing and able to live democratically.  If that is the case, the denouement of democracy in Russia and Eastern Europe is no surprise, and we have a long wait until the educational efforts of intellectuals like Turgenev take root there.

It isn’t clear who was right in these matters – Herzen, Bakunin or Turgenev. But there is one thing upon which all three agreed, even if they did not always practice what they preached in this regard, and which I think we can take away from The Coast of Utopia.  Ideological and generational factionalism that splits progressives into rival camps paves the way for right-wingers and reactionaries to take and keep power.  That is a lesson we need to heed in the present-day.

BW  6/20

Postscript Note on the Title of the Play:  In A Winter’s Tale, Shakespeare refers to the land-locked country of Bohemia as having a coast.  This has generally been considered a blunder by Shakespeare, albeit Bohemia may have in the past actually controlled some coast land.  In any case, in 1893, William Dean Howells, the dean of American letters at that time, albeit all but forgotten today, published a novel called The Coast of Bohemia.  The novel satirized the artistic dithering of a crowd of wealthy New York dilettantes, a bunch of would-be bohemians striving for a revolutionary cultural status that they could never really attain.  In naming his play The Coast of Utopia, Stoppard seemed to be playing on the title of Howells’ novel as he portrayed a bunch of would-be social revolutionaries, most of whom were nothing more than dilettante radicals, who could never attain their impossible utopian goal.

BW 7/21

Footnotes.

[1] Eric Erickson. Identity: Youth and Crisis. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1968.

[2] “An Open Letter to the New New Left From the Old New Left.”  Signed by 81 Former Leaders of the Students for a Democratic Society. The Nation  4/16/20.

[3] Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007. P.IX.

[4] E.H. Carr The Romantic Exiles. London: Serif, 1997.  Michael Bakunin. New York: Vintage Books, 1961.

[5] Yip Harburg. Quoted in Brian Greene. Until the End of Time. Alfred Knopf: New York, 2020. P.241.

[6] Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007. P. XII.

[7] See the wonderful historical fiction detective story The Daughter of Time about Richard III by Josephine Tey.

[8] E.H. Carr The Romantic Exiles. London: Serif, 1997. P.25

[9] E.H. Carr The Romantic Exiles. London: Serif, 1997. P. 57.

[10] E.H. Carr The Romantic Exiles. London: Serif, 1997. Pp.20, 22.

[11] E.H. Carr The Romantic Exiles. London: Serif, 1997 1997. Pp.78-79, 84-85, 89.

[12] E.H. Carr The Romantic Exiles. London: Serif, 1997. Pp.170, 175-177.

[13] E.H. Carr The Romantic Exiles. London: Serif, 1997. P.25.

[14] E.H. Carr The Romantic Exiles. London: Serif, 1997. P.14.

[15] E.H. Carr The Romantic Exiles. London: Serif, 1997. Pp.10, 30, 200, 320   See also E.H. Carr  Michael Bakunin. New York: Vintage Books, 1961. P.25.   Bakunin’s personality “left its mark on half of nineteenth century Europe.”

[16] E.H. Carr The Romantic Exiles. London: Serif, 1997. Pp.29, 320.

[17] E.H. Carr The Romantic Exiles. London: Serif, 1997. P.228   See also Isaiah Berlin:  Introduction to Alexander Herzen’s From the Other Shore. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson1956. Pp.XXI-XXII. Herzen was “a revolutionary without fanaticism,” a pragmatic problem solver who thought “that all genuine questions are of necessity specific, intelligible only in specific contexts.”

[18] E.H. Carr The Romantic Exiles. London: Serif, 1997. Pp.13, 183.

[19] E.H. Carr The Romantic Exiles. London: Serif, 1997. Pp.179,186, 189

[20] E.H. Carr The Romantic Exiles. London: Serif, 1997. Pp.198, 228, 231, 233

[21] Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007. Pp.14, 33, 51.

[22] Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007. P.64.

[23] Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007. P.64.

[24] Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007. Pp.100, 108-109, 110.

[25] Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007. Pp.114, 119.

[26] Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007. Pp.142, 143.

[27] Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007. Pp.160-161.

[28] Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007. Pp.162, 180.

[29] Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007.Pp.183, 188.

[30] Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007. Pp.192, 199, 208.

[31] Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007. Pp.223, 225.

[32] Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007. Pp.241-242, 248-249.

[33]Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007. Pp.268, 269.

[34] Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007. Pp.281, 282, 289.

[35] Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007. Pp.290, 292-293.

[36] Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007. Pp.297-298.

[37] Chernyshevsky actually wrote a revolutionary tract titled What is to be done? that later influenced Lenin who wrote a Bolshevik tract with the same title.

[38] Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007. Pp.306, 308, 311.

[39] Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007.  P.320.

[40] Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007. Pp.343.

[41] Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007. Pp.338.

[42] Tom Stoppard. The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. New York: Grove Press, 2007. Pp.346-347.

HAGGADAH: A Program for a Secular Passover Seder. A Ritual of Celebration, Contrition, and Rededication.

HAGGADAH

A Program for a Secular Passover Seder

A Ritual of Celebration, Contrition, and Rededication

 

Prepared by Burton Weltman

 

“And thou shalt remember that thou wast a slave in Egypt.”

Deuteronomy 16:12

 

Preface: The Premises of this Haggadah.

This is not your grandparents’ Haggadah, assuming your grandparents were Jewish and were fairly conventional in their Passover celebrations.  A traditional religious seder can go on for many hours of prayers, recitations, more prayers, more recitations, over and over again, and that’s before you get to eat.  It can be agonizing.  This, however, is a secular Haggadah.  So, no prayers here.

But there are still a lot of words and recitations.  It can’t be avoided and still be a Haggadah.  A Passover Seder is a ritual of remembrance, and there’s a lot to remember.  And a lot to explain.  In any case, a Seder is supposed to be long and even a bit repetitious.  That’s part of what it means to be a ritual.

As a way of covering the important points of Passover while shortening the Seder ritual, this Haggadah includes a Preface that outlines its premises and an Introduction that outlines the historical and pseudo-historical background of Passover.  If people want this information, they can read the Preface and the Introduction by themselves while they are having hors d’oeuvres or whatever before the beginning of the actual Seder.

The Haggadah is based on two key premises.  The first is that the Passover story is essentially a myth.  The events never happened.  Moses never existed.  There were no such people as the Hebrews.  There is, in sum, no historical evidence that the Passover story ever happened and a lot of evidence that it didn’t.  But it is a story that contains a portrait of what the founders of Judaism wanted us to consider the ancestors of the Jewish people to have been like and what the background of Jewish history might have been like.  They wanted us to think of ourselves as though we were the descendants of people and the product of events like those in the story.  Although the Passover story is pseudo-history, it is still one of the foundational stories of Judaism.

The second premise is that Passover combines celebration, contrition, and rededication.  We celebrate the freedom gained by the Hebrews, but we also honor all peoples throughout history who have struggled for freedom and still do.  At the same time, we express contrition for harm that was done to innocent Egyptians in the course of the Hebrews’ liberation.  We also acknowledge responsibility for harm being done to innocent people in the world today, harm that is at least to some extent a byproduct of the privileged lives of freedom and prosperity that we lead.  In Jewish tradition, contrition, or teshuva in Hebrew, can free a person from the bondage of guilt.  Contrition is, therefore, a key element in any celebration of freedom.  Finally, as a condition of our celebration and our contrition, we rededicate ourselves to helping in the struggle for the freedom of all people.  This, then, is the purpose and goal of our Passover Seder.

Introduction: Secular Judaism and the Historical/Pseudo-Historical Background of Passover.

A Haggadah is a script for a Passover Seder. A Seder is an annual Jewish holiday that celebrates the liberation of a people called the Hebrews from slavery in ancient Egypt. The Hebrews are considered by Jewish people to be their ancestors from whom they ostensibly derive their religion and Hebrew language.  The word Haggadah is Hebrew for telling, and the purpose of a Seder is to retell and reexamine the story of the Hebrews’ liberation from Egypt and their migration to settle in Palestine.  The holiday is called Passover, Pesach in Hebrew, because in the story God passed over the homes of the Hebrews and spared them when He punished the Egyptians by killing their first-born children (Exodus 12:13-14).

The Passover story is contained in the first five books of the Jewish Bible. The Jewish Bible contains some twenty-four books.  The Christian Old Testament is derived from the Jewish Bible.  Most of what we consider the Jewish Bible was compiled in written form during the fifth century BCE, but Jewish tradition holds that oral versions of the first five books, including the Passover story, were composed by Moses who supposedly led the exodus from Egypt around 1200 BCE.  For this reason, the first five books are sometimes called the Five Books of Moses, but other times called the Pentateuch.  The word Torah is also sometimes used to denominate the first five books, but other times is used to refer to the whole of the Jewish Bible, which is also called the Tanach.  The difficulties that we Jewish people have had in settling on a name for our Bible is, in turn, reflected in our differences in interpreting it.

Passover has been celebrated since ancient times, but what is today considered the traditional form of a Haggadah appeared in the later Middle Ages.  Most Haggadot (the plural of Haggadah) still take this form today.  The traditional Haggadah prescribes a religious ceremony full of thanksgivings and prayers to God.  Since there are many different strands of Judaism, Haggadot vary depending on whether the celebrants are Orthodox, Conservative, Liberal, Reform, Reconstructionist, or otherwise.  But most Jewish people follow the traditional God-centered form.  Except for secular Jewish people.

Secular Jewish people are humanists who regard Judaism as a human-made culture rather than a God-given religion.  Secularists consider themselves to be part of an ethnic group that shares a common history, literature, several languages, music, art and other cultural creations.  Although much of Jewish culture has historically revolved around religion, and religious references are embedded in the culture, secularists do not believe that Judaism depends on religion.  They believe that the culture holds up and holds together without God. In a similar manner, Irish culture has historically revolved around the Catholic religion but being Irish does not depend on being Catholic.

Secular Jewish people do not necessarily reject the idea of God but merely think that people can relate better to each other by leaving God out of the discussion of public affairs.  Most secularists acknowledge that the idea of God can be a source of solace and inspiration in the private and personal lives of believers.  Some may be believers themselves.  But they worry that when God is used as a justification for actions in public life, the idea of God can become a source of divisiveness and strife.  Since different groups of people often have different ideas about God, when one of them claims that God has commanded something, that command can set groups against each other, Jews against Jews, Jews against Christians, Protestant Christians against Catholic Christians, Christians against Muslims, and so forth.

Consistent with this belief, secular Jews distinguish themselves from other Jews by leaving prayers to God out of their celebrations even as they share other aspects of Jewish culture with religious Jews, including the Torah.  Like religious Jews, secularists consider the Jewish Bible to be the founding document of the Jewish people.  But secularists approach the Bible differently than do most religious Jews, and this difference is reflected in our secular Haggadot.

The Jewish Bible is a peculiar book for a religious text in that it was written in the form of a history which purports to be the genesis of Judaism.  Starting with stories about the creation of the world, it proceeds with stories about Adam and Eve, Noah, Abraham and many others down to the return of some of the Israelites from captivity in Babylonia during the fifth century BCE.  It is at this point that the Bible was compiled out of many stories that had come down through the ages, initially in oral form.  And it is at this point that secular Jews date the beginning of Judaism and Jewish history.  Secular Jews hold that most of the Biblical stories down to this point are pseudo-history.  There is, for example, no historical evidence of the existence of Adam and Eve, Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, David, or Solomon.  But the founders of Judaism wanted us to consider the stories of these people as part of our heritage.

The main storyline of the Bible begins with Abraham after a couple of false starts, the first false start ending with the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden, and the second ending with the annihilation in Noah’s flood of almost every living being in the world.  Abraham ostensibly lived around 1800 BCE and is portrayed in the Bible as the progenitor of the Hebrew people.  His Hebrew descendants were later enslaved in Egypt, and their escape from Egypt and conquest of Palestine are memorialized in the Passover story. The Hebrews are, in turn, described in the Bible as the ancestors of the Israelites who lived in Palestine after the Hebrews conquered that land around 1200 BCE.

According to the Bible, the Israelites in Palestine were at first loosely governed by judges, and were later unified under the rule of kings, the first being Saul, the most famous being David, and the most fabulous being Solomon who, ostensibly, ruled over a vast and fabulously wealthy empire.  There is no historical evidence for any of these people or their doings that are described in the Bible.  They are seemingly symbolic pseudo-history. Real history begins, however, with the splitting up of Palestine into two rival kingdoms.  When the northern kingdom was conquered by Assyria around 725 BCE and the southern by Babylonia in 586 BCE, the Israelites were scattered around the Middle East, very few of whom ever came back to Palestine.  These events created a crisis in Israelite culture and religion.

Like the Hebrews before them, the Israelites’ religion was based on priests sacrificing animals and vegetables to God on an altar.  Israelite worship centered in a Temple in Jerusalem. With the conquest of Jerusalem by the Babylonians, the Temple was destroyed.  Having been scattered about in many lands, and without a central temple in which to worship, Israelites in exile developed a form of worship that took place in local synagogues presided over by rabbis, rather than in a main temple run by priests.

Synagogues were essentially schools and rabbis were teachers. Worship centered around studying the newly compiled Bible, a book that people could take, read, and contemplate anywhere.  Contemplating ethical questions that derive from the Bible became the center of the exiles’ religion, and remains to the present day what most people recognize as the practice of Judaism.  Religious Jews put God at the center of this practice, secularists put humanity at the center. In either case, this is what is meant by saying that the Jewish people are a people of the Bible and that Jewish history begins with its compilation.

The Jewish Bible is a difficult book to understand, and both religious Jews and secularists agree that it requires interpretation.  They disagree, however, on how to interpret it.  The Bible is full of stories and statements, many of which seem random, obscure, or inconsistent with each other. The very first lines of the Book of Genesis, the first book of the Bible, contain, for example, two different versions of the creation of the world, one after the other, with no explanation of why there are two stories or which one is correct (Genesis 1:1-2:8). The Bible also portrays many of its leading characters, including God, as behaving in objectionable ways. Abraham, for example, who is ostensibly the forefather of the Jewish people, is portrayed as prostituting his beautiful wife in a cowardly attempt to protect himself against a man who covets her (Genesis 12:10-20).

Most religious Jews approach the Bible as the literal truth and insist that what seem to be inconsistencies can be reconciled.  They also idealize, even idolize, the main characters in the Bible, even when the characters do things that seem wrong to us.  Religious Jews have developed complicated intellectual procedures and composed elaborate explanations that ostensibly reconcile the conflicting stories and rationalize the objectionable behavior of the characters.  They approach these interpretative problems as a challenge to their faith and see their admittedly sometimes strained solutions as proof of their devotion.

Secular Jews, however, along with many Reform Jews, approach the Bible as a collection of largely fictional stories that are to be interpreted symbolically and critically.  They hold that by including two different creation stories at the opening of the Bible, the Bible’s compilers were signaling to their readers right from the start that they did not intend the book to be accepted literally.  The inclusion of inconsistent stories about the Hebrews and the Israelites was also an indication that the compilers did not consider these stories to be actual history.

In turn, the inclusion of unflattering stories about Hebrews and Israelites was a way of emphasizing that they were not Jewish people.  The compilers of the Bible were saying that we Jewish people came from people like the Hebrews and Israelites, and we likely have reason to atone for bad actions like those committed by the fictional Hebrews and Israelites in the stories.  But they were not Jewish people and, rather than adulating them, we should aim to be better than they were.

Secular Jewish people regard the Bible as a source book of paradigmatic ethical dilemmas and existential problems that their putative ancestors faced and that they still face today.  Rather than trying to reconcile and rationalize the stories, secularists try to fathom the intentions of the compilers when they incorporated these stories in the Bible and try to understand what the stories might mean to our lives.  In interpreting the Bible and preparing our Haggadot, secularists look particularly to the principle enunciated some two thousand years ago by Rabbi Hillel, who is widely recognized by both religious Jews and secularists as the greatest interpreter of the Jewish Bible.

Hillel summarized the teaching of the Bible in a version of what is known today as the Golden Rule, which he defined as “Do not do unto others what you would not have them do unto you.”  The Golden Rule is a well-nigh universal principle, with versions incorporated in some eighty philosophies, religions and cultures around the world.  Hillel claimed that the Golden Rule was the underlying moral of the Bible.  It is a rule of empathy that binds Jewish people to each other and to other peoples.

The Golden Rule is also the founding principle of secular Judaism.  Using Rabbi Hillel’s Golden Rule as a guideline, secularists attempt to interpret the meaning of the Bible stories, evaluate the behavior of the main characters in the stories, including Moses and even God, and decide what the stories say about Judaism and being a Jewish person. The Golden Rule is not, however, a formula that provides easy answers.  It is a benchmark for ethical analysis and moral choice but not a guarantor of results. As a result, secularists approach the Bible as a source book of questions about life, rather than as a fount of definitive answers.  Being Jewish means continually asking questions about current events that can be compared with and related to the Bible’s stories, but never being completely satisfied with the answers one comes up with.

Passover is essentially a holiday about a story, and it is a story that raises important ethical questions.  The Bible adjures us to retell this story about the liberation of the Hebrews each year.  But any story can be told in many different ways, and the way one tells it indicates as much about the teller as about the characters and events in the story. The Passover story is, thus, not only about Moses and the Hebrews but about the Jewish people who later compiled the Bible.  Why did they write about things in the way they did?  What does it say about them?

Passover is also about us as we compose our Haggadah and retell the story.  A Haggadah must address issues facing the world at any given time and Haggadot must, therefore, change with the times. The purpose of this Haggadah is to relate the Passover story to current events and present-day ethical questions.  How we deal with these questions during our Seder should say things about us

THE SEDER

“And this day shall be for you a memorial.”

Exodus 12:14

Part 1. Setting the Tone: Myth, History, and the Passover Story.

Narrator: Welcome to our Passover Seder. The ceremonial portion of this event will be relatively brief, but please munch on matzo and any other eatables within reach as we go through this Haggadah.  The goal is to commemorate the holiday, not to fast or to get tipsy by drinking wine on an empty stomach.

A traditional Haggadah contains some fourteen segments and a traditional Seder can go on for hours, seemingly forever when you are waiting for dinner.  This Haggadah has five parts which have been adapted from the traditional format.  It incorporates the four glasses of wine that are traditionally consumed at a Seder.  You are forewarned to confine your consumption of the wine to the limits of your tolerance for alcohol without becoming inebriated.  You will need to be reasonably sober because the Haggadah designates a Narrator who conducts the Seder but also designates Readers for various segments of the story.  So, your reasonably sober participation in the ceremony is required. The Haggadah also includes suggested discussion questions, but you are encouraged to contribute questions of your own, and to comment, correct, contradict, query or add to anything that is being said.

As a way of setting the tone for the Seder, we will welcome each other by singing the Hebrew song “Havenu Shalom Aleichem.”  The words translate as “We bring peace to you,” which is the goal of our Seder for each other and for the world.  We also sing in remembrance of loved ones who have passed away, may they live in our memories and rest in peace.

Sing: Havenu Shalom Aleichem.

Havenu Shalom Aleichem,

Havenu Shalom Aleichem,

Havenu Shalom Aleichem,

Shalom, Shalom, Shalom Aleichem.

The purpose of this Seder is to memorialize the story in the Bible of the liberation of the Hebrews from slavery in ancient Egypt.  A memorial is a remembrance of events that can be both celebrated and critiqued.  The events are honored in their honest retelling and reevaluation.  While basically myth rather than history, Passover is, nonetheless, a foundational story for Judaism.

Reader #1: The backstory of Passover in the Bible begins with a man named Joseph, a descendant of Abraham, who settled in Egypt.  Joseph performed some important services for the Pharaoh, among them helping Egyptians to weather years of bad crops by saving grain from good years in storehouses.  Joseph became the Pharaoh’s prime minister and brought his family to settle in Egypt.  The family prospered and multiplied for many generations until there came into power a new Pharaoh who decided to enslave the descendants of Joseph, by then a numerous people called Hebrews.  The Hebrews were regularly abused thereafter, and the Pharaoh at one point even ordered the killing of all Hebrew boys. (Exodus 1:8-23)

The Passover story itself begins when a Hebrew named Moses was approached by God and told to demand that the Pharaoh free the Hebrews.  Moses did God’s bidding and when the Pharaoh refused to free the Hebrews, God inflicted a series of ten plagues on the Egyptian people in an attempt to coerce the Pharaoh to do so.  God’s last plague was killing the Egyptians’ first-born children while passing over the homes of the Hebrews and sparing their children.  After this plague, the Pharaoh allowed the Hebrews to leave but then changed his mind and chased after them with his army.  With God’s help, Moses parted the Red Sea, enabling the Hebrews to get across, then closed the sea and drowned the Pharaoh and his army.

Reader #2:  According to the Biblical story, Moses and the Hebrews then spent some forty years wandering in the desert between Egypt and Palestine.  In the course of their wanderings, God gave Moses the Ten Commandments and Moses composed an oral version of the first five books of the Bible, including the Passover story.  At God’s insistence, the Hebrews committed genocide against several peoples who stood in the path of their journey, the people of Sihon, for example, of whom Moses said “we spared nothing but the livestock which we took as spoil” (Deuteronomy 2:33-36). There was also the slaughter of the Amalekites (Exodus 17:13-16) and the Midianites (Numbers 31:7-24).   Because of some minor offense Moses committed against God’s dignity, Moses was not himself permitted to reach the promised land, and he died just as the Hebrews reached Palestine (Deuteronomy 32:48-52).

As the Hebrews entered Palestine, God told them that if the current occupants surrendered to them, the Hebrews should enslave them, but if the inhabitants resisted, the Hebrews must kill them all.  God then recites a hit list of ethnic groups that he wants slaughtered and says “I shall exterminate these.”  And he commands the Hebrews that “You must not spare the life of any living thing” (Exodus 23:23-24; Deuteronomy 20:10-17). Consistent with God’s commands, the Hebrews enslaved and exterminated the various inhabitants of Palestine and occupied the place themselves (Deuteronomy 7:21-25).  This is the basic Passover story as it is told in the Bible.

Reader #3:  Although many religious Jews consider the Passover story to be literally true, it is almost unanimously considered by historians to be a myth.  There is no evidence that the Hebrews ever existed as a people, or that the events in the story ever happened.  Although the ancient Egyptians were meticulous chroniclers, their records make no mention of the Hebrews or the Passover events.  In any case, the word “Hebrew” merely meant nomad in the language of the time and does not refer to a specific ethnicity or religion.  Hebrews were just bands of vagrants, and not specifically worshippers of the Biblical God.  There is also no historical or anthropological evidence of a group of Hebrews of any sort invading and settling in Palestine at this time.

Despite their status as mythological beings, most Jews regard the Biblical Hebrews as our cultural ancestors, and we treat the Passover story as part of our Jewish heritage.  In so doing, we are responding in a way similar to the way other peoples have treated their hypothetical predecessors. For example, when the Jewish Bible was being compiled during the fifth BCE, the ancient Greeks were also compiling stories of their putative ancestors, including the story in the Iliad about mythical Achaeans who supposedly fought the Trojan War.  As with Passover, the events in the Iliad ostensibly took place around 1200 BCE.

Reader #4: While some fifth century BCE Greeks believed in the literal truth of the Iliad and other such stories about gods and heroes, most took them to be myths.  Myths that represented the sorts of ethical choices their ancestors had made and the ethical issues they themselves faced.  The Greeks considered the Achaeans in the Iliad to be culturally their ancestors, even if they were not literally so. And the Greeks approached these stories as both celebrations and critiques of their putative ancestors and their gods.

In the same way, Jews of the fifth and fourth centuries BCE, many of whom did not believe in the literal truth of the Passover story, considered themselves ethically and culturally descendants of the Hebrews who escaped from Egypt.  And like the Greeks with their stories, many Jews approached the Bible stories, including the story of Passover, in a spirit of both celebration and critique.  It is in that spirit that we secular Jews consider the Hebrews and their Passover story to be part of our Jewish heritage today.

Suggested Discussion Questions: Cycles of Abuse and Caring.

It is well-known that propinquity breeds affinity and that relationship leads to resemblance.  This process can be for the better or the worse.  Dog-owners, for example, often start to resemble their dogs.  Whether that change is for the better or worse depends on the owner and the dog.  Children also generally take after their parents, often despite themselves, and sometimes for better, other times for worse.

Abused children, for example, are more likely than other children to end up abusing their own children.  Abuse seems to breed abuse in a vicious cycle of people doing to others what was done to them.  In turn, caring behavior seems to breed a virtuous cycle of people treating each other well.

The Golden Rule – that we love our neighbors as ourselves – is both a description of human behavior and a prescription for it.  People who care for others are likely to think well of themselves.  People who mistreat others are likely to think badly of themselves, no matter how much they boast and bully.

Can we see a cycle of abuse in the treatment of other ethnic groups by the newly liberated Hebrews?   Did they do unto others what was done unto them?  What lessons do you think the compilers of the Jewish Bible wanted us to take away from this story?

Do you see examples of vicious cycles of abuse in the world today?  How can we avoid such cycles, and break them where they exist?  Do you see examples of virtuous cycles of caring?   How can we generate virtuous cycles?

Part 1. Explaining the Passover Story: The Four Questioning Kids.

Narrator: Passover is celebrated as a story of the Hebrews’ liberation from oppression, and Moses is celebrated as their heroic leader.  The Passover story has for centuries been an inspiration to Jews seeking liberty and justice in times when they were being persecuted, denied the rights of citizenship, or forced to live in ghettos. Since the Passover story is contained in the Christian Old Testament, it has also been an inspiration to Christians and other oppressed peoples struggling for human rights.  We Jews are grateful that a story from our heritage has been helpful to others.

The story was taken up by African-Americans fighting against slavery in the nineteenth century and seeking civil rights in the twentieth century.  “Go Down Moses” is an African-American spiritual that was composed by slaves during the mid-nineteenth century.  The song proclaims the ideals of freedom and justice that we honor in our celebration of Passover.  It is a song of hope that defies oppression.  We will sing a few verses.

Sing: Go Down Moses.

 When Israel was in Egypt’s land,

Let my people go!

Oppressed so hard, they could not stand,

Let my people go!

 

Go down, Moses,

Way down in Egypt’s land;

Tell old Pharaoh

To let my people go!

 

So Moses went to Egypt land,

Let my people go!

He made the Pharaoh understand,

Let my people go! Refrain.

 

You need not always weep and mourn,

Let my people go!

And wear these slavery chains forlorn,

Let my people go!  Refrain.

Reader #5: Almost all holidays have their ideals which are laudable and their realities which are often a mixture of the admirable and the abominable.  Thanksgiving, for example, celebrates the laudable ideals of ethnic diversity, tolerance, cooperation, and helping others in distress.  And an admirable reality of the holiday is that on what is considered the first Thanksgiving, Native Americans did lot of giving – they brought most of the food – for which the English immigrants were thankful.  But it was mostly a thanks-receiving for the English.

The abominable reality of the holiday is that the English responded to the Indians’ generosity with a Thanksgiving prayer that thanked God for the plagues that had killed off most of the natives so that there was more room in America for English settlement. And the English soon drove the remaining Indians off of their native lands anyways.  Nonetheless, we celebrate Thanksgiving for its laudable ideals even as we should use those same ideals to critique the abominable behavior of its founders.

Reader #6: Similarly, with Passover, there is much to celebrate in the ideals of freedom and brotherhood that it represents.  In the course of the Hebrews’ migration from Egypt, for example, God lays down the Golden Rule to “Love your neighbor as yourself” (Leviticus 19:18).  This injunction is the source of Rabbi Hillel’s claim that the Golden Rule is the underlying moral of the Bible, and it encompasses an ideal that has inspired Jews and others to participate in humanitarian civic and political movements.

Freedom and brotherhood are the light in the Passover story.  But there is also the dark.  How do we explain the massacres ordered by God and undertaken by Moses?  And how do we explain the inclusion of this behavior in the Bible?  Some history of the Passover story may help us to answer these questions.

Reader #7: The Passover story was composed over the course of a long period of time.  The events in the story are supposed to have taken place around 1200 BCE.  Stories about those events were passed down for centuries by word of mouth until around 800 BCE when versions of it were apparently first written down.  Various versions of the story were thereafter passed down in both oral and written forms until the version with which we are familiar was compiled during the fifth century BCE.

The development of the Passover story was something like a game of telephone in which a person whispers something in the ear of his or her neighbor, who in turn whispers it to his or her neighbor, and so forth.  This went on for something like thirty generations.  Just imagine if we played a game of telephone with thirty people, and what would happen to a story as it was whispered from the first to the last person.   If we asked people to tell the story they had heard, we would almost certainly get thirty different versions.

Reader #8: The task facing the compilers of the Bible was how to pick and choose among the different versions of the stories handed down to them.  They responded by including at least two versions of almost every important event or statement in the first five books of the Bible that were supposedly composed by Moses, including differing versions of the Passover events and two versions of the Ten Commandments (Exodus 20:1-21; Deuteronomy 5: 1-22). Even if something like the events in the Passover story had actually happened, the telephone effect would have rendered the reality of them undiscoverable.

When the compilers of the Bible included the Passover story in the book, they had a number of narratives from which they could choose.  The compilers chose to include things that are unflattering toward the Hebrews and their God.  For example, as part of the backstory to Passover, the Bible says that one of the services that Joseph performed for the Pharaoh, and that won the Pharaoh’s favor for the Hebrews, was devising a scheme of taxation that effectively entrapped the Egyptian peasants into debt slavery to the Pharaoh.  Joseph, thereby, helped enslave the Egyptians even as he was winning acceptance and prosperity for his own people (Genesis 47:20-22).

Reader #9: Was the purpose of including this episode in the Passover story to imply that when the Hebrews were themselves enslaved, their enslavement was turnabout?  Was it intended as an example of the principle that what you do unto others is liable to be done unto you?  Does this episode highlight the virtue of the Golden Rule through portraying its opposite?  Was it intended as a warning to Jews to give what they expect to get and expect to get what they give?

The Hebrew God as he is portrayed in the Passover story is also very different from God as he was worshipped by Jews when they compiled the Bible in the fifth century BCE.  In the Passover story, he is a tribal god concerned only with the welfare of the Hebrews.  He is extremely jealous of other gods and is very strict about how he is worshipped.  He repeatedly killed, or had Moses kill, Hebrews who were not performing rituals exactly the way he wanted.  He even killed the two sons of Moses’ brother Aaron for accidentally making minor errors in a ritual sacrifice (Leviticus 10:1-3).  The Hebrew God also repeatedly had Moses and Joshua massacre peoples who would not bow to Him or who occupied land He wanted for the Hebrews.  The Hebrew God does not do unto others as He would have them do unto Him.

Reader #10:  In contrast, the Jewish God as He is portrayed in later portions of the Bible, and as He was worshipped when the Bible was compiled, is a universal god who is seemingly concerned with the good of all peoples.  And He is concerned more with peace and justice than with ritual correctness.  He is the God of the prophet Isaiah who preached about turning spears into pruning hooks, and the prophet Amos who preached the responsibility of Jews to work for the welfare of all humankind.

This version of God seems to expect respect because He gives it.  He is very different than the God in the Passover story.  Why?  Is this another example of the compilers of the Bible deploying what became the Golden Rule, only this time against the Hebrew God to contrast Him with the Jewish God?  Secular Jews take this evolution from tribal God to universal God one step further when they dispense with the idea of God altogether in favor of the universal principles He ostensibly represents in the Golden Rule.

Narrator: This question of why the Bible and our Haggadah include negative portraits of the Hebrews and their God is something that we can explore with a version of the questions that are traditionally asked by the four types of sons who are supposedly found at Seders.  These four boys are traditionally characterized as the Wise Son, the Wicked Son, the Stupid Son, and the Silent Son.

In a traditional Haggadah, the Wise Son deferentially asks “What are the laws that God has commanded us to follow?” The Wicked Son scornfully asks “Why should I care about any of this?” The Simple Son stupidly asks “What are you talking about?” And the Silent Son just appeals for answers with his questioning looks.  Each of the sons is essentially told to praise God for liberating the Jews from slavery, and to gain wisdom and virtue by studying the Bible.

Consistent with our secular and non-sexist approach to Passover, the names of the questioners have been changed to the Curious Child, the Skeptical Child, the Confused Child, and the Socially Committed Child, and their questions and our answers have been modified to fit the message of this Seder.

Reader #11: The Curious Child asks why the rabbis would have included in the Bible a story about the origins of Judaism that portrays our ancestors and the God they worshipped in such a negative light?

The Child is told that as with many important questions, there is no one final answer to this one.  The Bible was not written by one person or one group of people.  It is made up of different stories that were first told in many different times and places.  The compilers of the Bible had to choose among a plethora of stories in deciding which ones to include.  These compilers knew the distinction between history and myth.  But they did not have many historical facts about the origins of Judaism to put in their book.  So, the rabbis seemingly chose stories that they knew were myths but that they hoped would portray some underlying truths about Judaism.

One of those truths may have been that Judaism is a progressively changing way of life in which even the image of God gets better.  That is, the compilers expected Jews to object to the Hebrews’ version of God as He is portrayed in the Passover story, and look more favorably on the version of God they themselves worshipped.  And they portrayed their Hebrew ancestors as having many faults so as to inspire Jews of their day, and Jews like us today, to try to become better.

Reader #12:  The origins of the Jews as they are portrayed in the Bible can be compared with the origins of the American people.  The United States was founded on many social evils, including the enslavement of Africans, genocide against Indians, imperialism against Mexicans, and the subjugation of women.  We have to acknowledge these evils as a formative part of our country’s history even as we reject them.

But our country was also founded on ideals of liberty, democracy, tolerance and justice for all.  These ideals have inspired Americans in the past and inspire us today to better ourselves and our society.  Similarly, despite the evils attributed to the Hebrew God and the Hebrews, Rabbi Hillel still summarized the moral of the Bible in the Golden Rule. That is a worthy ideal to take away from the Passover story.

Reader #13: The Skeptical Child asks why do I need to know about the past?   Who cares about those mythical Hebrews and how they are portrayed in the Bible?

The Child is told that who we are and what options we have in our lives are largely influenced by our histories.  We need to know the past to know who we are.  The story of those Hebrews is part of our cultural history, part of what we Jews think of ourselves, even if those people never existed and the events never happened.  What they stood for is in us, for better and worse.  One reason the compilers of the Bible included so much anger and violence in the Passover story may have been to remind us of the dark side of ourselves and to encourage us to look for ways in which our society is influenced by anger and violence.  The story provides a negative benchmark against which we can measure ourselves and our society.

Reader #14: The Confused Child asks how can it be that we honor our ancestors but also criticize them?

The Child is told that we celebrate holidays such as Passover because they represent ideals that we hold dear.  At the same time, the Passover story warns us that we must not adulate our leaders or our ancestors.  We must not worship any man and we must be careful if we worship a God.  The story portrays the Hebrew God as capable of pronouncing such empathetic commandments as “Love your neighbor as yourself” and “Remember thou wast a slave in Egypt,” but then demanding the slaughter of anyone who does not pay proper obeisance to him or does not perform ritual sacrifices in exactly the proper way.

The story also portrays Moses as a great but fallible man.  He empathized with his fellow Hebrews, stood up to the Pharaoh, and even married a Midianite woman who was not a Hebrew.  But Moses’ definition of who constituted his neighbor and whom he should therefore love as himself was very narrow, and he even massacred his wife’s Midianite people at God’s command.

Moses did not fulfill the Passover ideals, nor seemingly did the Hebrew God or many other Hebrews, but then neither have we.  If our ancestors had fully realized those ideals, or if we did so ourselves, then ideal behavior would be commonplace and not worth celebrating.  It is because we rejoice in the ideals that our ancestors represent, but also need to reflect on their shortcomings and on our own shortcomings, that we celebrate a holiday such as Passover.

Reader #15:  The Socially Committed Child asks how we can apply what we have learned about the history of the Passover story to our lives today, to help us be better people, and to make a better world?

The Child is told that the Passover story is both a cautionary tale and an inspirational story.  In the objectionable actions of the Hebrews, it cautions us not to let concerns for our own welfare overwhelm our consideration of others.  At the same time, the story inspires us to be considerate to others as the best way to be considerate to ourselves, to love our neighbors as extensions of ourselves.  In the actions of the compilers who included in the Bible a Passover story that is not entirely flattering to the Hebrew people or their God, it cautions us to be humble about our ancestors and our origins.  At the same time, it inspires us to tell what we think is the truth, even if it may seem humiliating.

Narrator: Let us drink the first glass of wine in honor of all those people, both Jews and others, who have been inspired by the Passover story to struggle for liberty and justice.  Let us also drink in memory of the innocent Egyptians and other peoples who suffered at the hands of the Hebrews and their God in the Passover story, and all those innocent people who have suffered throughout history as what are today called “collateral damage.”  Let us drink to liberty and justice for all.

Suggested Discussion Questions: Melodrama, Comedy, and Tragedy.

Stories can generally be told in three basic forms: melodrama, comedy, or tragedy. A melodrama is a story of good against evil, good guys against bad guys.  It is essentially a war, and we either rejoice in the victory of the good guys or mourn if the bad guys win.  Comedy is a story about disorder created by fools and their foolishness, and the efforts of wise people to correct or curb the fools.  Comedy can be dark and is not necessarily funny.  It can end either in a mess or in the restoration of a just order.  Tragedy is a story of good gone too far until it turns into bad.  It is about pride or hubris which leads the central characters to think they can do whatever they want, but they can’t, and they fail and fall because of their pride.

The Passover story is traditionally told as a melodrama with the Hebrews and their God as the good guys against the evil Pharaoh.  How could you tell it as a comedy or tragedy?  Can God or Moses or the Pharaoh be seen as fools?  Can God or Moses be seen as going too far in a good cause?  How would you tell the story?  What difference does it make which way you tell it?

Part 2.  Passover and the Ten Plagues: Dayenu.

Narrator: One of the most disturbing elements of the Passover story is the ten plagues that the Hebrew God inflicted on the Egyptian people in order to coerce the Pharaoh into freeing the Hebrews.  Why God chose these particular ten plagues, nobody knows.  But one of the most controversial segments of a Seder is the recitation and consideration of the plagues.  If the Hebrew God was so powerful, why did He have to resort to plagues to convince the Pharaoh?  If His goal was to influence the Pharaoh, why did He inflict the plagues on the whole Egyptian population?  Under international law today, harming civilians in order to coerce a government to do something is considered a crime against humanity and a form of terrorism.  Why did the people who compiled the Bible include the plagues in the Passover story?  It is traditional to dip one’s finger into a glass of wine upon reciting each plague and then let a drop of the wine fall onto a napkin.  Why do we do this?

 Reader #16: The traditional religious view of the plagues, attributed to a fifteenth century CE Rabbi Shalom, is that the Egyptians got what they deserved, and the plagues were a just retribution against ordinary Egyptians because of the advantages they had received from the Hebrews’ slave labor.  The plagues were also a just punishment against the Egyptians for their failure to worship the Hebrew God instead of worshipping the Pharaoh and the various Egyptian gods.  In this view, we recite the plagues as a warning to non-Jews not to mess with Jews because God will eventually get them.  And we waste a drop of wine for each plague as a wish to God that He will continue to plague the enemies of the Jews.

Many religious Jews have similarly rationalized the massacres of various peoples by the Hebrews on their way from Egypt to Palestine as just punishment for these peoples’ failure to worship the Hebrew God in place of their own gods.  This is the same rationalization that has historically been used by Christians to persecute Jews because Jews refuse to recognize Jesus as the Savior.  It is the excuse used by zealots of many religions to persecute anyone whose beliefs differ from their own.  “God made me do it,” they say.

Reader #17: Secular Jews take a different view of the plagues.  They take their cue from a saying in the Book of Proverbs: “Do not rejoice at the downfall of your enemies” (Proverbs 24:17). The Book of Proverbs is one of the later composed books in the Bible.  It reflects a transformation of God in the course of the Bible from a vindictive Hebrew tribal God to a peace-loving universal Jewish God for whom the pursuit of wisdom and virtue is the goal of human life.  This is essentially the goal of secular Jews, albeit without the need for God.

In this secular view, the plagues were not justified.  The Hebrew God was rash, harsh and extremely vain, and even Moses is recorded as trying to get Him to go easier on the Egyptians.  But the Hebrew God repeatedly warned Moses and the Hebrews that he was not someone to be messed with.  In this view, the plagues were as much a warning to the Hebrews to obey God as they were a punishment of the Egyptians.  Having brought the Hebrews out of Egypt, God told them “I set before you today a blessing and a curse: a blessing if you obey the commandments of Yahweh [Yahweh was the Hebrews’ name for God]…a curse if you disobey the commandments” (Deuteronomy 11:26-29).   Although the Hebrews benefited from God’s brutality against the Egyptians by getting their freedom and a homeland, God followed up his warnings by repeatedly massacring Hebrews who failed to observe his injunctions to the letter.

Reader #18: In the secular view, the reason the compilers of the Torah included the plagues was as a warning about benefiting from injustice to others.  The Hebrews benefited from brutality but then were subject to it themselves.  What price freedom, the Bible in effect asks us? Was there a better strategy that would have followed the Golden Rule?  And when we recite the plagues and waste a drop of wine for each, this symbolizes the blood of the innocent Egyptians that was shed in the course of the Hebrews’ liberation.  We recite them not in celebration but in mourning and contrition.

Narrator: Let us recite the ten plagues and let fall a drop of wine for each in silent mourning.

  1. Blood.
  2. Frogs.
  3. Lice.
  4. Flies.
  5. Pestilence.
  6. Boils.
  7. Hail.
  8. Locusts.
  9. Darkness.
  10. Killing of first-born.

Let us also sing a traditional Hebrew song, “Dayenu,” that well summarizes the moral of the story of Passover.  Dayenu literally means “Enough!” and figuratively means “It would have been enough!”  The song is usually rendered as a victory song, rejoicing in the victory of the Hebrews and the devastation of the Egyptians.  It is, however, better seen as an ambivalent expression of thankfulness for the liberation of the Hebrews, but also regret at the harm that was done to innocent Egyptians.

The transformation of “Dayenu” from a somber reflection on Passover into an upbeat celebration of the holiday is similar to the transformation of “God Bless America” from the way it was originally intended by Irving Berlin as a solemn prayer asking God to help a troubled country in a troubled time to the way it is usually sung today as a rejoicing that God has blessed America and that Americans are God’s chosen people.  We will try to sing “Dayenu” as it was originally intended, so please try to curb your enthusiasm.  The song has some fifteen verses. In keeping with the spirit of “Enough,” we will keep it short by singing only one Yiddish verse with the refrain, and then recite a translation of the next three verses while singing the refrain. 

Sing:  Dayenu.                        

Ilu hotzi hotzianu, hotzianu mimitzrayim,

hotzianu mimitzrayim, Dayenu.

Day, Day, Dayenu,

Day, Day, Dayenu,

Day, Day, Dayenu,

Dayenu, Dayenu.

Had He brought us out from Egypt and not executed judgment against them,

It would have been enough. Refrain.

Had He executed judgment against them and not destroyed their idols,

It would have been enough.  Refrain.

Had he destroyed their idols and not slain their firstborn,

It would have been enough.  Refrain.

Reader #19: The song “Dayenu” recalls the major events of the traditional Passover story with each event followed by the chant of “Enough!” or “It would have been enough!”  It rejoices in the liberation of the Hebrews, and the subsequent founding of Judaism, but it also raises questions about whether the suffering and killing inflicted by God on the Egyptians and the other peoples massacred by the Hebrews was necessary and justifiable.  As putative descendants of those Hebrews, these are questions we must ponder.

“Enough already” the song seems to be saying.  Enough of slavery, killing, hatred and revenge, all of which were inflicted on the Hebrews by the Pharaoh, but were also inflicted on the Egyptians by God and Moses.  In the Passover story, innocent people on both sides suffered from the actions of their leaders.  We must ask “Couldn’t it have been otherwise?”     

Narrator: Let us drink the second glass of wine in sorrow for innocent people who have suffered in the past and who are suffering today, and with a rededication to “Enough already!”

Suggested Discussion Questions: Playing a Zero-Sum Game?

In gaining their freedom, the Hebrews benefited from the suffering of innocent Egyptians.  Whatever blame adult Egyptians might have shared in the enslavement of the Hebrews, the infant Egyptian children that God killed as one of the plagues could not be deemed guilty.  Were the Hebrews guilty of an ethical lapse for benefitting from God’s brutal ways?  Was there anything they should have done differently?

Benefiting from others’ misery and the injustices done to others is an ethical problem that almost every living person faces.  It is especially a problem those of us who live relatively free and prosperous lives in the United States.  American imperialism and economic exploitation of poorer peoples past and present helps make possible our well-being.  Within our own country, people often benefit from the way they look, the language they speak, or the religion they practice, while others are disadvantaged on those bases.

Are we guilty of an ethical lapse for benefiting in this way?  Have you ever benefited personally from the misery or injustice of others?   How can we avoid playing a zero-sum game in which some people benefit at the expense of others?  How can we, instead, help everyone to benefit?

Part 3. The Passover Symbols: Never Again.

Narrator: Passover is a ritual of celebration of those who struggle against oppression, contrition for those who are oppressed while we are free, and rededication to work for freedom and justice for all.  Throughout history, oppressors have attempted to reduce their victims to a condition of helplessness and hopelessness.  Yet time and again, oppressed peoples have taken advantage of whatever opportunities their circumstances allowed to create lives and cultures that resisted their oppressors and ennobled them.  We see that in the story of the enslaved Hebrews in Egypt.  We also see it in the song “Go Down Moses” that exemplifies the culture of liberation that was created by enslaved African-Americans.

In the same vein, Jews during the Nazi Holocaust of World War II persisted in creating worthwhile lives and cultural dignity even as they were being enslaved and annihilated.  In honor of those Jews and all persecuted peoples, we will sing the Yiddish song “Zog Nit Keynmol,” which translates as “Never say…,” as in “Never say die” or “Never give up.” The song was written in 1943 following the massacre of Jews by the German army in the Warsaw Ghetto.  It is a song of hope that defies the odds.       

Sing:  Zog Nit Keyn Mol.

Zog nit keyn mol, as du geyst dem letsn veg,

himlen blayene farshtein bloye teg.

Kumen vet nokh undzer oysgebente sho,

s’vet a poyk ton undzer trot: mir zayen do!

 

Never say this is the final road for you,

Though leaden skies may cover over days of blue.

As the hour that we longed for is so near,

Our step beats out the message: we are here!

 

This song was written with our blood and not with lead,

It’s not a little tune that birds sent overhead.

This song a people sang amid collapsing walls,

With pistols in hand, they heeded the call.

Therefore, never say the road now ends for you,

Though leaden skies may cover over days of blue.

As the hour that we longed for is so near,

Our step beats out the message: we are here!

Narrator: You have plates on your table that contain various culinary symbols of Passover.  The Hebrews worshipped their God with ritual animal and vegetable sacrifices burned on a sacred altar so it is no surprise that the symbols are food.  In the traditional Haggadah, they symbolize the suffering of only the Hebrews.  In our Haggadah, they represent the suffering of both the Egyptians and the Hebrews.  They also represent a commitment to “Never say die” no matter how dire the circumstances, and to saying that “Never again” shall we allow such horrible things to happen to people if we can stop them.

Reader #20: The bitter herb or maror represents the bitterness and hardship of the Hebrews and the Egyptians under the cruel rule of the Pharaoh.  Let us say “Never again.”

Reader #21:  The lamb shank bone or z’roa represents the first-born Hebrew children killed by the Pharaoh and the first-born Egyptian children killed by God, all of whom were sacrificial lambs in the Passover power struggle.  Let us say “Never again.”

Reader #22:  The karpas or celery dipped in salt water represents the resolve of Hebrews and Egyptians to sustain themselves despite their tears for their murdered children.  Let us vow to “Never say die.”

Reader #23:  The egg or beytso represents new born Hebrew children, Egyptian children and children of peoples everywhere who are the hope of us all for the future.  Let us vow to “Never say die.”

Reader #24: The matzo, an unleavened bread suitable for people on the run, represents the creativity of the Hebrews and other oppressed people who are able to adapt to difficult circumstances in their struggle for liberty and justice.  Let us vow to “Never say die.”

Narrator:  Let us drink the third glass of wine in honor of those who never say die in the face of oppression, and as our commitment to saying “Never again” to oppression.

Suggested Discussion Questions: The more things change, the more they stay the same?

It has been said that if you are ever called upon to give a talk about a time and a place about which you know nothing, all you have to do is say that it was a time of trouble and a time of change, the old order was receding but a new order was not yet in place, liberals were pushing for greater freedom and equality but were fighting among themselves, and conservatives were waging campaigns of fear and hate against the liberal reforms and the liberals making them.  Oh, and the sun rose every day.  Because that is the way of the world.  And that is a main theme of the Bible as a whole and the Passover story in particular.  There is always a crisis.  But things can get better in the long run if we stick with our values and commitments.

We are today in the midst of a difficult situation in the United States and it feels to many as though there may be no way out.  But in the course of the twentieth century, our parents and grandparents in this country made their way through the Great Depression, World War II, McCarthyism, and the Korean War.  Many of us in the elder generation made our way through the era of the Vietnam War, the assassinations of the Kennedy brothers and Martin Luther King, Jr. and the mass urban riots that seemed would never end.  But they did.  How did people get through those crises?   What might we learn from them?

Part 4. The Moral of the Passover Story: What is to be done?

Narrator: Passover is a founding holiday of the Jewish people.  According to the story, a ragged bunch of Hebrews came out of Egypt and gained their liberation from what was then the mightiest power in the Middle East.  These Hebrews then supposedly wandered for some forty years in the desert, and eventually conquered the territory we call Palestine to establish the first state of Israel.  Over the course of the next millennium, these Israelites developed a way of life and a religion that we can recognize as Jewish and that marks the beginning of the Jewish people.  Even though the Passover story is almost certainly a fable, it is the beginning of a long history that leads to us and is part of us.

Reader #25: Passover is, however, a difficult holiday.  Part of the difficulty is that we have to sit through a lengthy ceremony before we can eat dinner.  But it is also difficult because the story is full of contradictions and raises many questions that cannot be definitively answered.

The Passover story forces us, for example, to question at what price to others we would gain or protect our own freedom.  Was the torture of the Egyptian people a legitimate means to gain the freedom of the Hebrews from the Pharaoh who, after all, tyrannized over the Egyptians as well as the Hebrews?  Today, we must similarly ask whether it is legitimate to accept as “collateral damage” the deaths of innocent civilians who have been bombed in the course of attacking terrorists that threaten the United States?

Reader #26: The Passover story also reminds us that it is all too easy to pass over from being one of the oppressed to being an oppressor, as the Hebrews did when they enslaved and exterminated other peoples after gaining their own freedom.  Today, we must similarly ask if it is legitimate to invade other countries ostensibly to liberate those peoples from oppression while actually protecting our own interests?

Finally, the Passover story reminds us that it is all too easy to pass over from defending oneself against racism and ethnocentrism to practicing racism and ethnocentrism against others, as the Hebrews did in their conquest of Palestine, and as too many Israeli and American Jews are doing today in their treatment of Palestinians and other Muslims.  How can we avoid doing unto others what we would not have them do unto us?

Narrator:  These are vexing questions.  But then being vexed by endless questions and quandaries seems to be part of what it means to be a Jew.  And, so, it is not surprising that the moral of the Passover story seems itself to be a question: What can we do to end oppression in the world, so that we can finally say “Never again” and mean it?  That we can someday answer this question is a hope with which we live.

Towards that end, let us sing, or recite if we are too hungry to sing, the Hebrew song “Bashana Haba’ah” which translates as “In the year that will be…,” meaning that when all is well, this is how it will be.  It is a song of hope that will hopefully become for our descendants a self-fulfilled prophecy.

Sing: Bashana Haba’ah.                            

Bashana haba’ah.

Neishev al hamirpeset

V’nispor tziporim nod’dot.

Od tir’eh, od tir’eh,

Kama tov yihiyeh,

Bashana bashana bab’ah.

In the year that will be,

We’ll sit on the porch

and count the migrating birds.

Children on vacation

Will play tag

Between the house and fields.

You will see, you will see

How good it will be

In the year that will be.

In the year that will be,

We will spread out our hands

Towards the radiant light.

A white heron

Like a light will spread her wings

And within them the sun will rise.  Refrain.

Narrator: Let us drink the fourth glass of wine to a world without oppression.  And then let’s eat.

 

Bibliographical Note:  References and support for the historical statements in this Haggadah can be found in The Sacred Chain: The History of the Jews by Norman Cantor (HarperCollins, 1994), particularly Chapters One through Three.  Also, see the Books of Exodus, Numbers and Deuteronomy in the BibleBrief discussions of secular Judaism and Jewish history are contained in two short essays entitled “On Being Secular Jewish. What can that possibly mean?” and “An Unorthodox View of Jewish History: Why are Jews still here at all and why aren’t there more of us?” which can be found on the blog of Burton Weltman at historyaschoice.wordpress.com

March, 2020

Laura Ingalls Wilder’s “Little House in the Big Woods.” Reactionary Intent/Progressive Effect. Context is Subtext/Subtext controls Content.

Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House in the Big Woods.

Reactionary Intent/Progressive Effect.

Context is Subtext/Subtext controls Content.

 

Burton Weltman

 

Politics in the Big Woods: Innocent Escapism or Calculated Indoctrination?

Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder is a semi-autobiographical novel for young readers. It recounts a year in the life of a four-year-old girl named Laura who is growing up on a frontier family farm in northern Wisconsin in 1871.[1]  Written at about a fourth grade reading level, the book was the first of Wilder’s Little House books that portray the maturation of Laura from early childhood to married adult, along with her siblings and her Pa and Ma.

Little House in the Big Woods (hereafter Big Woods) is told from Laura’s perspective as she observes and participates with her Ma and Pa in performing the various tasks necessary for the family’s survival, and she comes to better understand her parents.  Pa is a self-styled rugged individualist who wants to get away from other people so that he can live however he wants, and he repeatedly moves the family from one frontier area to another toward this end.

People, however, keep catching up with Pa as frontier areas become increasingly settled, and it generally turns out that he needs these people to help him anyway.  Ma is from “the East” and is more sociable and collaborative than Pa.  Both are warm and devoted parents who make their children feel loved and safe.  Starting with Big Woods, the Little House books describe in detail the ways and means of the family’s survival as the peripatetic Pa moved his family around from place to place during the late 1800’s.

First published in 1932, Big Woods was such a big success that Wilder followed it up with eight additional Little House books during the 1930’s and early 1940’s.  The books have been continuously in-print since then, with some sixty million copies sold.  Going on ninety years since the initial publication of Big Woods, the Little House books have remained “immensely popular with generations of readers” to the present day.[2]  The books were also the basis of a popular weekly television program that was produced during the 1970’s and early 1980’s, and that continues in on-air syndication to the present day.[3]

Although the Little House books have been almost unanimously popular, there has been considerable controversy about the message they convey to readers.  While most commentators regard the books as merely warm-hearted family drama with an almost cotton candy sweetness,  others contend that the candy coating of the books covers seductively conservative political messaging.  These critics claim that while the stories are not overtly political, they covertly convey right-wing ideology through the thoughts and actions of the characters.  The books, they complain, imbue naïve young readers with the conservative political views of Wilder and her daughter Rose Lane, who ghost co-authored the later books.

Wilder and Lane were, in fact, archconservatives.  They were both adherents of libertarianism, a political ideology that opposes government, labor unions, and liberal social reforms generally, and that promotes laissez-faire individualism and the idea of the self-made person.  Lane was a colleague of the libertarian icon Ayn Rand, and is considered one of the founders of libertarianism in America.  Critics of the Little House books claim that Wilder and Lane inserted libertarian messaging into the books as a form of insidious indoctrination of young readers.[4]

In the debate about the messaging of the Little House books, interpretations tend to cluster around the two extremes of either celebrating the stories as innocently idealized portraits of a bygone way of life or condemning the books as insidious inculcation of right-wing ideology.

Wendy McClure, who has written extensively about the Little House books, is an exemplar of the former view.  She claims that “The Little House world is at once as familiar as the breakfast table and as remote as the planets in Star Wars.”  Young readers can identify with Laura and her family, she contends, but still understand that the events in the books take place long ago and far away, and that the characters’ thoughts and actions are not directly applicable to today’s world.

McClure exclaims that when she was a child, “I wanted to be in Laura World” and do all of the things Laura did in the books.  After reading about Laura doing chores, she claims that she even “wanted to do chores because of the books.”  For McClure, the books were a way to escape the banality of her everyday life, portraying a romantic past that was long gone but nice to imagine.  That is, as long she didn’t actually have to face a bear or undertake the really hard tasks that Laura did in the books.  And, McClure concludes, this innocent escapism is the main point and the enduring attraction of the books.[5]

Christine Woodside, who has also written extensively about Wilder and Lane, exemplifies the critical view of the books.  “How ‘Little House on the Prairie’ built Modern Conservatism” is the title of a recent article by Woodside, and that title pretty much summarizes her conclusions about the Little House books.  Woodside claims that the books were conceived as “anti-New Deal parables,” “extolling free-market economics,” and conveying “a clear and consistent message about the virtues of rugged individualism.”  She contends that the ethos of egoistic libertarianism permeates the books, and that generations of American children have had their political views molded and warped by the books, much to the detriment of them and the country.[6]

So, are the Little House books innocent escapism, calculated indoctrination, or maybe something else?  I think that they are something else, and that is the main theme of this essay.  I think the Little House books, and Big Woods in particular, convey a political message, but it is not the conservative message that Wilder may have intended or that Woodside and other critics detect.  I do not think that young readers will identify with the rugged individualism in the book.

To the contrary, I think that readers are more likely to identify with the cooperation and communitarianism in the book, and take away a progressive pro-social message.  It is an ironic outcome.  In making this argument, I will contrast the political messaging of Big Woods with that of Walt Disney’s Three Little Pigs, a contemporaneously published story that clearly and quite effectively promotes right-wing libertarian ideas to young readers.

Libertarian Politics in the Little House: Context is Subtext.

In deciphering the message of Big Woods, the question is not what Wilder wanted to convey but how the book is likely to strike young readers.  The answer, I think, is that whatever conservative intentions Wilder might have had, the book conveys a socially progressive message.  And I think, in this regard, that the setup and the context of the book control its message.

It is a commonplace that a story’s effect is often different than an author’s intent, and that “What may be more important than what the story is about is the way in which it is shaped.”[7]  The narrative structure and the context of a story can determine the moral of the story, irrespective of its subject matter and its author’s political orientation.[8]  In this view, context is subtext and subtext can control content, as I think it does with Big Woods.[9]

In order for a novel to serve as a vehicle for indoctrinating readers, the readers should be able to identify with the characters whose thoughts and actions are supposed to convey the message readers are intended to adopt.  In Big Woods, the character who most represents the rugged individualism that libertarians promote is Pa.  Although little Laura adores and idolizes her Pa, it is Laura, and not Pa, with whom young readers almost invariably identify.  And Laura is in no way a rugged individualist.

In turn, for a novel to serve as a vehicle of indoctrination, readers should be able to identify with the situation in the story – the context and the setting – as comparable to their own.  It is that which makes plausible the application of the thoughts and actions of the book’s characters to the readers’ own situation.  In Big Woods, the story’s setting on a frontier farm could plausibly be identified as a libertarian setting.  A frontier farm is not, however, a setting that most readers will identify with their own situations.  The situation in the book with which most readers will identify is that of a child growing up in a loving family living in difficult circumstances.  This is not a situation that conveys a libertarian message.  In fact, it is my contention that the setting conveys a pro-social message.

The opening sentence and the first two pages of the book essentially confirm this point.  They tell readers that the story is about a time and place with which readers cannot identify, but it is about a little girl with whom they can.  The first sentence goes: “Once upon a time, sixty years ago, a little girl lived in the Big Woods of Wisconsin, in a little gray house made of logs.”[10]

“Once upon a time” is a classic fairy tale opening that serves to set the unreality of the story apart from the reality of its readers.  That the story takes place a long time ago and far away from its intended readers further emphasizes the difference between the time and place of the story and its readers’ lives.  The story tells readers right off that they will not be readily able to identify with life on the frontier family farm where the book takes place.

At the same time, the opening sentence and the next two pages tell readers that the story is a about a child who lives in a precarious place.  The word “little” is used twice in the opening sentence and repeatedly throughout the book to highlight the insecurity that the girl feels, living in the midst of woods whose overwhelming size and stature the girl emphasizes by denominating them in capital letters as the “Big Woods.”  Around her, she says, there were “no houses,’ “no people,” and no living things except for “wolves…and bears and huge wild cats.”[11]

The woods are a scary place to a little child.  There is the threat of wolves and bears but, more important, there is the threat of starvation in the woods if the family does not produce and preserve enough food to last through the winter.  Like hapless characters in old time fairy tales, Laura and her family could get lost in the woods and never come out alive.  It is Laura’s feelings of insecurity and how she deals with them that young readers can identify with themselves.  That is something to which almost all kids can relate.  And that fear is not a libertarian message either.

In portraying a frontier farm family, Wilder may have thought she was describing a situation that illustrated libertarian ideals in a way that would be attractive to young readers.  What is arguably libertarian about the situation is that there is very little government of any sort in the book, and that Laura’s family seemed to get along just fine without it.  In turn, Pa was a rugged individualist who went into the woods and carved out a farm and a life for his family.

Wilder may have hoped that her young readers would see that things went well for Laura’s family in the 1870’s without government interference, and conclude that rugged individuals could make a better world for themselves and their families if only they were allowed to do what they wanted.  But this is a message that readers would get only if they could identify with the circumstances of Laura’s family and with her Pa’s individualism.  If that was Wilder’s intention, I think she failed.

There is a sharp contrast between the historical context in which the book is set and the historical context in which the book has been read.  This contrast is one of the keys to deciphering the message that the book delivers to readers.  The historical context of the events in Big Woods is the American frontier of the early 1870’s.  The historical context in which the book was written and first read was modern urban America in the 1930’s.

Most Americans in the 1870’s lived in rural areas, with some living on what could be described as a frontier.  Government in the 1870’s played a relatively small role in the daily lives of most rural people, especially on the frontier.  Government did, however, play a big role in the formation and overall functioning of rural society.  It was government, for example, that pushed Native Americans off their land so that there was an expanding frontier on which people like Pa could settle.  And it was government that coordinated and subsidized transportation networks so that farmers like Pa could get their products to urban markets and get necessities from them.

Since these government activities did not affect daily life, they don’t appear in Big Woods, which is a book about daily lifeBut that doesn’t mean government wasn’t important to frontier farmers, and doesn’t necessarily give the book an antigovernment emphasis.  In any case, even if in the context of frontier America in 1871, the libertarian ideal of rugged individualism may have had some superficial plausibility, albeit it never was a reality and never could have been, even that superficial plausibility was gone by the 1930’s.

By the 1930’s, when Big Woods was published, most Americans lived in urban areas and there was no frontier.  Most young readers of the book from that time until now have had no connection with farming, let alone frontier farming.  And by the 1930’s, most people, rural as well as urban, relied on government services of all sorts in their daily lives.  From schools to roads to garbage collection to almost every aspect of their lives, readers of Big Woods have invariably been enmeshed in government services and regulations.  The book is, therefore, about a situation that is alien to its readers, and very few readers could realistically see themselves as living in the circumstances described in the book or identify those circumstances with their own.

At the same time, the rugged individualism that is ostensibly exemplified by some of the book’s characters could not a serve as a plausible role model for the book’s readers.  Pa is a sympathetic and even to some extent a heroic character, but he is not a plausible role model.  It is Laura, the child who wants to understand what is going on around her and to join in the family’s work, who is the role model for young readers.  And that does not convey a libertarian message.

Pro-Social Politics in the Little House: Subtext controls Content.

Based on analyzing the context of the book and its setting, my conclusion is that Big Woods does not effectively convey to young readers a conservative libertarian message.  I contend that the book has, instead, the contrary effect of promoting a progressive cooperative message.  The key to this contention is the contrast between the individualistic ideology promoted by libertarians and the pro-social thoughts and actions of Laura and her family in Big Woods.

Although Pa seems to see himself as some kind of rugged macho individualist, the book portrays him as a full and willing participant in the intensely cooperative way of life both within Laura’s family and within the local community.  Everyone in the book is primarily engaged in helping everyone else and being helped by them, including Pa.  For example, the whole community of farmers comes together to help each other harvest their wheat in the autumn, which an individual farmer would be hard-pressed to do alone.  Pa is all-in on that cooperation.[12]

It is also significant, I think, that collaborative Ma plays a role in the book at least equal to that of ruggedly individualistic Pa.  In an era and area of the country that was without ice boxes, let alone refrigerators, Ma’s job of properly preserving food for the winter, most of which she had herself grown, was critical to the family’s survival.  It is the most important task in the family.  The fact that Ma plays such a prominent role, and that the protagonist of the story is a girl who understands, explains to us readers, and participates in the intricate tasks of family survival, makes the book what could be called a proto-feminist story.

The predominant ethos in the book is, therefore, cooperative, and not individualistic.  Although a frontier setting could theoretically provide a context in which the idea of individualism might seem plausible, the story highlights cooperation instead.  Laura’s family operated as a cooperative unit, had cooperative relations with neighboring farmers that were crucial to getting important tasks done, maintained connections with a nearby town that were critical to getting many of the family’s necessities and selling the family’s produce, and cultivated social relations with neighbors.  Laura recounts joyfully the visits from extended family members and friends, the family’s weekly attendance at a local church, and the family’s going to town.[13]

In highlighting cooperation on the frontier, Big Woods mirrors historical reality, the truth of the frontier, regardless of Wilder’s ideological inclinations.  Frontier settlements were built by settlers, with the emphasis on the plural.  There were very few hermitic mountain men, and almost none of them had families.  While the idea of living in a wilderness without government is something about which people, both young and old, might like to fantasize, it was never a reality and is not something that even most fourth graders would think is a realistic option.

The image of the frontier as a place of rugged individualism was largely a literary fantasy created by writers who had never been there.  It was a fantasy that had been pretty much exploded by the time Wilder wrote her books.  It survives today only among right-wing anti-government fanatics who live in so-called Red States that are, in fact, dependent for survival on largess from the federal government that is paid for by taxpayers in the urbanized Blue States.

Small family farms are, of course, not a fantasy.  They existed when Big Woods was written in the 1930’s and still exist today, but they have always been closely tied to urban markets and urban culture.  Starting in the 1890’s, for example, farmers were able to order almost anything they wanted from the Sears Catalog and have it delivered to wherever they lived.  Being connected to the wider world is what historically has made rural life possible and tolerable.  Although there have periodically been back-to-the-land movements in favor of living on small farms, those movements have not exemplified libertarian ideology or rugged individualism.

During the Great Depression of the 1930’s, for example, the federal government encouraged unemployed urban workers to settle on small farms as a means of family subsistence.  But these farms were not like the one Wilder portrays in her book.  They were not ruggedly individualistic enterprises.  They were, instead, organized and financially supported by the government, and the farmers were organized into cooperatives for mutual support.  Conservatives at the time derided these efforts as unAmerican socialism.

During the 1960’s, countercultural radicals encouraged young people to get back to the land as a form of environmental authenticity.  But these, too, were cooperative efforts at what was considered an anarchistic form of socialism.  And they were explicitly opposed to the free-market capitalism championed by libertarians.  These, too, were derided by conservatives.

Finally, since the 1990’s, environmental activists have encouraged people to get back to the land to promote organic and environmentally friendly farming methods.  But, again, these have mostly been cooperative enterprises and explicitly pro-social endeavors that are opposed to egoistic individualism and free-market capitalism.  And they have been derided by conservatives.

In sum, insofar as Big Woods makes family farming look attractive, it is ironically more likely to encourage readers toward pro-social liberalism rather than right-wing libertarianism.

A Strangely Popular Book.

The irony of Big Woods extends beyond its message because the book also seems a peculiar candidate for popularity among young readers.  It is not thrilling.  There is little action, no real conflict, and not much suspense.  There are no young heroes, no children in distress, and no battles.  It is not the stuff of which most popular fourth-graders’ reading is generally made.

Big Woods is a tame book that portrays the mundane challenges of everyday farm life during the 1870’s.  There is little plot in the book.  It merely recounts the tasks the family must undertake during the various seasons of the year, from autumn to autumn.  The story consists of a series of episodes in which the family faces and solves domestic problems.  There is no overarching problem and no plot resolution at the end of the book, merely the beginning of another year.

A distinguishing feature of the book is that it not only tells a story about people living on a farm but also describes with exacting specificity how they lived there.  Big Woods is effectively a how-to-do-it handbook for living on a frontier farm.  Better than a Boy Scout Manual, it describes in detail how a person could build a cabin, slaughter a pig, preserve foods, and do a score of other things necessary for survival.  I believe that one could go into the woods and successfully make one’s way with a few tools and this book.

So, what makes for the continuing popularity of the book?  Some reviewers credit the popularity of the Little House books to “their art, their precision of language and depth of characterization.”[14]  That is, they are well-written and that is something which fourth graders would be able to appreciate.  Others contend the books’ popularity is based on the warm-hearted domesticity of Laura’s family that gives comfort to young readers.  Young readers caught up in the emotional, physical, and intellectual turmoil of their preteen years can appreciate the comforting quality of the family life in the books.[15]

Still others claim that the rugged individualism in the books has a subliminal appeal to rebellious pre-teens seeking some independence from their parents, teachers, and social controls generally, and for whom an escape to the woods would seem attractive.  This is essentially the theme of critics such as Christine Woodside who claim that the rebellious instincts of preteens are then channeled by the books in a right-wing political direction.[16]

In the view of these critics, the appeal of Big Woods to preteens would be of essentially the same sort that makes Ayn Rand’s books popular among teenagers. Teenagers, even more than preteens, almost invariably struggle to assert themselves against institutional conformity and to develop their own individual identities.  It is a stage of social and psychological development when Rand’s libertarian ideas look good to many high school seniors and college freshmen.  Fortunately, it is a stage that quickly passes with most of them.

In any case, there is a big difference between the contexts of Wilder’s and Rand’s books, and I think that makes a big difference in their effect on readers.  Rand’s books are set within modern-day urban industrial society, and deal with individuals battling against big corporate and big governmental institutions.  Although Rand’s characters and plots are incredible, they at least touch on a present-day reality with which readers can identify.  This realistic context helps make them effective as vehicles of indoctrination, at least for the short run with most readers.

Wilder’s books, however, are set in a time and place that have no connection with present-day reality, and the meanings and messages of her books are mediated by the historical context in which her audience reads them.  The books are set in a long-gone time and place with which few readers can identify.  As such, I don’t think they can work as an outlet for preteen rebelliousness, and so that can’t be a significant reason for their popularity.

In sum, I don’t think the popularity of Big Woods can be satisfactorily explained by either the high quality of the writing of the book, the comforting domesticity of the book’s setting, or the rebellious individualism of some of the book’s characters.  I think there are at least two other reasons for the popularity of Big Woods.  The first is the handbook quality of the book, which enables readers to gain a vicarious competency in the skills described therein, and the second is the way in which the book fits in with the conventional elementary school social studies curriculum.  These are not very exciting reasons, but I think they explain a lot.

Coping through Cooperation: Vicarious Competency.

Wilder’s childhood as a frontier farmgirl is the stuff of which Big Woods is made, and the book portrays her childhood in an alien old world to young readers in the modern new world.  The book has a feeling of authenticity because Wilder had lived in both worlds and could convincingly convey life in the old to kids in the new.  It is like a story of life on Mars told by a Martian.  She could make it feel like the real deal.

Life in the big woods is precarious, and it is how Laura deals with it that I think is a main reason for the book’s popularity.  In showing how Laura and her family subsist in the woods, Wilder helps young readers develop what could be called a vicarious competency.  The book is about learning to cope in a precarious environment that as a child you know little about, in a setting in which you are small and seemingly insignificant, but in which you can learn to survive if you work with others.  That is for most readers, I think, the moral and message of the book and the main reason for its popularity.

The story opens in the autumn and moves through the seasons, ending with the coming of the next autumn.  There are thirteen chapters.  In about half of the book’s chapters Pa’s skills are highlighted, in the other half Ma’s are emphasized.  The first chapter of the book sets the tone and the agenda for the rest.  Having established the precariousness of the little girl’s existence, something that is repeatedly emphasized throughout the book, Wilder moves into the main subject of the first chapter, which is getting the family ready for winter.

Pa hunts, fishes, and preserves his catch.  He nails together a makeshift outdoor oven to cure meat.  Ma gathers in their fruits and vegetables, and preserves them.  Significantly, Ma takes the lead in most of food preparation and preservation.  Also, significantly, they use salt and nails that they bought in a nearby town where Pa also sold animal pelts to get money to buy the things, thereby pointing out the family’s dependence on the wider world for their survival.

The efficiency and efficacy of the family’s coping methods are demonstrated by the way the family uses everything for a purpose.  They waste not in order, hopefully, to want not.  They slaughter a pig, for example, and use the whole of the animal.  They cure the meat, make lard out of the fat, use the skin for clothing, and make a ball by blowing up the pig’s bladder.  This how-to-do-it specificity highlights the differences between the old and new worlds. Few of Wilder’s readers would be able to identify with making a ball out of a pig’s bladder.  But they would find it interesting and fun to find out how to do it, and to see that it is something they could do if they lived in Laura’s world.  Young readers gain a form of vicarious competency by seeing how to do things in Laura’s world, and get some reassurance that they might be similarly able to cope in their own world.

It is also fun to imagine yourself making the things and performing the tasks that Wilder describes so clearly in what could almost be a set of farming-for-dummies instructions.  It gives you a sense of confidence that you could do things that you would never have thought you could do.  Not that you would ever want to slaughter a pig or skin a deer.  But with this book in hand, you could.  And I think that is a big part of the book’s popularity.

The underlying message conveyed to young readers is that the world is not such a bewildering place that it can’t be coped with, and that coping is conceivable in even the most difficult situations.  That the protagonist is a girl is one of the reasons for the book’s popularity among girls.  But it is also popular among boys. It emphasizes that kids can understand and do things.  Laura can understand them, and the reader can, too.  Laura can do things, and so can the reader.  

Moreover, you don’t have to try to cope with the world by yourself.  Coping is a cooperative effort.  All members of a family, even kids, can make a contribution, and families can work with neighbors to make things work.  The message is just the opposite of the libertarian go-it-alone-and-by-yourself credo.  Libertarian individualism is, in fact, a scary proposition for most kids who can feel overwhelmed by the size and complexity of things.  Competency and cooperation are the messages of the book and that, I think, is a key reason for the book’s popularity.

Expanding Horizons: It takes a Family, a Village, a State, a Country, a World.

A second key reason for the book’s popularity is that it fits in well with the focus of the social studies curricula adopted by most elementary schools.  The book reinforces the emphasis on cooperation that has been a main theme of the elementary school curriculum, especially in social studies, for over one hundred years.

During the early twentieth century, self-styled progressive educators developed new methods of creative and cooperative teaching and learning that they hoped would replace the rote and competitive learning methods that had predominated in public schools since their initial development in the 1840’s.  The idea of free universal public education had been a revolutionary idea in the mid-nineteenth century. It was a response to the rapid urbanization of the country, and the influx into the cities of people from rural areas of the United States and foreign countries.

The goal was to teach the children of these people the literacy skills and the orderly habits that it was thought necessary for people to productively live and work in a city.  It was a massive task getting enough teachers and schools to teach such large numbers of students, and a major challenge developing workable methods and materials to teach these new students.

The solution to these problems was in the methods of the modern factory.  The mid-nineteenth century was when the industrial revolution began in America, and when assembly-line factories that produced large quantities of standardized goods began to replace the workshops in which craftsmen produced individual hand-made goods.  Given the success of the factory model in the mass production of goods, the factory model was adopted for the mass production of educated young people.  Toward this end, educators quickly developed standardized methods of rote teaching and learning, standardized textbooks of facts and moral maxims to be recited, and standardized tests of remembered facts. The method was called common schooling because it was both democratic for the common people and because everyone learned the same things.

Grade levels were invented, and learning requirements were broken up into standardized packages of information and skills to be learned at each grade level.  Students had to pass the tests for each grade level in order to move up to the next grade.  Schools became assembly lines in which students were processed from grade to grade as they were manufactured into educated and well-behaved children.  Competition was encouraged among students as to who could best remember the required facts and moral maxims, and who could be best behaved.  It was an education intended to produce orderly, well-behaved assembly-line factory workers.

The growth of the public schools during the nineteenth century was remarkable.  Mass production methods proved excellent for quickly getting a school system up and running, and for making Americans the most literate population in the world at that time.  But beyond basic literacy and numeracy, the quality of the education in the public schools was poor.  And the psychological toll on students being processed in this way was significant.  It was not a system geared toward creative and critical thinking and, as such, did not prepare young people for the innovative post-industrial society that was developing at the turn of the twentieth century.

Educational reformers at the turn of the twentieth century came up with several different ideas of how better to teach students.[17]   Progressivism was the name of a method developed by John Dewey and other similarly-minded educators.  Progressives advocated an interdisciplinary school curriculum, and a teaching methodology that promoted critical thinking.  Instead of the rote learning of separate subjects, they emphasized solving real-life problems using every subject as it was relevant to the problem.  They claimed that this is the way knowledge is used in the real world, so it is the best way to learn.  And instead of competition, progressives emphasized cooperation as a teaching method, an ethical practice, and a practical skill for the real world.

Progressives sought to break away from the conformity and competition of common schooling, but in the direction of individuality not individualism.  Instead of the individualism promoted by conservatives in which everyone was for themselves and against everyone else, progressives promoted individuality in which everyone was with and for others in their own individual way.  Progressives moved away from the moralistic maxims of common schooling – mainly “thou shalt nots” – to a cooperative ethos based around the Golden Rule of treating each other with respect.  In the context of our largely collectivist modern society, they deemed an ethics of cooperation to be not only more humane, but also more practical than the self-centered moralism of common schooling.

Progressivism was also the name of a liberal political movement in the early twentieth century to which most of these educators belonged.[18]  They believed that progressive educational methods would lead children to become progressive adults who would work toward a more progressive society.  Progressives promoted liberalism in its original definition as being open-minded and open-handed, tolerant and generous, doing things with and for others, as opposed to the emphasis in libertarianism on doing everything by and for oneself.  Cooperation was the key.

Not surprisingly, conservatives have perennially been opposed to the progressives’ political and educational ideas.  And although progressive methods have been widely taught in teacher preparation programs over the last one hundred years, conservatives have been largely successful in keeping secondary school curricula and methods in line with common schooling.  Progressive methods have, however, been largely adopted in the lower grades of the public schools.

Preschools, kindergartens, and the first four grades of elementary school have almost universally emphasized creativity and cooperation as major behavioral and intellectual themes in their curricula.  Given the dire circumstances of many public schools – overcrowded classrooms, inadequately trained and poorly paid teachers, among other things – these themes are often more honored in the breach.  The goal, however, has been to teach students to express themselves while sharing and cooperating with each other.  Individuality through collegiality.

Students are also taught about current and past examples of people cooperating with each other.  Science education generally includes learning about the scientific method in which progress has historically been made through scientists contributing to and critiquing each other’s work, and in which a scientist’s result is not accepted as valid unless and until it has been publicly disclosed so that others can replicate the methods and the results of the scientist.  Collegiality is the key.

Elementary school social studies has been largely based on an “Expanding Horizons” curriculum that starts by focusing on the family, and then moves outward to the neighborhood, the city, the state, the country, and the world.  Cooperation among people, social groups, and governmental entities make up the core of the curriculum.  Big Woods, with its focus on cooperation within the family and the local community, fits right in with this progressive curriculum.  I think the popularity of the book stems in large part from teachers feeling comfortable in assigning it to their students, and from the comfort and familiarity children feel with the book’s message.

Three Little Pigs in the Big Woods: A Libertarian’s Ideal.

Whatever Wilder’s intentions might have been, Big Woods does not promote libertarianism.  For a brilliant attempt to indoctrinate young people in right-wing individualist ideology, Walt Disney’s The Three Little Pigs provides a prime example.  In the spring of 1933, a few months after the publication of Big Woods, Walt Disney released an animated cartoon called The Three Little Pigs that was soon published as a children’s book of the same name.  The cartoon and the book were instant classics that have been in syndication and in print ever since.[19]

The Three Little Pigs was a traditional European folk tale that was adapted by Disney for American audiences in the 1930’s.  In Disney’s hands, the story became a vehicle for indoctrinating children with right-wing political ideas, and it offers a significant contrast with the story in Big Woods.  A summary of Disney’s story is:

Once upon a time, there were three little pigs.  The pigs, having apparently reached adolescence, were forced by their mother to leave home and make their own way in the world.  So, each of them went off by himself to build a house in the woods. Two of the pigs were foolish and lazy, and they built houses of straw and sticks respectively.  The third pig was wise and hardworking, so he built a house of bricks.  A big, bad wolf came along and easily destroyed the houses of the two foolish pigs.  They barely escaped with their lives before he could eat them.  The wolf could not destroy the brick house, however, so he tried to trick the third pig into coming outside.  But the wise pig was not fooled.  Instead, he tricked the wolf into coming down the chimney of the house, at which point the wolf fell into a pot of boiling water and ran away with a scorched rear end.

Disney was one of the greatest storytellers of all time.  He was also not shy about the fact that he wanted to use his stories to teach children what he considered to be proper moral values.  So, like all Disney stories, The Three Little Pigs is full of lessons that we can glean from the setup of the story, the nature of the story’s characters, and the thoughts and actions of the characters.

The first lesson is that in this world it’s every pig for himself.  The fatherless pigs (no telling where or what happened to him) are abandoned by their mother when they were still little (hence the name of the story).  Significantly, the pig brothers did not work together to build a house but went off individually.  The moral is that you are on your own in this world.  You’ve got to take care of yourself first and foremost.  You cannot rely on anyone, not even your mother.  And this message of extreme self-reliance is, not coincidentally, the libertarian credo.

A second lesson of the story is that difference is dangerous, and you cannot trust anyone who is not like you.  The sympathetic characters are all pinkish pigs.  The evil character is a black wolf.  In the context of the story, the pigs are right to be afraid of an animal that is not like them.  If a story puts together carnivorous animals and their natural prey, then the moral of the story cannot be interspecies harmony.  Or interracial harmony when the carnivorous animal represents black people and the prey represents white people.  Setting up the story in this way once again promotes an individualist, everyone-for-himself moral, and with a racist twist.

The racial implications of Disney’s story are seemingly no accident, especially when you consider that most adolescent pigs are not pinkish and most wolves are not black.  Disney went out of his way to set things up like this.  In any case, the racism reflects the dramatic imagery of America in the 1930’s.  During the 1930’s, if you wanted to make something scary for mainstream, pinkish American audiences, you made it big and black.  Once again, the moral is that you cannot trust anyone, especially those who are different.

In conveying his messages, Disney takes advantage of the natural fears of little children who are facing a big world full of big people, and who are not able to understand much of what goes on or how they might make their way and defend themselves.  Disney expects little kids to identify with the anthropomorphic little pigs, and understand that they must look out for number-one first and foremost.  The contrast between Disney’s and Wilder’s stories in this regard is enormous.

In Big Woods, little Laura has loving parents to take care of her, siblings with whom she can work and play, and a neighborly community from which she and her family can get help.  Everyone is helping each other.  By contrast, the three little pigs have seemingly been abandoned first by their father and now by their mother.  They won’t cooperate with each other.  And they have been thrown into a community of vicious neighbors.  Each is perilously on his own.  While Disney’s is a story of every pig for himself, Wilder’s is a story of one-for-all-and-all-for-one.  And Wilder’s story conveys a progressive sentiment even if in supposedly libertarian clothing.

Bigotry in the Big Woods.

Big Woods says virtually nothing about the Native Americans in the 1870’s who until very recently had occupied the land in Wisconsin that Pa and other white people now occupied.  That silence seems to indicate that Wilder viewed the rights of Native Americans and the wrongs done to them as not worth discussing.  It is seemingly evidence of callousness on Wilder’s part.  But it also might indicate that given mainstream attitudes toward Native Americans during the 1930’s, Wilder did not want to write the derogatory things about them that her audience might have expected of her.

Disney’s Three Little Pigs exemplifies the mainstream racial attitudes of white Americans during the 1930’s.  Most were in favor of segregating supposedly dangerous and dissolute minorities, which included blacks, Jews, Asians, and Indians.  Wilder’s portrayal of black people and Native Americans in the Little House books is a mixed bag.  Some of her characters say and do racist things, others don’t.  On the whole, it is not a good picture.[20]  But her attitudes do not come close to Disney’s racism, and her characters’ attitudes do not reflect the vicious racism that was common during the 1870’s when her book takes place.  Genocide against Indians and almost daily lynching of blacks were the generally accepted theory and practice of that time.

The point is that Big Woods and the other Little House novels may not be as bad on racial matters as they could have been and would have been if they reflected the mainstream opinions of white people in the 1870’s or 1930’s, but they are still not good.  As such, parents, teachers, and readers need to approach the books with a critical mindset as they should any book, but even more so with novels from the past like Big Woods that reflect past prejudices.

Coda: In Search of Lost Time.

When Wilder wrote Big Woods, she was some sixty-years old writing through the eyes of her four-year-old self.  The book has the feel of someone trying to recover her past and make it live again.  Little Laura’s closing words are particularly poignant in this regard as “She thought to herself ‘This is now,’” and concludes with what seems almost a prayer from the author put into the mouth of the little girl that “now is now. It can never be a long time ago.” [21]  Writing this essay as a seventy-five-year-old who tries to remember and relive his past, I can identify with her sentiment.

BW 1/2020

[1] Laura Ingalls Wilder. Little House in the Big Woods. New York: Scholastic Inc, 1960.

[2] Amy Fatzinger. “Learning from Laura Ingalls Wilder.” The Atlantic.  9/9/18.

[3] Maria Russo. “Finding America, Both Read and Blue, in the ‘Little House’ books.”  The New York Times. 2/17/17.

[4] Some critics have, in turn, claimed that the Little House TV show reflected the conservative views of Michael Landon, the star and sometimes writer, director and producer of the show.  Landon was a staunch right-wing Republican, and a friend and fervent supporter of Ronald Reagan when Reagan ran for President during the time Landon was working on the Little House show.  Critics claim that he carried Wilder’s libertarian conservatism forward into the show.

[5] Wendy McClure.  “Why I still love the ‘Little House on the Prairie’ Books.” The Atlantic. 4/8/11.  See also, Amy Fatzinger. “Learning from Laura Ingalls Wilder.” The Atlantic.  9/9/18.  Maria Russo. “Finding America, Both Read and Blue, in the ‘Little House’ books.”  The New York Times. 2/17/17.

[6] Christine Woodside. “How ‘Little House on the Prairie’ built Modern Conservatism.”  See also, Shannon Henry Kleiber.  “Little Lie in the Big Woods.” To the Best of Our Knowledge. 7/10/19.

[7] Peter Hunt.  Criticism, Theory and Children’s Literature. Cambridge, MA, 1991. P.73.

[8] Carol Witherell et al. 1995. “Narrative Landscapes and the Moral Imagination.” in Narrative in Teaching, Learning and Research. Edited by McEwan & K. Egan. New York: Teachers College Press,1995. P.40.

[9] For a discussion of the messaging in children’s books, I have an essay on this blog titled “What to do about the Big Bad Wolf: Narrative Choices and the Moral of a Story.”

[10] Wilder, P.1.

[11] Wilder. Pp.2-3.

[12] Wilder, P.199.

[13] Wilder.  Pp.64, 88, 163, 177.

[14] Elaine Showalter. “At 150, Laura Ingalls Wilder still speaks to readers old and new.” Washington Post. 2/16/17.

[15] Wendy McClure.  “Why I still love the ‘Little House on the Prairie’ Books.” The Atlantic. 4/8/11.

[16] Christine Woodside. “How ‘Little House on the Prairie’ built Modern Conservatism.”

[17] For a discussion of educational reform movements, I have an essay on this blog titled “Struggling to Raise the Norm: Essentialism, Progressivism and the Persistence of Common/Normal Schooling in America.”

[18] See John Dewey. Liberalism and Social Action. New York: P.G. Putnam’s Sons, 1935.

[19] Walt Disney.  “The Three Little Pigs” Pp. 69-84. in Walt Disney’s Classic Storybook. New York: Disney Press., 2001. Pp.69-84.

[20] Maria Russo. “Finding America, Both Read and Blue, in the ‘Little House’ books.”  The New York Times. 2/17/17.

[21] Wilder. P.238.

On Being Secular Jewish. What can that possibly mean?

On Being Secular Jewish.

What can that possibly mean?

Burton Weltman

 

Prologue: Secularism as Judaism/Judaism as Secularism.

The purpose of this essay is to offer briefly some suggestions as to what it means to be secular Jewish.  I identify as secular Jewish, as did my father and mother and their parents before them, and as do my son and daughter and their children.  So, that’s five generations of secular Jewish people in America.  Recent polls show that some two-thirds of people in America who identify as Jewish consider themselves religious to some degree, albeit mostly Reform and not observant of the Kosher and Sabbath regulations.  About one-third identify as secular, and secularism is on the rise.  That is gratifying to those of us who identify as secular.

What is not gratifying is that when asked to describe their Jewishness, most secularists will say that they are non-religious Jews.  That is, they identify their Jewishness in negative terms, as what they aren’t instead of what they are.  It is a weak response and an empty position that characterizes secularism as a lesser form of Judaism and secularists as lesser Jews.  It is a response that is not warranted by Jewish history.  The goal of this essay is to suggest a stronger response that describes secular Judaism in positive terms and contends that the core of Judaism is secular.

A Matter of Language: Jew or Jewish/ Noun or Adjective.

First, let me say that I prefer to use the adjective “Jewish” rather than the noun “Jew,” and to refer to myself as a Jewish person rather than as a Jew.  I think that calling someone a Jew puts the person in a box with a label on it as though that’s all the person is.  In my case, being Jewish is just one of the many ways that I think of myself and describe myself.   It is one of the most important ways, but I am also white, old, American, partly New Jerseyan, partly Chicagoan, and many other things that are important in describing who I am and what I am.

And I don’t think it is healthy to call myself a Jew because it has the effect of implying that I am categorically different from people who are Christian or Muslim or whatever.  As though we have nothing in common.  So, I prefer to refer to myself as a Jewish person as distinguished, for example, from a Christian person, but we are both persons.  In turn, unless other people insist on referring to themselves as Jews, I prefer to refer to them as Jewish people.  It can be awkward and cumbersome to avoid using the noun “Jew,” and I frequently lapse into using it.  But I think it is better to talk about people as being Jewish rather than as Jews.

Being Jewish: Torah and Community – A Jewish Way to the Golden Rule.

There are two main ways that most people seem to think about being Jewish.  One is to see Judaism as a religion that focuses on worshiping God.  The other is to see Judaism as a culture and to focus on Jewish history, literature, and ethics.  This is also called secular Judaism.

There are also two main things that most people seem to think make you Jewish, whether you are religious or cultural.  The first is to see the Torah or Jewish Bible, what Christian people call the Old Testament, as the starting point of Jewishness.  The second is to be part of a Jewish community.

As to the Torah, Jewish people have often been called a people of The Book.  That book is the Torah.  Most religiously Jewish people see the Torah as some kind of sacred text, full of holy rules to be followed and holy heroes to be celebrated.  It is at the center of their Jewishness and the core of their beliefs.  Most culturally Jewish people see the Torah as a book of fictional stories that tell us what the founders of Judaism wanted us to think about when we think about being Jewish.  They don’t treat it as a sacred book, or as a book full of rules to be followed or heroes to be merely celebrated.  It is, instead, a cultural touchstone for people who have lived in many lands and among many different peoples over the last two thousand years, and who have used the Torah as a common cultural reference point.

Compiled around the fifth and fourth centuries BCE from folk tales, legends, and religious traditions that had been passed down orally for many generations, the Torah is from a cultural perspective a bunch of stories about our beginnings as Jewish people much as stories about the Pilgrims are about our beginnings as American people, except that while stories about the Pilgrims may be exaggerated and even full of untruths, the Torah stories are almost completely untrue.  They are about ancestors of the Jewish people who probably never existed and events that never happened, but that still constitute a background for Jewish cultural history.

The characters in the Torah stories are called Hebrews and Israelites. They are not like the Jewish people who composed the Torah, let alone like any Jewish people today.  And their religious and cultural practices were different than those of the people who composed the Torah, and are completely unlike those of Jewish people today.  They are, nonetheless, portrayed in the Torah as doing and saying things that are a foundation of what we are and what we do.  This is a complicated idea – fictional stories about fictional ancestors that contain important ideas about ourselves.  But who said that being Jewish was supposed to be simple?

Whatever some religious people may say, the stories in the Torah cannot be taken as the literal truth, and they seemingly were not intended by the founders of Judaism to be taken as literal truth.  The Torah is full of too many contradictions, too many things whose meaning is not clear, and too many things that are just not acceptable to a decent person.  The people who composed the Torah were not stupid.  They could see these things, and they had to have deliberately put these things in The Book.

So, what does it say about us that our Hebrew and Israelite precursors are portrayed in the Torah in this way?  What are we supposed to think about these things?   The Torah is full of things about which Jewish people have to reflect, and about which they have historically debated with each other.  For culturally Jewish people, the Torah mainly raises questions for debate rather than provides answers.  And, that debating is seemingly what the founders intended to promote when they composed the Torah, and it is one of the keys to being Jewish.

The Torah opens, for example, with two different creation stories, one right after the other in the Book of Genesis.  You cannot say which one is literally true, so you just have to try to figure out why the founders of Judaism put these inconsistent stories in their book.

Nor can you follow many of the rules in the Torah.  For example, the Torah says that disobedient children should be stoned to death.  That is not something we can accept, nor does it seem that the founders expected us to.

Likewise, no one practices the religion described in the Torah anymore, not even the most religious Jewish people.  The religion in the Torah is based on sacrificing animals and vegetables to God on an altar in a temple.  No one does that anymore, and they would be considered silly if they did.

Finally, the main characters in the Torah – Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, David, Solomon and all the others – they do good things but they all also do lots of bad things.  They lie, cheat, steal, are guilty of murder, and occasionally commit genocide.  Whatever some religious people say, culturally Jewish people generally say that these guys are not to be idolized or blindly copied.

These Hebrew and Israelite ancestors need to be critiqued, not idealized, and that just makes Judaism like almost any other culture.  The truth about the ancestors of most cultures is a mixed bag of good and bad, including our American culture.  The European people who came to America and who massacred Native American people, enslaved African people, oppressed women, and did other nefarious things, are our ancestors as American people.  We do not want to be like them in these negative ways, but they are still our ancestors and what they were like and what they did – the bad as well as the good – are things we have to understand in order to understand who we are as American people.  The same goes for the Hebrew and Israelite precursors of the Jewish people, and especially because they were fictional representations of what the founders of Judaism wanted us to think of as our ancestors.

So, what is the point of the Torah?  Rabbi Hillel, who was an older contemporary of Jesus and possibly Jesus’ teacher, and who is widely credited as the founder of modern Judaism, once supposedly summarized the message of the Torah by reciting a version of the Golden Rule: “Do not do to others what you would not have them do to you.”  That is seemingly the key meaning of the Torah for both religious and secular Jewish people.

And focusing on the Golden Rule as a key to being Jewish puts us in good company.  Almost every major religion and culture in the world has some version of the Golden Rule in its philosophy.  Each of these religions and cultures arrives at it in a somewhat different way, and the maxim can be stated in different ways.  But all of them share the core idea of the Golden Rule – of caring for others – as a key to being a good human being.  For culturally Jewish people, thinking about the Torah – the good, the bad, and the ridiculous – is our Jewish way of getting to the Golden Rule which is the core of our Jewish culture.  And that is why thinking about the Torah is the first thing that makes one Jewish.

The second thing that makes one Jewish is a commitment to the Jewish community.  For religious Jews, this commitment is reflected in the requirement of a minyan, the presence of at least ten Jewish people (ten men in traditional Judaism), in order to initiate religious ceremonies.  For some religious Jews, the commitment to community extends only to Jews.  For most culturally Jewish people, the commitment extends not only to the Jewish community but to communities of other people as well.  Being part of a Jewish community is a pathway to the broader human community, just as thinking about the Torah is a Jewish pathway to the universal Golden Rule.  And this commitment to community is reflected not only in secular Jewish Sunday Schools and Jewish cultural activities, but also in a plethora of Jewish social services and civic organizations that welcome people who are not Jewish.  The goal of being part of a Jewish community is to promote the practice of the Golden Rule as the foundation of a humane society.

Whether explicitly stated or implicitly understood, the Golden Rule underlies the behavior of people in any humane community, and the extent to which it is practiced is a measure of the community’s humanity.  Probably every child, for example, who has ever done anything wrong in school has faced the question from the teacher: “What if everyone did that?”  That question is at the root of the Golden Rule, and it is reinforced by considering that the Golden Rule is not merely a prescription of what people ought to do but a description of what they actually do, for better and for worse.

“Love thy neighbor as thyself,” which is one of the ways in which the Golden Rule is often expressed, implies, for example, that loving others and treating them well will be reflected in how you think of yourself.  It describes a virtuous cycle of doing good for others and feeling good about yourself as a result which philosophers for thousands of years and psychologists more recently have said is a fact of the human psyche.  In turn, if you treat others badly, it will be reflected in feeling bad about yourself in a vicious cycle in which hateful people are caught, making them increasingly miserable and pitiful despite their bullying, boasting and bombast.

The bottom line is that you cannot be Jewish by yourself.  You must be part of a community, the bigger and broader the better.

Being Secular: Agnostic but not Anti-theistic – Keeping God out of the discussion.

There are two main reasons given by most culturally Jewish people for not being religious.  The first is that they do not believe in God, and especially not in a personal God, a God who is like a person and who has personal relations with people.  They are unable to believe in or unwilling to worship a supreme being who would allow all of the awful things that happen in the world.  Innocent children suffering and dying.  Horrible wars.  People being tortured.  The list is almost endless.  The idea of a God who would preside over this is unbelievable or unacceptable to them.

At the same time, most culturally Jewish people do not actively oppose the idea of God.  They are not anti-theistic.  If people want to believe in God, so be it as long as they don’t try to impose their idea of God on other people.  The main concern of secularists is to keep God out of the discussion of community affairs because once someone says God is on their side of an issue, there is almost no way to reach a peaceful agreement on that issue.

Many culturally Jewish people are even willing to accept the idea of something in the universe that holds things together and accounts for our belief that things will not fall apart in the next moment.  It is an abstract something that some people might like to call a god.  The secular Jewish philosopher Spinoza ascribed to such an idea.  Other secular Jewish people acknowledge a feeling that there is something more to the universe than we can see, and that accounts for things holding together.  Einstein, a secularly Jewish person, had this feeling.  In any case, the idea of an abstract god or the feeling that there is more to the universe than meets the eye does not interfere with the desire of culturally Jewish people to keep God out of the discussion of community affairs, and does not conflict with their belief in secular Judaism.

The second reason culturally Jewish people generally give for not being religious is that most of the rules and rituals that make up Jewish religion seem to be unnecessary toward being a good person and toward promoting the Golden Rule.  The rules and rituals seem to have been designed or at least emphasized mainly for the purpose of separating Jewish people from other peoples, especially from Christian people.

For example, having Saturday as the Sabbath which makes it difficult for Jewish people to work with Christian people.  Keeping strictly Kosher which makes it difficult for Jewish people to eat and socialize with Christian people.  Prohibiting Jewish people from riding on the Sabbath so that they have to live close together and close to a synagogue to which they could walk, and could not live among Christian people.

These were seemingly defensive measures intended by the rabbis to keep Jewish people from assimilating to Christianity if they associated too closely with Christian people.  Such rules are, however, inconsistent with the Golden Rule that is at the heart of being Jewish.  The question these defensive measures raise is whether Jewish culture is strong enough to keep Jewish people Jewish, without erecting artificial barriers against others.

The Survival of Judaism: Religion versus Secularism.

According to recent polls, cultural Judaism has been rapidly growing in popularity.  This rise of cultural Judaism is a source of dismay to religious Jews who claim that the main reason Judaism has survived for so long is because Jews were kept separate from other peoples.  Although this separation was effected partly by Jews being shunned by other peoples, it was done mainly by Jewish leaders trying to keep Jews from assimilating.  And religious Jews claim that it worked, which is why they see an upsurge in religiosity as the only way to keep Judaism alive.  Culturally Jewish people don’t read Jewish history this way and don’t see the future of Judaism in this way.

While it is probably true that ritually isolating Jewish people from Christian and Muslim peoples kept some Jewish people in the fold, it is likely that this ritual segregation drove more people out of the fold and into assimilation.  There was historically very little to which a person could aspire if the person stayed orthodox and remained within the Jewish shtetl.  So, most people left.  If one uses basic demographic projections of the Jewish population starting around 150 BCE, there should be several hundred million Jewish people in the world today, not merely fifteen million.

And the difference between the demographic projections and the demographic reality cannot be put down to pogroms and other murderous events.  An average of about fifty percent of each generation of Jewish people has had to have assimilated over the last two thousand years in order to get the numbers of Jewish people that have existed at various times throughout that time period and that exist today.  People regularly left the Jewish community because life in the shtetl was too narrow.

In support of the religious view, it is the case that if one was not committed to following the religious Jewish rituals, it was easier for a person to slip out of the shtetl and into assimilation, and many did.  But it is also the case that if a person did not adhere to the separatist rules and rituals that isolated Jewish people from the broader community, and adhered to a secular and cultural Judaism instead, it was easier to remain Jewish while also being able to do things in the wider Christian or Muslim society.  And it was seemingly the case historically, as it is today, that most people who identify as being religiously Jewish did not and do not practice most of the rules and rituals required by orthodoxy.  Even among the religious, there has always been a creeping secularism.

The bottom line is that most Jewish people today, even those who are religious, cite family tradition, culture and community as the main reasons they became and remain committed to Judaism.  These are, in fact, the reasons cited by most people as to why and how they are committed to whatever it is they are committed, whether it be culture, religion, political affiliation, or most anything else.  These are common and common sensical reasons for being committed to something.  And they were probably the main reasons that Jewish people in the past remained Jewish.  They are also consistent with the Golden Rule and are what being culturally Jewish is mainly about.

As such, it is likely that many, and perhaps even most, Jewish people have historically been culturally Jewish in practice, even if they did not always have a theory to match.  And although it is only in recent centuries that secular Judaism has developed as a clearly articulated alternative to religious Judaism, cultural Judaism has arguably been the core of Judaism throughout history.  It is a cultural tradition with a two-thousand-year history, and counting. [1]                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                BW  2/16/20

[1] I have discussed Jewish secularism, religion and history at greater length in an essay on this blog called “An Unorthodox View of Jewish History: Why are Jews still here at all and why aren’t there more of us?”

Shakespeare’s “All’s Well that Ends Well.” Not. Two Jerks Get Each Other and Get What They Deserve. The Age of Trump and the Normalization of Bad Behavior.

Shakespeare’s All’s Well that Ends Well.  Not.

Two Jerks Get Each Other and Get What They Deserve.

The Age of Trump and the Normalization of Bad Behavior.

Burton Weltman

 

Prologue: Setting the Tone.

It is the opening scene of a play.  A young lady is in public mourning for the death of her father, who was a great and generous man.  She grieves and sheds tears, surrounded by friends who admired her father and who admire her for her devotion to her father.

When the friends leave, she soliloquizes that she is not really grieving for her father.  She is not thinking of him, she says.  She does not even remember him.  She is grieving, instead, over the hopelessness of her desire to marry a young nobleman.  What drives her to tears is that as a mere commoner, she does not know how she can succeed in marrying someone so high above her.

Finishing her soliloquy, the young lady immediately engages in lighthearted sexual banter with another character, a man she supposedly despises.  She closes the scene with a fierce avowal to herself of her determination to marry the nobleman. “My intents are fixed and will not leave me,” she declaims.  What would you say about this young lady?  Would you say that she is a romantic heroine who is showing her loving nature?  Or would you say that she is cold-hearted social climber who is showing us her selfish ambitions?

The situation I have described above is the opening scene from Shakespeare’s All’s Well That Ends Well.  Critics and directors almost invariably say that the young lady in this scene, Helena, who is the main character in the play, is a romantic heroine pining for love. And this view of her informs the way that critics interpret the play and directors stage it as a light-hearted romantic comedy.  I think that is not the best way to play Helena or to interpret the play.

I think the play makes more sense, and is more interesting and relevant, if Helena is played as a self-centered social climber and the play is performed as a seriously darkish comedy, not a light romance. In this view, the play’s title is ironic because things do not actually end well, and the moral of the play is that all is not well just because it seems to end well.  The message is that the ends of an action, no matter how intensely desired or desirable, do not justify any and all means.

Ethics 101:  Do the ends justify any and every means?  What justifies the ends? 

Shakespeare’s All’s Well That Ends Well[1] is a comedy about a woman who chases after an unreceptive man, traps the man through admittedly dubious means, and gets him as a husband in the end.  It is generally performed as a light-hearted romantic comedy with the woman, Helena, played as a model of feminine virtue, and even a feminist heroine, despite the dubious tactics she uses to get Bertram, her man. This essay argues that, despite its title, the play does not end well, and that Shakespeare did not intend to promote the idea that all’s well that ends well. The crux of the argument is that Helena is not the virtuous heroine she seems to others in the play and to most interpreters of the play, and that the play is best performed as an ironic takeoff on a romantic comedy, a darkish comedy rather than a romance.

One of the great things about Shakespeare’s plays is that they can legitimately be interpreted in a variety of ways, albeit some ways are arguably better than others.  The way in which an actress says her lines, the inflection in her voice, the look on her face, the body language she exhibits, can determine their meaning.  In the case of All’s Well That Ends Well, I think that Helena’s lines are better said in a way that conveys her willful ambition to scale the social heights and to possess Bertram.  She repeatedly says that she idolizes him, that is, she has made him into an object of desire that she has to own no matter what it takes, whether by means fair or foul.

Although Helena succeeds in her campaign to get the recalcitrant Bertram, I don’t think the play ends happily for her or for Bertram.  Bertram is forced in the end to marry a woman for whom he does not care and who has just ruined his life as far as he is concerned.  He is not likely to treat his unwanted wife with affection, and I think Shakespeare expects us to see that theirs is not likely to be a happy marriage for either of them.

I think also that we are not expected to approve of the hard-ball tactics Helena uses to get Bertram.  She is consistently inconsiderate of others and violates all sorts of ethical norms.  The play is a comedy, but I think we are supposed to cringe even as we laugh at her antics, and refuse to accept her bad behavior as normal.  All’s Well That Ends Well is not, in this view, intended to promote the idea implicit in its title that the ends of an action justify any and all means to its accomplishment.

To the contrary, I think the play demonstrates Shakespeare’s commitment to classical virtues and to a sense of personal honor that are directly the opposite of the selfish cynicism reflected in the idea that all’s well that ends well.  The play’s title is, in this view, ironic, as is its ending.  The moral of the story is that bad means produce bad ends.   All’s Well That Ends Well is a morality play in which the putative heroine behaves in ways that we are supposed to reject as dishonorable, even though her bad behavior is accepted as normal by most of the others in the play.  The play, in this reading, functions as a warning not to let bad behavior become normalized and become the norm.  This is not a conventional interpretation of the play.

The Moral and Historical Context: Cycles of Cynicism and Idealism.

All’s Well That Ends Well was written at the turn of the seventeenth century in the midst of debates in late Renaissance Europe about the nature of history and the history of ethical theories and practices.  The debates were not new.  Conflicting ideas about whether history proceeds in a straight line or in cycles, and whether morals were getting better or worse over time, had been argued since ancient times.  During the era of the European Renaissance, in which Shakespeare wrote his plays, cyclical ideas predominated and these ideas are reflected in both Shakespeare’s English history plays and his dramas set in other times and places.

The name Renaissance, which means “rebirth,” was given to this era by its participants.  The name reflects their primary goal of reviving the classical humanities and classical virtues, especially a sense of honor among people, that they attributed to the ancient Greeks and Romans, and that that they thought had been lost during what they termed the “Dark Ages” of the medieval era.  Honor in the sense of behaving honorably, not merely winning honors, was the goal, and it was expected of women as well as men.

Shakespeare’s plays are full of men and women competing for honors, many of them behaving dishonorably.  But for Shakespeare, winning was not everything.  Renaissance humanists, Shakespeare among them, hoped to promote an enlightened era of high honor and moral purpose that would emulate that of the ancients.  It is within this historical and moral context that I think All’s Well That Ends Well should be seen.[2]

The idea that ethical theories and practices ebb and flow in cycles goes back to Plato in Western intellectual history and forward to recent times.  Mortimer Adler, the best-selling American philosopher of all time, albeit now largely forgotten since his death in 2001, used to say that while the sciences are inherently progressive, the humanities, including ethics, are episodic.  Theories and practices in the sciences dialectally scaffold onward and upward upon each other, with the present building on the past and becoming the foundation of the future.[3]

Not so, Adler said, in the humanities, and especially with respect to ethics.  Ethical theories and practices waver over time between high idealism and low cynicism.  People may argue about whether the overall ethical trend in history has been in the long run for the better or the worse, but it is unarguably the case that historical eras in which ethical idealism predominates are invariably succeeded by eras of widespread cynicism.  While every era has its share of bad behavior, some more, others less, the moral tone of an era can be judged by the nature and extent to which bad behavior has become normalized, that is, accepted, even if with a grimace.

As moral cycles evolve and revolve, Adler noted, moral ideas that have been discarded in one era as obsolete are generally recycled and return in the next era, even if in modified form.  Deja vu all over again.  Adler strove to recycle the ethics of the ancients in a form fit for modern times.  He hoped, thereby, to help foster an ethical upswing in our times by imbuing popular culture with the classical virtues he saw in the ancient Greek and Roman philosophers.  Reason and rationality, honesty and humility, tolerance and respect, compromise and cooperation, and especially a sense of honor, were high among these ancient virtues.

Like the classical philosophers he admired, Adler was particularly concerned with the way in which people defined the ends that they considered worthy, the means that they considered legitimate toward those ends, and the proper relation between means and ends.  These, he opined, are keys to whether behavior can be considered ethical or cynical.

Ethical behavior in this view requires that the ends people seek be endowed with humane purpose and that the means they use be consistent with those ends, that is, be honorable and humane.  Cynicism, which is often paraded by its adherents as realism, generally holds that no matter what people say, selfish self-interest is the only real goal of human behavior.  All else is hypocritical posturing.  Cynics also allow that any effective means, no matter how despicable or dishonorable, is acceptable toward a person’s goals.  Cynicism assumes that we live in a zero-sum, dog-eat-dog world in which we are all out for only ourselves.  Self is the be-all-and-end-all.

In a cynical era, bad behavior is widely normalized.  That is, immoral ideas and actions become so common that they are accepted, even if begrudgingly, as necessary realities.  We are currently struggling through just such a time in the United States today.  Shakespeare was living through a similar time in England when he was writing All’s Well that Ends Well, which is one of the things that makes the play relevant to us today.  It was a time when calumny and knavery seemed to abound.  But, even as Shakespeare’s plays are full of people behaving badly, the plays also reflect the effort of Shakespeare and other like-minded Renaissance humanists to restore humanity, civility, and honor to public life.  By promoting the classical virtues, they were trying to rescue their cynical age from the normalization of bad behavior.  All’s Well that Ends Well was, I suggest, a part of that ethical project.  It is not how the play is generally performed.

All’s Well that Ends Well is generally played as a light-hearted romantic comedy in which a bit of bad behavior is acceptable in pursuit of a personal goal, such as marriage to the person of one’s choice.  The play is generally performed for the amusement of the audience and not for moral enlightenment.  I disagree with this approach.  I think that the play can best be read as a comedy with a serious purpose, a morality play about means, ends and ethics that resonates in our cynical Trumpian times.  It is an ironical play about cynical people.  That it is in the form of a romantic comedy may fool some interpreters, but it is a romantic comedy without romance, and it has an ostensibly happy ending that is not really happy.

The fact that most interpreters don’t see what I claim are the ironies of the play’s title, the play’s romantic form, and the play’s superficially happy ending may itself be an instance of the normalization of bad behavior that characterizes our own times.  It is widely expected in our times that people will lie, cheat, and threaten their way to their ends as the characters do in this play. Cynicism of this sort pervades the mass media, the social media, and the behavior of our politicians, especially the present-day President of the United States.

But I don’t think that Shakespeare intended to promote cynicism in this play.  Yes, we laugh at the bad behavior of Helena and others in the play.  But I think we are expected also to cringe at the despicable doings of the characters and refuse to accept them as normal.

The Story: A Tangled Web.

All’s Well That Ends Well is set in France and the main characters are French.  This setting is itself a clue that Shakespeare, who was writing in Francophobe England, was not going to think well of the main characters.  The play is set at a time seemingly near Shakespeare’s own when the King of France still ruled over a predominantly feudal system of social relations.  Under the feudal system, people were tied personally to those above them in the social hierarchy, effectively owned by their superiors and subject to their control.  Social class distinctions were considered very important.  The action of the play revolves around the efforts of a middle-class young woman, Helena, to overcome class barriers and marry a young nobleman, Count Bertram.

The main story is fairly simple, although it gets tangled up in comic twists and turns.  Helena is the daughter of a famous doctor who has recently died.  She is widely praised for her virtue by all and sundry, including Bertram’s mother.  Helena wants to marry Bertram, but he doesn’t want to marry her.  She is willing to resort to extreme means to get her way, but so is he.  This is the central problem around which the play turns.

As the play opens, the French King is terminally ill and desperate for any cure.  Helena claims that she has inherited from her father a cure for the King’s illness and she will give it to the King if he will order the man of her choice to marry her.  The King agrees to the bargain with Helena, and she  cures him using her father’s remedy.  The King then orders Bertram to marry Helena and, much to Bertram’s chagrin, he performs a civil marriage ceremony to bind them.

Bertram is an arrogant, insolent, and insulting fellow.  He has previously rejected Helena’s romantic overtures, considers her socially beneath him, and is furious at being forced into marriage with her.  Bertram has good breeding and good looks, but he is not on good behavior.  He refuses to consummate the marriage and says that he will not consider himself actually married to Helena unless she is first impregnated by him and she wears a ring that he keeps perpetually on his own finger.  These seem to be insuperable conditions since Bertram says that he won’t ever sleep with Helena and that he never takes off the ring.

Having been ordered by the King to stay in France with Helena, Bertram disobeys the King and runs off to Italy to serve in the Florentine army.  He is encouraged in this action by his sidekick Parolles, who is regarded by everyone else in the play as a sycophant, parasite, coward and scoundrel, but whom Bertram insists on keeping as a confidant.

Helena, after pretending to go to a convent and having given out a false story that she has died on the way, follows Bertram to Florence.  There, she learns that Bertram is trying to seduce a beautiful young woman named Diana with false promises of marriage.  Helena bribes Diana and her mother to pretend to give in to Bertram’s solicitation of Diana, but only if Bertram will give Diana his ring and will accept from her a ring that unbeknownst to Bertram had been given to Helena by the French King.

Bertram is so infatuated with Diana that he agrees to these terms and she agrees to sleep with him for an hour in absolute darkness and silence.  At the appointed place and time, Helena substitutes herself for Diana.  In the dark, Bertram cannot tell the difference.  This maneuver is known as “the bed trick.”  As a result, Bertram unwittingly sleeps with Helena and impregnates her, gives her his sacred ring, and accepts Helena’s ring for himself.

Having slaked his lust in the seeming conquest of Diana and having heard the false news that Helena was dead, Bertram abandons Diana and returns to France, claiming to mourn the death of Helena and begging the King’s pardon for having disobeyed his orders.  There, however, he finds waiting for him Helena, pregnant and wearing his ring, accompanied by Diana.

Bertram tries lying his way out of the trap Helena has set for him, but Helena and Diana are too much for him.  So, in the end, to save himself from severe punishment by the King, Bertram says that he will give up his opposition to being married to Helena.  In turn, the King, in recognition of Diana’s service to Helena, promises Diana that he will order any young man of her choice to marry her.  At this point, the plays closes with the King concluding that “All yet seems well, and if it end so meet, the bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.”  (V, 3, 578-579)  But is this so?  Is this Shakespeare’s conclusion?  Is that what he intended us to think?  I think not.

A Problem Play: So, what’s the problem?

All’s Well That Ends Well is one of Shakespeare’s earliest plays and is often disparaged or dismissed as an inartful effort by the novice Bard, and as “the least interesting” of his plays.[4]  It is generally considered one of Shakespeare’s “problem plays” because it supposedly raises ethical problems that are not clearly resolved at the end and because the main characters behave in problematical ways.

What are we to make of the heroine Helena who gets her man through the underhanded bed trick and through coercion of Bertram by the King?  What are we to make of Bertram, ostensibly the drama’s male hero, who is despicable until he seemingly undergoes a miraculous change of character in the last lines of the play?  How are we supposed to reconcile the ethical flaws in these main characters with the form of a romantic comedy?  The consensus of most critics is that you can’t, and that is considered a major problem with the play.  In their interpretations, they skim over the bad behavior of Helena and underplay Bertram’s.  The play is a romance, they claim, but a flawed romance.

The Shakespearian critic Mark Van Doren, for example, considered the play to be a failure as a romance because the plot was mechanical and the characters were unromantic and without passion.  Dismissing Bertram as “a commonplace cad” who “was never cut out for the hero of a play,” Van Doren mourned that Helena begins as “one of Shakespeare’s most interesting women” but “thins out” in the course of the play.  In the end, he concluded, Helena becomes “mechanical like the play,” just going through the motions of an implausible plot.[5]

Other interpreters have similarly had a problem believing that the loveable Helena could be so insistently in love with the eminently unlovable Bertram.  These interpreters generally try to resolve this problem in one of two ways.  One way is to play Bertram as a rebellious youth in whom Helena is mature enough to see the potential for a loving and loveable husband.  In this view, Bertram’s bad behavior is merely a stage of development that he will eventually outgrow.

The other and almost opposite way is to play Bertram as an incorrigible knave, but as so charming and handsome that a naïvely virtuous Helena is blinded by his beauty and cannot resist him.  In this view, it is Helena’s innocent immaturity that is the problem.  Neither of these ways of portraying Bertram is generally considered satisfactory, so that while the play is still considered a romance, it is deemed fatally flawed.[6]

In a similar vein, the Shakespearian scholar Harold Goddard opined that the play could work as a romance if one views Helena as a good angel and Parolles as a bad angel, so that “the drama is a struggle between Helena and Parolles for possession of Bertram.” Like most critics, Goddard gushes over Helena.  “Helena is so entrancingly drawn,” he exclaims, that she would make a great romantic heroine if only she had a suitably romantic hero to complement her.

But she doesn’t, and Goddard concludes that the play is a failed romance because Shakespeare “has blackened Bertram so utterly” that he does not need a bad angel to lead him astray.  Bertram is just plain nasty, bad and unsuitable for a romantic hero.  In Goddard’s view, Helena is a flawless heroine and the problem with the play is Bertram.[7]

Goddard agrees with most critics who see Bertram as the major problem with the play.  Helena is almost invariably seen as the virtuous essence of true womanhood, a feminist avatar who fights her way to victory.  Although some critics have a problem with accepting that Helena would stoop to something as low as the bed trick to trap Bertram, they generally give her a pass.  “Her ends are achieved by morally ambiguous means so that marriage [at the end of the play] seems at best a precarious institution on which to base the presumed reassurances of romantic comedy.”  That is, Helena’s low actions are inconsistent with what is seen as her high character and with what are considered the characteristics of a romantic comedy.[8]  But these critics have generally glossed over Helena’s dubious methods as ethical compromises necessary to achieve her goals.  These critics essentially adopt the mantra of the play that all’s well that ends well, and that the ends justify the means.  In so doing, they have essentially normalized bad behavior.

In my view, Van Doren, Goddard and other critics are right that one cannot reconcile the ethical flaws of the characters in the play with the form of a romantic comedy.  But I don’t think that is a problem because I don’t think the play is supposed to be taken as a romantic comedy.  I don’t think that we are supposed to think well of either Helena or Bertram.  While most critics see Bertram’s blatant flaws, they don’t often see Helena’s.  Hers are more subtle but more important, especially if we do not want to fall into the habit of normalizing bad behavior.

Helena: All that glitters is not gold.

The key to what I think is a better interpretation of All’s Well That Ends Well is in seeing that Helena is not a golden girl but a gold digger.  She is a thoroughgoing opportunist who is bedazzled not only by Bertram’s money but by his status and his person.  What fools most interpreters, I think, is that the play is punctuated by colloquies and soliloquies in which Helena professes her overwhelming love for Bertram.  But the Bertram she loves is not the real Bertram.  As almost every critic has noted, Bertram is quite unlovable, and it is impossible to play him otherwise.  So, it is not the actual Bertram that Helena loves, but her idealized golden image of him.  She worships him as an idol that she intends to possess.

As noted in the Prologue above, I think Shakespeare gives us a clue to Helena’s character in the opening of the play when she admits that she despairs not for her father but for her seemingly hopeless desire for Bertram. “I think not on my father,” she says, “I have forgot him.”  She is solely occupied by her desire to marry Bertram.  “My imagination carries no favor in’t but Bertram’s,” she says.  She harbors what she calls an “idolatrous fancy” for him, but “he is so above me,” she cries, that she does not know how she will be able to win him. (I, 1, 84-101)

In these opening lines, I think we can see at least two key things about Helena.  First, that she is quite cold-hearted to place her infatuation for Bertram above the respectful remembrance she owes her father.  Second, that she idealizes and idolizes Bertram beyond his personal merit and that her feelings are based largely on his high social status.  As the play progresses, instances of Helena’s cold-blooded callousness and overwhelming personal ambition follow one another.

Immediately after this opening soliloquy, and right on the heels of going through the motions of publicly mourning her father’s death, Helena engages in a long sexually explicit repartee with Parolles, a man she describes as a scoundrel.  Parolles opens the conversation by decrying virginity as selfishness on the part of a woman for refusing to share herself with others.  He then rallies Helena to give up her own virginity.  Helena does not squelch him as you would think a virtuous heroine ought, nor does she deny the validity of his argument.  Instead, they banter for quite a while, until she finally concludes that she intends to save her virginity for Bertram. (I, 1, 115-193)  Although Helena’s conclusion is conventionally moralistic, her sudden transition from public mourning to sexual jesting is not what one would expect from a virtuous heroine.

Helena’s next move is to go to the King when she hears of his illness and to offer him her father’s cure.  She does not, however, offer him the cure out of sympathy, let alone out of patriotic duty.  She offers him the cure as part of a commercial exchange.  “But if I help, what do you promise me,” Helena insists.  And she promises to cure the King only if he orders the man of her choosing to marry her.  (II, 1, 209-225)  Implicit in her bargaining with the King is that if he does not promise her the desired quid pro quo, she will let him die.  So, the King, a desperate dying man, gives her the promise she desires.  She then gives him the cure he desires and he then forces Bertram to marry her.

Note that Helena seems willing to let the King die if she does not get her way.  That is pretty cold-blooded for someone who is conventionally played as a virtuous heroine.  Note also that she has no problems with Bertram being forced to marry her even though he says that he does not love her and does not want to marry her.  That is pretty cold-hearted for someone who is conventionally portrayed as a romantic heroine.

When Bertram runs off to Italy, Helena secretly follows him.  And when she discovers that he lusts after Diana, she bribes Diana’s mother and Diana to let her play the bed trick on Bertram and get Bertram’s prized ring.  The plan is for Diana to insist on exchanging rings as a pledge of her betrothal to Bertram before she will sleep with him.  Having gotten Bertram’s ring, Diana will give it to Helena who will then sleep with him.  “Take this purse of gold,” Helena says to Diana’s mother, “and let me buy your friendly help thus far, which I will overpay and pay again after I have found it,” that is, after Bertram has been fooled into the bed trick and Helena has received his ring.  This is, again, a purely commercial transaction between Helena, on the one hand, and Diana’s mother and Diana, on the other.  Note that Helena seems to have little regard here for Diana’s reputation when it gets abroad, as it surely will, that she was seemingly seduced by Bertram and sacrificed her virginity for a ring.  That is not very considerate for a golden girl.

Perhaps most important in this bed trick plan, Helena has no regard whatsoever for the child she intends to bear for a father who does not want a child.  Helena is not only playing a low-down trick on Bertram to get him to marry her, but on the child that she is tricking him into conceiving.

When Helena gives out false rumors of her own death, it is a means of tricking Bertram into going back to France and, thereby, falling under the jurisdiction of the King.  Although it is a minor offense compared to her others, this is still a low trick to play on Bertram and she shows no regard for the people who will mourn her death.  Again, not very high-minded or considerate.

Finally, having trapped Bertram and put him into the position of either accepting his marriage to her or else being severely punished by the King, Helena has no problem with going forward in life with a husband who does not want to marry her in the first place, and is henceforth likely to have only the most negative feelings toward her.  Not a very romantic ending.

Even more significant, in a time and place in which husbands were considered to own their wives, and in which a wife’s physical wellbeing was subject to her husband’s whims, Helena’s marriage to Bertram does not seem to be a happy ending or a good beginning for either of them. Given Bertram’s wandering eye, willful nature, and deep-seated arrogance, Helena’s triumph may be a Pyrrhic victory.  The end of the play may be only the beginning of her troubles.

The mantra “all’s well that ends well” is recited repeatedly during the course of the play by Helena as she lies, cheats, threatens, and bribes her way to eventual victory. (V, 1, 30)  The mantra is also cited by the French King in his summation of events at the end of the play.  (V, 3, 378-380)  In this summation, he excuses the despicable actions of both Helena and Bertram on the grounds that the two love birds have ended up together at last.

From the point of view of Helena and the King, the moral of the story seems to be that the ends justify the means and that winning is everything.  This is not a very high-minded conclusion.  I don’t think it is Shakespeare’s, nor should it be ours.  The moral of the story that Shakespeare intended seems more likely to be that foul means produce foul ends.  And that is a moral not only for Shakespeare’s time but for ours as well.

Bertram: Taking the feud out of the feudal system.

My contention that Shakespeare intended All’s Well That Ends Well to be taken as a morality play is supported, I think, by the play’s treatment of Bertram and the historical setting of the play.  In the opening lines of the play, Bertram’s mother is bemoaning the fact that with the death of Bertram’s father, Bertram has become a ward of the King.  She complains that in losing her husband, she has also lost her son.  Bertram, in turn, complains that he “must attend his Majesty’s command” and be “evermore in subjection.” (I, 1, 1-6)  In these complaints of the dowager countess and her son the count, Shakespeare establishes the declining power of the nobility and the rising authority of the King as the historical context of the play’s action and Bertram’s personal grievances.

Many of Shakespeare’s plays deal with changing social systems and with people getting caught up in the changes.  His plays frequently dramatize conflicts between old and new social norms, roles, and institutions, and with the misfits and misconnections that can result.  All’s Well That Ends Well is an example of this.  While the misbehaviors of Helena and Bertram constitute the core of the play, changes in the feudal system constitute the context of the play and the first cause of the play’s action.

Feudalism was a hierarchical system of power and prestige whose main purpose was maintaining social order and fielding an army of noble warriors.  In the medieval feudal system, nobles served as warriors, as knights in shining armor, who were granted land and privileges by a king in return for military service.  By Shakespeare’s time, guns that could be wielded by ordinary commoners had made skilled and armored knights obsolete.  Kings fielding armies of gun-toting commoners were no longer dependent on the nobles for military protection.

As a result, European kings no longer had to accede to demands of the ancient nobles, and the feudal system devolved into a form of monarchial absolutism in many countries during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.  Kings were able to elevate their allies, many of them mere nouveau social climbers, into the nobility.  Noblemen were, in turn, being transformed from macho warriors into foppish courtiers, mere flatterers who hung about the king’s court.  These social changes were occurring in France and beginning in England during Shakespeare’s time.

These changes from feudalism to monarchial absolutism constitute the primary cause of the action in All’s Well That Ends Well.  Helena wants to become a countess and raise her own social status with the help of the King.  Bertram wants to be a noble warrior and maintain his ancient social status despite the King.  Helena’s victorious ascension into the nobility, and the King’s assertion of his authority over Bertram in the end, symbolize the triumph of the new social system over the old.

These social changes help us to understand Bertram.  Bertram is not just a naturally nasty person.  He is a would-be warrior who is expected to play at being a dandyish courtier.  He is an unwilling exemplar of the decline of feudalism and the degradation of noble warriors who have been required to exchange their military skills for courtly manners.  Having been ordered by the King to hang around his court, Bertram runs off to war and distinguishes himself as a warrior, only to be tricked back to the King’s court and coerced into docility.

Bertram exemplifies the problem of living a life of honor in a courtier system that rewards sycophancy and punishes independence.  Medieval knights owed fealty to their king but the king was, in turn, dependent on their willingness to fight for him.  This interdependence gave the knights a good deal of independence.  The courtier system demeaned the nobility, forcing them to supinely court the king’s favor.  Instead of competing as warriors against each other and against foreign enemies, they competed with each other as flatterers of the king.  They suffered a transition from feuding and fighting to fawning and flattering.

How was one to act honorably or honestly in a system in which one must continually dance attendance on the King and the King can even tell you whom you must marry?  That is Bertram’s conundrum, and it may help account for his exaggerated sense of himself, his intense opposition to marrying beneath his social rank, and his running off to war.  He is fighting a rearguard action on behalf of his noble warrior status.

As an indication of the declining importance of warriors in the fading feudal system, the play depicts a decision by the King to send French noblemen abroad as mercenaries to fight on behalf of whomever they wish, which is what Bertram does in going to Florence. (I, 2, 15-21)   The King decides that rather than have disgruntled warriors venting their pent-up aggression against him or in the form of disorder within his kingdom, he encourages them to go fight elsewhere, and fight anybody anywhere else.  They are useless and a nuisance to him.

Another example of the changing social system is the scene in which the King orders Bertram to marry Helena.  When Bertram objects on the grounds of Helena’s low social status, the King launches into a long speech about how a person’s birth is irrelevant to her worth.  “From the lowest place whence virtuous deeds proceed,” he intones, “the place is dignified by the doer’s deed.” (II, 3, 128-155).  Harold Goddard calls it “the most equalitarian speech in all Shakespeare.”  But no sooner does the King finish the speech than he peremptorily orders Bertram to take Helena’s hand and submit to being married to her.

There is a seeming contradiction here – a democratic speech followed by a dictatorial action.  Most interpreters of the play take the speech at face value as a democratic avowal, and then either ignore the contradiction or skim over it.  Goddard concludes that “The King is an odd mixture…he is a radical democrat in theory but a feudal monarch… in practice.”[9]   I don’t agree.  I don’t see any inconsistency in the King’s denigrating nobles, such as Bertram, down to the level of commoners, such as Helena, and then asserting his absolute prerogative as King over them both.  That was the theory and practice of the absolute monarchies that were emerging during Shakespeare’s time to replace feudalism.  Shakespeare astutely recognized this trend in his play.

The degeneracy of the feudal system is finally shown by the way that even the degenerate Paroles is able at the end of the play to find a benefactor who is willing to take him in as a skilled courtier.  Paroles has previously shown himself to be a coward and a would-be traitor in the Florentine wars, but his skill as a flatterer and liar enable him to land on his feet as a courtier despite it all.  (V, 3, 365-369)

The power of the King over the nobility is finally emphasized at the end of the play when he tells Diana, who is a commoner even lower than Helena was, that he will order the man of her choice to marry her.  Since the man of her choice may be a nobleman, as was Helena’s, the King has, thereby, doubled down on the action that first began the problems in the play.  Will it end well?

The Comic Situation: Foils and Fools.

All’s Well That Ends Well is conventionally played as a romantic comedy.  I have argued herein that it is not a romance but rather a darkish comedy.  Helena is an ambitious social climber who wants to marry up in the social hierarchy.  Bertram is an insufferable snob and inveterate womanizer who doesn’t want to marry down.  She will use any means to get her way.  He will go to drastic ends to get his.  There are a lot of humorous twists and turns in the plot until Helena eventually gets her way and gets what is on its face the last laugh.  But what makes the play a comedy is not merely that it is humorous or that it supposedly ends happily, which I contend it doesn’t.  It is the nature of the conflict in the play that characterizes it as comedic.

Comedy has been described as a story of wisdom versus folly, wise people versus foolish people.[10]  In comedy, the problem is created by someone acting out of stupidity or ignorance, “the intervention of fools.” [11]  A comic drama generally consists of the wise trying to teach the fools or at least restrain them from further foolishness.[12]  Comedy promotes a hierarchical world in which the wiser and more responsible people are encouraged and empowered to control the stupid and irresponsible people, educating them when that is possible, and tricking, controlling or excluding them when that is not.  A comedy may have a happy or unhappy ending depending on whether the fools learn their lesson.  In All’s Well That Ends Well, they don’t.

Bertram is a fool to think he can outsmart Helena and outrun the King.  He foolishly thinks he has fooled her by imposing impossible conditions on his acceptance of his marriage to her.  But Helena then fools him with the bed trick and the false announcement of her death, and she wins the contest.  Bertram gets his comeuppance, and his foolishness is constrained.  But Helena is also a fool to think that capturing Bertram is going to lead to a happy married life.  She will become a countess but he will have the power to make her life miserable.  She is likely to get her comeuppance.  It is a play full of fools fooling fools and becoming fools themselves.  Looked at in this way, and performed with the requisite irony, I think the play is funnier, more coherent, and more interesting than the conventional interpretation.

Enough Already.

I am writing this essay at the end of November, 2019.  We have in the United States a President who represents most of the worst and none of the best aspects of our society.  President Trump is a scoundrel who flaunts his bad behavior and challenges anyone to oppose him.  And some forty per cent of the public seem to support him.  When he says or does something particularly despicable, his supporters invariably skim over it with the comment that “Well, that is just Trump being Trump.”

Meanwhile, President Trump not only violates but desecrates almost every ethical norm and democratic political principle upon which our society is based.  He is not an honorable person.  That so many people accept his misbehavior as somehow normal is a testament to the cynicism that seems to characterize the present moment.  That has to change.

Playing All’s Well That Ends Well as a light-hearted romantic comedy encourages cynicism that tolerates the normalization of bad behavior.  That isn’t acceptable.  The key to the play, in my opinion, is the way in which Helena is played.  In my view, Helena is not an altogether bad person, but she should be played as an opportunist who is able to fool those around her with a pretense of innocent virtue, and who schemes her way underhandedly to her desired end.

Performed that way, the play is not a problem, a failure, or the mistake of a novice.  It is, instead, a useful reminder that ends, no matter how intensely desired or desirable, do not justify dishonorable means, and that normalizing bad behavior will likely lead to undesirable ends.

B.W.  11/29/19

[1] William Shakespeare. All’s Well That Ends Well. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2001.

[2] Frank Kermode.  The Age of Shakespeare. New York: Modern Library, 2005. P.142.

Harold Goddard.  The Meaning of Shakespeare.  Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1960. P.254.

[3] For a discussion of Adler’s philosophy see Burton Weltman. “Individualism versus Socialism in American Education: Rereading Mortimer Adler and The Paidea Proposal.” Educational Theory. Winter 2002, Volume 52, No.1. Pp.61-80.

[4] Frank Kermode. The Age of Shakespeare. New York: Modern Library, 2005.  P.139.

[5] Mark Van Doren.  Shakespeare. New York: New York Review Books, 2005. Pp.179-180, 182-183, 185.

[6] Wikopedia.  All’s Well that Ends Well.  11/7/19.

[7] Harold Goddard.  The Meaning of Shakespeare.  Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1951.  Pp.38-40.

[8] Terence Spencer, et al.  “William Shakespeare.” Encyclopedia Britannica. Accessed 10/1/19.

[9] Harold Goddard.  The Meaning of Shakespeare.  Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1951.  Pp.48-49.

[10] Aristotle. Poetics. New York, Hill and Wang, 1961, 59.

[11] Kenneth Burke.  Attitudes Toward History. Boston: Beacon Press, 1961, p.41.

[12] Paul Goodman. The Structure of Literature. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. 1954, 82-100.

 

Albert Camus’ “The Fall.” Getting on and off a Guilt-Trip: Morality in an Amoral Universe.

 Albert Camus’ The Fall.

Getting on and off a Guilt-Trip:

Morality in an Amoral Universe.

 

Burton Weltman

“It is in the thick of calamity that one gets hardened to the truth

 – in other words, to silence”

Albert Camus.

Precis: Making a Longish Story Short.

Albert Camus’ novel The Fall is a book about guilt, shame, responsibility, and whether it is possible to live a moral life in what is arguably an amoral universe.  First published in 1956, the book focuses on one of the most difficult of moral problems: The harm that we unintentionally do to others, either out of indifference or in the name of helping them.  Not viciousness but callousness.  Not maliciousness but self-righteousness.  And despite our best intentions, selfishness and self-interest are at the root of most evil.  The book contains a message about the dangers of nihilism and authoritarianism, the importance of distinguishing guilt and responsibility, and the virtues of empathy, solidarity and responsibility, that is very relevant to our times.

The Fall dramatizes some of the moral consequences of Camus’ philosophy of the absurd that he articulated in philosophical treatises The Myth of Sisyphus (1942) and The Rebel (1951). The absurd,” Camus explained “is born of the confrontation between the human need [for reason and meaning] and the unreasonable silence of the world.”[1]  It is absurd, he claimed, to look for meaning in the universe but that doesn’t stop us from trying.  We can’t help it.  We are made that way.  Humans are reasoning beings who cannot help but try to find meaning in the universe.  But that does not mean that meaning is really there to be found.  In this context, Camus contends that traditional moral philosophies which vainly try to find eternal moral truths through reasoning are exercises in absurdity.  So, what is a person to do?

Enmeshed in absurdity, Camus proposes that human life is valuable to the extent that we continually rebel against both meaninglessness and meaning, and is moral to the extent that we act in solidarity with each other.  The honest person, what Camus calls the “absurd man,” sees through the meanings he finds and rejects them one by one as meaningless, even as he finds more.  It is a Sisyphean enterprise.

Meaning and meaninglessness, solidarity and self-centeredness, are in constant contradiction in ourselves and in our world, and we must live with this tension if we don’t want to fall into a fatalistic nihilism – all is selfishness and anything goes –  that could descend into an oppressive totalitarianism – all must do what they are told in the name of law and order.  Nihilism and totalitarianism are the extremes that Camus rejects in favor of a moral practice based on empathy, responsibility, solidarity, and a militantly modest and moderate permanent rebellion.[2]

There are two characters in The Fall, a main character who goes by the name of Jean Baptist Clamence and who does all the talking, and a second unnamed character (hereafter the Listener) who is totally silent and just listens to Clamence.  In a prolonged diatribe, Clamence insists that we live in a fallen universe embedded with evil, and that humans are fallen and inherently immoral beings.  He is a self-styled prophet of universal guilt – that is, that we are all of us guilty all of the time.  Moral codes, he claims, are a sham and when people claim to follow a moral code, they are invariably hypocritical.

Clamence contends that self-interest and selfishness prevail everywhere, and harm is inevitably done to others out of inattention, inaction and indifference even when it is not done intentionally.  He makes no difference between intentional harm and unintentional harm.  They are both evil.  And given the interconnectedness of everyone and everything, Clamence insists, it is impossible to live without harming others and so, he contends, we are all of us inveterate evil-doers whether we intend it or not.  Nihilism, Clamence concludes, is the logical illogic of reality.  In a meaningless universe, anything goes, and usually goes wrong.

Most interpreters claim that Clamence is speaking for Camus.  They contend that he represents Camus’ absurdist philosophy as it is articulated in The Myth of Sisyphus.  That book deals for the most part with the effect of absurdity on the individual person, and whether there is any reason to live.  The book opens with the famous line “There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide.”[3]  Camus essentially resolves that problem by concluding that if there is no reason to live, there is also no reason to die, so we might as well live on.  That is essentially Clamence’s view but he also adds to it that life is one long guilt trip, and that we are and should feel guilty all of the time, a view that most interpreters of The Fall attribute to Camus.  I don’t agree.

Most interpreters of The Fall also claim that Clamence is the central character in the book since he does all the talking.  And most of them also imply that even though there is a second, albeit silent, character in the story, Clamence is somehow speaking directly to us, the readers.  We are supposedly his audience.  Again, I don’t agree.

I think that The Fall is better seen as a dramatization of some of the main themes in The Rebel.  Suicide is the central problem in The Myth of Sisyphus.  Murder is the central problem in The Rebel.  In a meaningless universe, how can we live together and how can we combat evil without murdering each other?  Empathy, solidarity, and responsibility are essentially Camus’ answer.

Contrary to Clamence, Camus sees the universe as amoral and not immoralHe contends that while in the absence of an authoritative God everything is permitted, that doesn’t mean nothing is prohibited and that there is no morality.  Morality is what we humans make of it, with an emphasis on “we” as the starting point.  Whereas Clamence is an individualist and is obsessed with his own private vendetta against humanity and the universe, Camus’ emphasis is socialistic.  “I rebel therefore we exist,” he insists.  Human solidarity is the source of value in life and a way to overcome self-centered selfishness.  Given Clamence’s professed nihilism, rather than speaking for Camus, I think that Clamence is an example of the extremism that Camus rejects.

Clamence is on a guilt trip that he wants everyone to join. It is the sort of thing that Camus repeatedly rejected.  Camus promoted the idea of universal responsibility, which means that we are all responsible all of the time, individually and jointly, but not guilty.  Camus repeatedly insisted that “There may be responsible persons, but there are no guilty ones.”  Guilt is remorse over a past act that is over and done with and about which nothing can be done except feel bad.  Responsibility is an ongoing process that extends action from the past into the present and projects itself into the future.  If what we have done has been wrong, we must try to fix it.  We must do what we can whenever we can, but not feel guilty if we can’t do everything.[4]

I agree with the reviewer who described The Fall as follows: “the thesis of this philosophical novel in one sentence: We are all responsible for everything.”  I disagree, however, with that reviewer’s claim that Clamence represents this thesis in what he says and says he has done.[5]  I contend that it is the behavior of the Listener, who sympathetically listens to Clamence’s diatribe – his litany of harms that he has unintentionally done to others for the most part out of indifference – that represents Camus’ idea of responsibility.

The Listener accepts responsibility for Clamence’s anguish with a sympathetic silence, demonstrating to Clamence a form of clemency, even though he does not express agreement with Clamence’s nihilism.  For these reasons, I contend that while Clemence is the main character in the book, the Listener is the central character around whom everything revolves and who speaks for Camus in his silence.

In sum, I think that Camus’ answer to Clamence’s challenge as to how one can be moral in an amoral or even immoral world is empathy.  The Listener personifies empathy, an empathy that comes from the recognition that we are all responsible for everything and that genuine confession is a matter of assuming responsibility and not guilt.

Prologue: A Moral Morass.

The title of The Fall (La Chute in French) is a multiple-entendre, referring, among other things, to Satan’s fall from heaven, Adam’s fall from the Garden of Eden, and the fall of Clamence from a position of high repute and professional success to a life of shame and dissolution.  It also refers to a woman falling from a bridge into the Seine River, which event seemingly precipitated a moral crisis in Clamence and led to his own descent.  The French word “chute” means fall but also downfall.  Falling and downfalling are central metaphors in the book.   

The Fall is an intriguing book and, for a philosophical novel, a page-turner. The book tells the story of a retired lawyer who calls himself Jean-Baptist Clamence.  Clamence is a self-described fallen man who has seemingly done something so bad that it has ruined his life.  The book consists of Clamence’s recounting of his life story with a host of philosophical implications.    The Fall is a highly regarded book in the canon of Camus’ works.  It has been heralded as “Camus’ chef d’oeuvre” and described by Jean-Paul Sartre as Camus’ “most beautiful” book.  But it is also, according to Sartre, “the least understood” of Camus’ works.[6]

The Fall is a sparse book.  It has only two characters and no action.  It is all talking and Clamence does all the talking.  The other character, an unnamed man whom Clamence meets by chance in a bar, and whom I call the Listener, does virtually nothing.  Over the course some one hundred fifty pages, Clamence holds forth in a monologue to the Listener who utters not one word.  A difficulty of The Fall arises, I think, in large part from its unusual format – a monologue overheard by the reader in which one character, Clamence, speaks to another character, the Listener, who never speaks at all.  Many readers misinterpret the monologue as being addressed to the readers, instead of to the Listener.  Another difficulty of the book is the complex moral questions it poses.  These are, at the same time, its most interesting features.

Clamence tells a highly emotional story, and in telling it and pleading with the Listener for understanding, he professes a negativistic philosophy of life and nihilistic view of morality.  His negativism is based on his contention that we are all of us guilty of immorality all of the time.  Citing his own life as an example, Clamence insists that philosophies and pretenses of morality are merely covers for immorality, and that the idea of a moral life is a contradiction in terms.

Clamence’s diatribe is complicated and convoluted.  Cutting through his overwrought rhetoric, I think that at least two key moral questions arise out of Clamence’s narrative.  The first is whether and how one can live a moral life in a universe full of evil.  We live in a world in which evil doers routinely inflict unmerited suffering and death on people.  As Clamence poses the problem, if we want to live moral lives, we must do all we can to eliminate evil.  Morality requires zero tolerance for the suffering of others.  We must not only not profit from others’ suffering, we must not tolerate it.  We must not live at ease while others are suffering and dying.

In this context, Clamence contends, inaction is itself evil.  We are effectively accomplices in any evil that occurs anywhere and anytime if we have not given our all toward eliminating it.  And giving your all means dying for the cause.  Dying for the cause is the only moral act.  If we are alive and well, we are, in effect, guilty of at least tolerating the suffering and death of others.  We are also almost certainly contributing to evil in the world because of the interrelatedness of all things.  Only by dying can we demonstrate our moral commitment to eliminating evil and, thereby, also eliminate the evil we inevitably inflict on others just by living.  Living, in Clamence’s telling, is inherently immoral, and a moral life is seemingly impossible.

The second question is whether and how one can live a moral life when self-interest seems to permeate everything we do.  Clamence claims that everything we choose to do is a function of self-interest.  If we chose to do a thing, that thing is, by definition, something in which we are interested, which is why we choosing it.  Selfishness and self-interest underlie even the most seemingly selfless acts if we have chosen to do those acts, because then we are only doing what we ourselves want to do.  Slavery, Clamence contends, which means doing only what others make you do, is the only way to avoid selfishness.  In Clamence’s telling, selflessness is a contradiction in terms, selfishness pervades everything, and a moral life is seemingly impossible.

These are tough questions and the format of The Fall adds to the difficulty of fathoming them. The format may itself also be a source of misunderstanding to readers.  In this book, unlike in most monologues, the speaker is talking to someone else in the story and not directly to us, the readers.  This makes the book different than Camus’ earlier novel The Stranger (1942), which is a sustained monologue in which the speaker addresses the reader.

In The Stranger, the main character, Merseault, is talking directly to us, the readers.  In The Fall, the main character, Clamence, is talking to a second person, the unnamed and unheard Listener.  We readers are overhearing their conversation.  In most interpretations of the book, Clamence is seen as the central character and a spokesperson for Camus’ existentialist and absurdist philosophy.  I disagree.  And I think this conventional interpretation is a misreading that is in part based on a misunderstanding of the book’s format.

Most interpretations of The Fall ignore or dismiss the role of the Listener and assume that Clamence is effectively talking to us, the readers.[7]  But Clamence is not talking to us and it makes a difference.  Camus knew how to write a monologue addressed to the reader.  He did it in The Stranger.  So, he must have had something in mind by inserting into The Fall a second person with whom the main character is talking and pleading.

I suggest that what Camus had in mind was that the Listener is the central character in the book and that his silence suggests a nuanced answer to the moral questions posed by the book, an answer very different than the extreme negativism promoted by Clamence.  In short, the Listener does not fall for the nihilistic arguments of Clamence and his empathetic silence, unlike the silent indifference of the universe, is telling.

Camus and Silence: Ivan Karamazov and the Grand Inquisitor.

Silence plays a big part in many of Camus’ works.  Camus’ father died during World War I when Camus was just a child and his mother was deaf.  As a result, Camus lived most of his youth surrounded by the sounds of silence.  There are many different kinds of silence.  There is the silence of ignorance.  The silence of indifference.  Silence as assent.  Silence as dissent.  Scornful silence.  Supercilious silence.  And, silence of support.  Camus used all of these in his writings.  The silence of the Listener in The Fall parallels the silence of Jesus in Fyodor Dostoevsky’s novel The Brothers Karamazov.  It is a book that Camus repeatedly returned to in his writings, particularly to both the character Ivan Karamazov, whom Camus considered a pioneer of absurdist philosophy, and a chapter in the book called the “Grand Inquisitor.”

In the chapter on the “Grand Inquisitor,” Ivan Karamazov recounts to his younger brother Alyosha a parable about Jesus returning to earth in the midst of the medieval Spanish Inquisition.  Ivan is an atheistic intellectual who is looking for rhyme and reason in the universe, but finding only meaningless brutality.  Alyosha is a novice and naïve monk.  In Ivan’s story, Jesus wanders about preaching His message of salvation through faith and love, and performing a few miracles.  Jesus is duly arrested for disturbing the peace and taken to be interrogated by the Grand Inquisitor.  The chapter consists of a long monologue on the part of the Inquisitor, during which Jesus says nothing despite being asked to respond and encouraged to admit His failings.  Jesus’ failing, according to the Grand Inquisitor, is his inveterate humility.

The Inquisitor chastises Jesus for rejecting the three temptations to earthly power that he had been offered by Satan in the desert.  If He had accepted them, He could have become the dictator of the world, which is what the Catholic Church had been attempting to do ever since.  Alluding to the original sin of Adam, The Inquisitor complains that “Man was made a rebel; but can rebels be happy?”  The answer, he insists, is “No” and, therefore, people must be enslaved, while thinking that they are free, in order to relieve them of the responsibility for making moral choices.  Responsibility is a burden.  Freedom from responsibility will make people happy.

The Inquisitor explains that enslaving people and relieving them of moral choices is what the Church has been attempting to do in Jesus’ name since His death, even though Jesus preached and practiced just the opposite.  And that is why the Inquisitor wants Jesus to leave and never come back again.  When the Inquisitor finishes, Jesus continues his silence, but then kisses the Inquisitor and leaves.  And, Ivan concludes, He hasn’t been heard from since.[8]  Ivan’s response to the silence of Jesus is scornful, but I think one can also see His silence as empathetic and understanding of the Inquisitor, even if He disagrees with him.  It is the same, I think, with the Listener in The Fall.

The theories and practices of the Inquisitor represented for Camus the epitome of that which he opposed.  Camus inveighed against “would be Caesars” who espoused a “despairing nihilism” and took advantage of people’s weaknesses to control them.  Referring to Dostoevsky’s novel, Camus complained that “These are the Grand Inquisitor who imprisons Christ and tells Him that His method [of love] is not correct, that universal happiness cannot be achieved by the freedom of choosing between good and evil, but by the domination and unification of the world.”[9]

In The Fall, Clamence represents the nihilism and will-to-power over others that Camus abhors.  At the same time, Camus portrays in the story an empathetic Listener whose silence compares with that of Jesus in Dostoevsky’s chapter on the Grand Inquisitor.  Just as in The Fall, Dostoevsky raises questions in his novel about whether and how one can be moral in a world steeped in evil.  Dostoevsky was a devout Christian and apparently found answers to these questions in God.  Camus was a non-believer who found solace in human solidarity.

The Plot(s): Circles Within Circles.

There is virtually no action in The Fall.  The story takes place over five days during which the characters meet in a bar in the red-light district of Amsterdam and elsewhere in and around the city.  In the course of the book, Clamence regales the Listener with tales of his fall from grace to damnation.  The “action” consists of Clamence talking, telling what he claims is his life story, with the Listener seemingly making an occasional gesture, and possibly uttering an occasional word that is not recorded in the book, to which Clamence reacts in the course of his monologue.  That’s the plot of Camus’s story.

The plot of Clamence’s story is in the form of a confession of all the immoral things he has done and of which he is supposedly ashamed.  They are not intentional harms that he has inflicted on others but unintentional byproducts of acting selfishly.  His story is a sustained guilt trip of selfishness.  The plot or plan which underlies Clamence’s story consists of his effort to get the Listener to join him on his guilt trip.  It is important to distinguish between Clamence’s life story, which he strategically reveals in bits and pieces over the course of the five days, and Clamence’s plot, which is to seduce the silent Listener into admitting his own guilt.  Clamence’s goal is for the Listener to come to see himself as an evil person, be ashamed of himself, and admit it.  That way, Clamence later admits, Clamence can feel superior to the Listener and less ashamed of himself.  He wants most of all to avoid being judged, and so he wants to be able to judge others instead.  That’s his plan.

Clamence’s life story is strategically told to induce the Listener to admit to a guilty conscience.  The story proceeds in stages, some of which are not consistent with each other except in their intent to sway the Listener. Clamence says that he is a lawyer and that seems evident in his adopting a shifty defense lawyer’s tactic of saying whatever might be convincing at any point in time even if it is inconsistent with what he has said before.  Many interpreters of the book take what Clamence says at face value as what actually occurred in his life.[10]  But his repeated admission that he is an unreliable narrator prevent both the Listener and we readers from knowing whether anything Clamence says happened actually did happen.

Clamence admits that “It’s very hard to disentangle the true from the false in what I am saying.”  But it doesn’t matter, he claims, because “Lies eventually lead to the truth…So what does it matter whether they are true or false?”[11]  That’s Clamence’s plot: to say whatever he must in order to get at what he thinks is the truth of the Listener’s sins, and get the Listener to admit it.  Everything Clamence says is centered around persuading the Listener, who is thereby the central character in the book.  But Clamence’s plot fails.  The Listener patiently listens for five days, seemingly sympathetic and even empathetic with Clamence’s anguish, but he leaves unpersuaded, undaunted and unbowed.  And that’s why I think he is the hero of the book.

Clamence’s Story: What a Tangled Web. 

As Clamence tells it, his life story is of a seemingly virtuous and successful man who does a very bad thing which leads to his downfall.  For the first half of the book, Clamence hedges around what this bad thing is, but then, exactly half-way through the book, he describes the event.  He says that he was walking one evening across a bridge over the Seine River in Paris.  “On the bridge I passed behind a figure leaning over the railing and seeming to stare at the river.”  When he had walked on for another fifty yards, he heard the loud splash of a body hitting the water and then “a cry repeated several times.”  He thought “Too late, too far” and went on home, informing no one and avoiding the newspapers for several days thereafter.[12]

Clamence’s failure to act, even though it is not clear that he could have done anything to save the woman or even that the woman actually drowned, is the turning point in his life, leading him to question and disparage everything he has done or thought before.  It is seemingly not so much what he could have done as what he felt at the time that most bothers him.  He was apparently feeling tired and didn’t want to be bothered, let alone take some risk in trying to get the woman out of the river.  Callous and cowardly seems to be his judgment of himself.  He says that he has never stopped feeling shame for apparently letting that woman drown when he might possibly have saved her.  And it is seemingly on the basis of this event that he eventually comes to the conclusion that all and everyone is evil in the world, whatever the pretenses.

Clamence’s name is symbolically ironic.  He says that it is Jean-Baptist Clamence, though he admits at one point in his story that he has gone by other names as well.[13]  Clamence is one letter off from “clemence,” which is the French word for clemency.  Jean-Baptist is French for John the Baptist, the Biblical saint who dispensed clemency through the cleansing process of baptism.  Clamence is not dispensing clemency.  To the contrary, he is engaged in trying to convince the Listener and probably many similar listeners before him of their guilt and shame.

At the end of the book, Clamence describes his strategy: “I accuse myself up and down…I adapt my words to my listener and lead him to go me one better.”[14] Clamence seems to be like the Ancient Mariner who is compulsively compelled to repeat his tale of woe, albeit instead of carrying a dead albatross on his shoulders, Clamence carries a dead woman in his conscience.   He says that getting others to admit their sins makes him feel better about his own.

In his fulmination against himself and humanity, Clamence effectively makes a mockery of the three main traditions of Western moral philosophy – deontology, virtue ethics, and utilitarianism.  His arguments and examples undermine their underpinnings.  Deontology is a rule-based moral tradition.  It insists that people follow a set of moral rules such as the Old Testament’s Ten Commandments, the New Testament’s command to give your wealth to the poor, or Kant’s Categorical Imperative to do only what you would have everyone do.

Virtue ethics is a character-based moral doctrine.  It promotes the cultivation of moral character traits such as truthfulness, selflessness, sincerity, and generosity, and is associated with Aristotle.  Utilitarianism is a result-based moral precept.  It contends that one should do that which will result in the greatest good for the greatest number of people.  Jeremy Bentham was a leading utilitarian.  Implicit in Clamence’s narrative is a rejection of each of these moral traditions.  Implicit in the Listener’s silence is, I believe, sympathy with Clamence’s rejection of traditional moral philosophy, which reflects Camus’ views, but not an acceptance of Clamence’s nihilism.

The Stages of Clamence’s Descent and Lament.

Clamence’s attempted seduction of the Listener proceeds in what can be seen as six stages over the five days of the story, with each stage more vehement and pathetic than the last.  His diatribe constitutes a series of guilt-trips, ego-trips, power-trips, shaming, and shamming in an ultimately fruitless effort to get the Listener to spill his own guts and open up his own bag of sins.

In the first stage, shortly after they have met, Clamence tries a simple shaming technique on the Listener by asking him whether the Listener has given up all his possessions to the poor, claiming that he has done so himself.  The implication is that a good man would follow Jesus’ command to sacrifice oneself for others.  “I possess nothing,” Clamence proclaims.[15]  This is a lie, as we later find out that Clamence has a nice home and lots of nice things.  But it is an example of the mind games that Clamence intends to play on the Listener, and a lie that Clamence would contend is in pursuit of the truth and is, therefore, acceptable.  In any case, the Listener apparently shakes his head “No,” meaning that he hasn’t given his all to the poor, but he does not rise to the bait of either condemning or defending himself.

This leads to the second stage of Clamence’s attempted seduction on the same day.  In this stage, he portrays himself as someone who has inconspicuously practiced every virtue.  As a lawyer, “I never charged the poor a fee and never boasted of it,” he claims.  “I loved to help blind people cross streets,” he says, because they could not see who was helping them so that he was an anonymous do-gooder.[16]

But then Clamence turns the argument against himself, claiming that his virtuous behavior was really an ego-trip.  “I needed to feel above” everyone else, and doing anonymous acts of supposed virtue gave him this feeling of superiority.  Everyone looked up to him and “I looked upon myself as something of a superman.”[17]  He concludes this argument with the contention that you “can’t love without self-love,” that selflessness is really selfishness.  Having tainted virtue with vice, he seemingly hopes to provoke a response and a mea culpa from the Listener, but none comes.[18]

So, the next day, Clamence launches a tirade against virtue as a power-trip, seemingly trying to get the Listener to admit to his own lust for power.  Clamence claims that “one can’t get along without domineering or being served.  Every man needs slaves as he needs fresh air.”[19]  Love is domination, he insists, and virtue a means of control.  “When I was concerned with others, I was so out of pure condescension,” he confesses.[20]  “Power,” he declaims, “settles everything,”[21]  He seems to hope that this will provoke a response from the Listener.  It doesn’t and, frustrated with what he calls the Listener’s “polite silence,” Clamence pleads with him “But just think of your life, mon cher compatriot.”  To no avail. The Listener says nothing, but he returns the next day.

Shifting tactics somewhat the next day, Clamence tries to induce the Listener into admitting that everyone who pretends to virtue is a hypocrite  We are all in the business of judging others, he claims, and “People hasten to judge in order not to be judged themselves.”[22]  With respect to their own misdeeds, people want to believe that they were the result of “unfortunate circumstances” and not their own character flaws or selfish choices.[23]

In his own case, Clamence claims, “modesty helped me to shame, humility to conquer, and virtue to oppress.”  He practiced hypocrisy as a way of life and “brought out the fundamental duplicity of the human being” in others [24]  A false and fallen angel himself, he was only doing what everyone does.  In the end, Clamence concludes, “I have no more friends: I have nothing but accomplices” in the business of hypocrisy.  “And,” he taunts the Listener, “you first of all.”[25]  But the Listener does not take the bait.  He admits nothing, but again comes back the next day.

The following day, Clamence pulls out what he seems to think is his best argument.  This should be the clincher that the Listener cannot ignore.  He insists that it is impossible to live a moral life by living as you would have others live because living is itself an immoral act.  Living in the face of others’ deaths is inherently immoral and in living, we are effectively guilty of murder.  We are, in addition, guilty not only of our own crimes in living but also the crimes of others.  “Every man testifies to the crimes of all the others,” Clamence declares, and “we can state with certainty the guilt of all.”[26]  The Listener takes this in and seemingly does not disagree, but neither does he agree or denounce himself.  And he returns for one more day.

On the last day, Clamence resorts to his most pathetic argument, a warped form of utilitarianism.  He describes his experience in a German POW camp during World War II, having been captured while trying to flee France to safety abroad.  A self-confessed coward, he describes how he became the informal head of a group of prisoners, the “Pope of the prison camp,” and was given the power to dole out supplies.  He admits that he gave himself a larger share of the supplies and even drank the water of a dying man.  His rationale for this behavior was that he was needed by the other prisoners and so his first duty was to save himself.[27]

But then Clamence reverses course again, denounces this explanation as a rationalization of his selfishness, and makes his final plea to the Listener.  He explains to the Listener how he has been trying to seduce him into confessing his own sins.  It’s a method he has apparently used on many others.  Describing the method, Clamence says that he starts by “saying ‘I was the lowest of the low.’ Then imperceptibly I pass from the ‘I’ to the ‘we,” and then “I provoke you into judging yourself.”[28]  He corrals his listeners into identifying with him and then when he denounces himself, he gets them to denounce themselves.  But it hasn’t worked with the Listener.

Clamence closes his monologue with a plaintive plea to the Listener to confess.  The Listener remains silent.  So, Clamence pleads that the Listener should at least “Admit, however, that you feel less pleased with yourself than you felt five days ago.”  The Listener still says nothing.  Clamence concludes with a pathetic challenge.  “Now I shall wait for you to write me or come back.  For you will come back, I am sure.”[29]  Still no response.  Piteously, Clamence can’t let go.  “Say now that you are going to talk to me about yourself,” he whines.  No response.

In his final words, Clamence wishes that he could go back to that fateful evening and have once again the choice to try to save the woman.  But he no sooner wishes for that opportunity for redemption than he cynically dismisses it.  “Brr…!,” he complains as he imagines the scene, “The water’s so cold! But let’s not worry!  It’s too late now.  It will always be too late.  Fortunately!”[30]  There is no redemption and Clamence is grateful for that because undergoing redemption would be so hard.  He would rather be damned, or so he says.

Confession without Contrition: Universal Guilt v. Universal Responsibility.

Camus was raised as a Catholic and although he left the Church, he operated intellectually to a large extent within a Catholic framework.  His interest in confession, which is the form of both The Stranger and The Fall, is an example.  However, although Clamence’s monologue is in the form of a confession – he characterizes it as such – it is actually nothing of the sort.  He even confides at one point that the “authors of confessions write especially to avoid confessing,” and that seems to go for him too.[31]

For Catholics, confession is the prelude to penance and restitution, and to reconciliation with oneself and the world.  Clamence specifically rejects this process.  His goal is to admit to anything and everything bad that he can think of in order to put himself out of reach of any penance and reconciliation, and in order to induce others to admit to their guilty actions.

Clamence is mired in what Jean-Paul Sartre would call “bad faith.” He doesn’t want forgiveness from others or from himself because that would leave him in the position of having to make new moral choices.  He wants to plead guilty continuously so that he won’t have to face up to those choices and take responsibility for them.  In the course of his rantings, Clamence admits to ever more heinous thoughts and actions, amassing an ever-increasing debt of guilt.  This leaves an impression with the reader that he may be making most or even all of it up as a means of trying to manipulate the Listener, and Clamence even admits that he is making up at least some of it.[32]

So, it could be that Clamence’s so-called confession is all a lie, but if it is, it is a lie based on an undeniable underlying truth that there is evil in the world, and that most of us ignore most of it most of the time.  In proclaiming himself guilty for ostensibly having let a young woman die without trying to help her, Clamence may be just inventing what he conceives of as an extreme example of evil so as to highlight the general problem.  But whether he is lying or not, we are still left with the problem of evil in the world, and whether and how we can live moral lives in a world full of evil.

Clamence thinks we can’t.  He believes in what could be called “universal guilt,” which is that we are all guilty all of the time.  Given our chronic guilt, we must, in turn, live with perpetually guilty consciences and continuous judgments of guilt from others and from ourselves.  In this view, the human condition is a piteous situation.  Most reviewers seem to take Clamence’s lament at face value as expressing Camus’ views.[33]  I disagree.

Camus holds to what could be called “universal responsibility,” which means that we are responsible for everything, which means that we cannot sit around wallowing in guilt like Clamence does when we fail and fall.  We must pick ourselves up and get on with the next thing, which is what Dr. Rieux, the hero of Camus’ novel The Plague, does.  Faced with an impossible situation, an unstoppable and untreatable plague that is decimating the population, he continues to do what he can to help people.  But what comparable does the Listener do in The Fall?

I think the Listener does two important things.  First, he comes back every day for five days to hear Clamence out until Clamence is finished.  Second, he thereafter leaves and apparently gets on with his life.  Whereas Clamence is guilty of “bad faith,” I think the Listener should be credited with good faith as an empathetic listener to Clamence’s tale of woe, and as someone who is then literally ready to get up and get on with things.  That he is silent throughout is not an abdication of responsibility.  Having encountered Clamence in a bar, the Listener accepts responsibility for emotionally supporting Clamence even if he disagrees with Clamence’s conclusions.  The Listener’s actions are an example of the human solidarity that Camus promotes.

The moral and morale support which I think Camus ascribes to the Listener in The Fall is a key to Camus’ moral philosophy.  As Camus explains in his treatises The Myth of Sisyphus and The Rebel, and portrays in his novels The Stranger, The Plague, and, I contend, in The Fall, Camus believes that the indifference of the universe and the hostility of others can be overcome through acts of solidarity with others and a commitment to living with them in what could be called a caring community.

Camus’ Theory of Rebellion and Solidarity: All or Nothing v. All for One and One for All.

Camus’ The Rebel is an exploration of extremism and an exhortation to rebellion as an alternative to nihilism and totalitarianism, and human solidarity as an alternative to the reasonings of moral philosophy.  Rebellion is the legitimate response to meaninglessness in the universe, and solidarity is the answer to the question of how to try to be moral in an amoral universe.  The Listener in The Fall represents this answer.

Humans are inherently rebellious, Camus claims, and rebellion is “the first piece of evidence” that we exist.  Babies cry rebellion against their discomfort, and someone responds.  Babies know from then on that they exist.  In rebellion, individuals realize they have selves and are separate from other beings.  But, at the same time, they find through rebellion that they are not isolated beings.  One cannot rebel alone but only in connection with others.  If there is no response, there is no rebellion and no self-awareness. “I rebel – therefore we exist.”[34]  Selfhood starts with recognition of others and acceptance of them as comrades and equals   Rebellion starts with solidarity with others.  “Man’s solidarity is founded upon rebellion, and rebellion, in turn, can only find its justification in this solidarity.” [35]  In turn, solidarity starts with empathy.

Empathy is the root of rebellion but the antithesis of revolution.  Revolution is an all-or-nothing gambit.  Camus rejects revolution because it inevitably leads to murder and to the rationalization of murder as necessary for the cause.  Revolution also almost inevitably leads to oppressive and authoritarian regimes.  The Grand Inquisitor was the leader of such a regime.  Revolutions are organized around a theory of “us” versus “them,” and “them” deserve to be repressed.  Rebellion, to the contrary, is an incremental approach to social justice that emphasizes people’s commonalities, not their differences, that we are all in this together and that I can accept your disagreement as long as you can accept mine.  Rebellion must be militant but modest.

Camus’ answers to the questions posed by Clamence’s diatribe, as to how can one be moral in the midst of evil and how can one overcome selfishness, are empathy and solidarity.  Empathy – I feel your pain and your joy – enables you to identify with others and, thereby, define yourself.  It is the foundation of morality.  Solidarity – we are all in this together, and it’s one for all and all for one – subsumes self-interest and sublimates selfishness.  It is the means of reconciling the conflict between the One and the Many.  Empathy and solidarity are the antidotes to Clamence’s cynicism and nihilism.

The silence of the Listener is sympathetic and even empathetic.  He is seemingly not shocked or dismayed by what Clamence tells him, and he keeps coming back for more until Clamence is finished with his tale and his plea.  The Listener seemingly does not judge Clemence.  Based on Clamence’s reactions, the Listener seems to feel that “But for the grace of God, there go I,” which is a feeling that Clamence is aiming at.  But the Listener does not go from empathy to identity, as Clamence had hoped, and does not condemn himself.  Implicit in the Listener’s comradely support of Clamence is the possibility that Clamence will see in the Listener a model for how to get out of the vale of despair in which Clamence is mired.  It is not likely.  But in any case, the Listener is a model for us, the readers, as to how we might deal with nihilism and negativism in others.

The Listener politely and patiently listens to the whole of Clamence’s diatribe and then seemingly bids him farewell and leaves.  That, I contend, is for Camus a way of living morally in an amoral world.  It isn’t the only way but it is a legitimate response to the anguish of others.  It is the Listener’s empathy with Clamence that is his cardinal virtue, and is one of the cardinal virtues that Camus preached in all of his works.  Empathy is the best response to absurdity, and silence can be a legitimate form of empathy.  Although we can and should avoid deliberately harming others, we cannot always avoid doing so unintentionally.  It’s absurd but true.

We live in a time of guilt-tripping on all sides.  On the political right, anti-abortionists try to guilt-trip women who want to terminate their pregnancies by labelling them as baby-killers.  On the political left, human rights advocates try to guilt-trip anyone who ever committed any act that could be construed as racist or sexist, no matter if it was unintentional or how long ago.  These are only examples of what seems to a plague of ill-will in our society today.  Empathy for the difficult positions and different conditions in which people lived in the past and live in the present is scarce.  In the midst of the diatribes, denunciations, guilt-tripping and hypocritical rationalizing that engulf us in our world today, the example of the Listener in The Fall can perhaps be a lesson for us.

[1] Albert Camus. The Myth of Sisyphus. New York: Vintage Books, 1955. P.28. 

[2] Albert Camus.  The Rebel. New York: Vintage Books, 1956.P.302.

[3] Albert Camus. The Myth of Sisyphus.  New York: Vintage Books, 1955. P.3.

[4] Albert Camus. The Myth of Sisyphus. New York: Vintage Books, 1955. P.50.  Albert Camus. The Rebel. New York: Vintage Books, 1956. P.301.  

[5] “Camus: The Fall.” The Philosophy.com

[6] Jacqueline Wallace. “What Albert Camus’ ‘The Fall’ Has to Say About Modern Society.” The Artifice. 3/23/2014.

[7] For example, “The Fall by Albert Camus.”  Shmoop. The Teaching Encyclopedia.  Jacqueline Wallace. “What Albert Camus’ ‘The Fall’ Has to Say About Modern Society.” The Artifice. 3/23/14.  “Camus: The Fall.” The Philosophy.com

[8] Fyodor Dostoevsky. The Brothers Karamazov. New York: Farrrar, Straus and Giroux,2011. eBook Edition, P.295.

[9] Albert Camus. The Rebel. New York: Vintage Books, 1956. P.60.

[10] Scott Horton. “Camus – The Fall.”  Harpers Magazine. 8/8/2009.

[11] Albert Camus. The Fall. New York: Vintage Books, 1991. P.119

[12] The Fall.  Pp.68-71

[13] The Fall.  P.125.

[14] The Fall.  P.139.

[15] The Fall.  Pp.9-10.

[16] The Fall.  P.20

[17] The Fall.  27-28.

[18] The Fall.  34.

[19] The Fall.  44.

[20] The Fall.  48.

[21] The Fall.  45.

[22] The Fall.  80.

[23] The Fall.  81.

[24] The Fall.  84.

[25] The Fall.  73.

[26] The Fall.  108, 110, 112.

[27] The Fall.  122-123, 126-127.

[28] The Fall.  140.

[29] The Fall.  140.

[30] The Fall.  147.

[31] The Fall.  P.120.

[32]  The Fall. P.119.

[33] See for example: Patrick Kennedy. “Study Guide for Albert Camus’ ‘The Fall.’” Thoughtco. 5/25/2019.

Jacqueline Wallace. “What Albert Camus’ ‘The Fall’ has to say about Modern Society.” The Artifice. 1/23/2014.

Daniel Just. “From Guilt to Shame: Albert Camus and Literature’s Ethical Response to Politics.” Project Muse. 4/21/2011.

[34] Albert Camus. The Rebel. New York: Vintage Books, 1956. P.22.

[35] Albert Camus. The Rebel. New York: Vintage Books, 1956.P.22.

Shakespeare’s “Othello” and the Idiocy of Idolatry. There’s no fool like an old fool, except maybe a young fool. And Hell hath no fury like an acolyte scorned.

Shakespeare’s Othello and the Idiocy of Idolatry.

There’s no fool like an old fool, except maybe a young fool.

And Hell hath no fury like an acolyte scorned.

Burton Weltman

“Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.”

Proverbs 16:18. King James Bible

Fans, Fanaticism and Foolishness: The Relevance of Othello in an Age of Idolatry.

“Thus credulous fools are caught.”  Iago.  Othello. Act IV, Scene 1, Line 44.

There are very few things upon which all of the Western religious and philosophical traditions agree but one of them is the abhorrence of idolatry.  Another is the condemnation of pride.

Idolatry, worshipping someone or a representation of someone as though that person is a god, is prohibited in the first and foremost of the Biblical Ten Commandments.  Idolatry is generally considered the worst religious offense in the Judeo-Christian-Muslim religious tradition that has historically predominated in Western society.  It has been similarly condemned in Western philosophy from Socrates to the present.  Idolatry is considered false, foolish and, to the religious, blasphemous because it elevates someone to a magisterial height that the person does not deserve, and renders the person and the person’s ideas impervious to criticism and change.

Pride is, in turn, the first and foremost of the so-called Seven Deadly Sins and is generally condemned as the root of all evil in the Judeo-Christian-Muslim tradition.  “Pride is the beginning of sin, and he that hath it shall pour out abomination” warned St. Augustine, quoting from Ecclesiasticus 10:13-23.  Rooted in egoism, pride can be considered a form of self-idolization, setting oneself up as the supreme judge of something or as a be-all-and-end-all in some way, as though one can take credit as solely responsible for something.  Neither philosophy, science, nor religion accepts that claim.

What does it mean, then, that idolatry and pride are so prevalent, promoted and applauded in Western society today?  “I am proud of…” is a commonplace reaction to someone having done something deemed good.  People routinely proclaim pride in themselves and others, and it is a commonplace self-help mantra that “If you don’t have pride in yourself, you won’t achieve or amount to anything.”  Pride has widely become a term of approbation instead of opprobrium.

Likewise, “I idolize …” and “…is my idol” are commonplace expressions of devotion in our society.  People adulate athletes, actors and singers, effectively worshipping them like gods.  Sports fans (short for “fanatics”) root so fiercely for their favorite teams that they hate each other to the point of violence.  Idolatry has also invaded the political process.  Voters insist on idolizing their favorite candidates as saviors of civilization, as messiahs who will deliver us from the evil of our opponents, and foolishly expecting things of them they cannot possibly deliver.

The contradiction between what Western ethics teaches about idolatry and pride and what people say and do is exemplified by the so-called leader of the Western world, the President of the United States, Donald Trump.  As I am writing this essay in July, 2019, everything in the world seems to revolve around Donald Trump.  Which is the way he wants it, and he seems to be getting his way.  Congress, the mass media, the people in the street, all seem to be obsessed with his sayings and doings.  Trump is a man whose vanity knows no bounds and who has made of himself an idol that he expects his followers to worship and seems to worship himself.

So, what does all of this have to do with Othello?  As with most of Shakespeare’s plays, there are many different legitimate ways to interpret Othello.  The play has been given psychological, sociological, sexual, cultural, historical, anthropological, theological, ideological, and other interpretations, most of which can be seen as relevant to us today.  That is part of the genius of Shakespeare.  My focus in this essay is on the nature and effects of idolatry in the play.  It is an aspect of the play that is generally overlooked but is, I think, one of the things that makes the play particularly relevant to us in our age of idolatry and Donald Trump.

The Plot: How the mighty has fallen.  And the unmighty with him.

The basic plotline of Othello is fairly simple.  A revered Moorish military officer, Othello, who commands the Venetian army, elopes with the beautiful young daughter, Desdemona, of a Venetian aristocrat, Brabantio, much to Brabantio’s dismay.  Brabantio idolizes Othello for his past military feats – he is an Othello groupie – and has hosted Othello in his home.  Brabantio was unaware, however, that while Othello had been wowing him, he had also been wooing his daughter.  Brabantio does not want Othello, a plebian and a foreigner, for a son-in-law.  So, Othello steals away with Desdemona and marries her on the sly.  When Brabantio complains to the ruling Duke of Venice about Othello’s behavior, the Duke dismisses Brabantio’s complaint because he needs Othello to defend Venetian interests in Cyprus against an attack by the Turks.

Othello has meanwhile passed over his long-time devoted aid Iago for promotion, and has promoted instead a novice aristocratic soldier, Cassio, to be his second-in-command.  Outraged at being snubbed by Othello, and suspicious that Othello has previously slept with his wife, Iago plots revenge against Othello.  He intends to use Roderigo, a rich Venetian gentleman who is besotted with Desdemona, as a vehicle for compromising her and, thereby, humiliating Othello.  Along the way, but not in this exact order, Iago murders Roderigo, murders his own wife, plots the unsuccessful murder of Cassio, insinuates jealousy of Cassio into Othello and, thereby, instigates Othello’s murder of Desdemona and Othello’s subsequent suicide.  The action is quite dramatic but the real drama is in the way the characters are presented and developed.

Othello is a play that focusses on the character of its main characters.  Who and what are Othello, Iago, Desdemona, and Cassio, and how do they react to each other? These are its main focuses.  As with most of Shakespeare’s plays, the characters in Othello are suggestively outlined but not precisely delineated.  There is room for interpretation and legitimate variation in the way they are played. What Shakespeare doesn’t delineate in words can and must be delineated by the actions and inflections of the actors – how they look, speak their lines, move about the stage, and physically interact.

Interpretations of the play differ in many ways, for example, over whether Othello was a black Sub-Saharan African or a swarthy Arab, whether he was humble or proud, subject to epileptic seizures or just emotionally overwrought, and many other collateral matters.[1]  But they generally agree on the primary characteristics of the main characters, comprising what could be called a conventional interpretation of the play.  I don’t agree with this conventional interpretation.  My reasons and suggestions for alternative ways to play the characters are the purpose of this essay.

Conventional Othello, Unconventional Othello.

In the conventional interpretation, Othello is portrayed as great, guileless, and in full possession of his physical and mental powers.  Conventional interpreters take at face value the high esteem in which Othello holds himself and in which he is held by others in the play.  They insist that he be played as “a great and fearful man,”[2] and agree on “emphasizing the greatness of Othello.”[3]  He is often played by a vigorous, athletic young man, as was the case in a performance that I recently saw at the Stratford Theatre Festival in Canada.  In this view, it is Othello’s greatness that makes tragic his descent into jealousy and murder.

Othello’s tragic flaw in this conventional interpretation is the combination of his blind trust in Iago’s honesty coupled with the social, psychological and sexual insecurities he suffers when he is in polite, civilian society.  Despite his rugged background and demeanor, he is naive.  This naivete and social insecurity are explained as the result of his being a professional soldier who has spent his life in military encampments.  Although Othello is “not easily jealous,” according to mainstream interpreters,[4] Iago is able to play upon his naivete to generate Othello’s jealousy.

The conventional interpretation portrays Desdemona as naïve, virtuous, selfless and strong-willed, which supposedly made her “the perfect woman” in the eyes of Shakespeare.[5]  Cassio is portrayed as a callow but kindly young man, the perfect gentleman, which makes him a perfect foil and fool for Iago.[6]  Iago is portrayed in the conventional interpretation as the devil incarnate who “does nothing but evil” from beginning to end and “lives exclusively for evil.”[7]

I think there are significant flaws in the characterization of each of these characters in the conventional interpretation.  Among other things, this conventional interpretation completely overlooks the importance of the rules of hospitality during the Renaissance, in which the play is set, and in Elizabethan England, during which the play was written.  One of the prime rules of hospitality was that you don’t steal from your host, especially his young daughter.  Othello very adroitly does just that.  It is hard to see him as naïve and socially inadept in the way he courted and conquered the affections of Desdemona, and then secured a permanent hold on her.

Likewise, with respect to Desdemona, the conventional interpretation overlooks or underplays the fact that she disobeys her father and disregards longstanding social customs of the Renaissance and Elizabethan eras in eloping with Othello without her father’s knowledge, let alone consent, and without a traditional wedding.  As sneaky as she is, it is hard to see her as an innocent naif.  With respect to Cassio, the conventional interpretation overlooks or underplays the fact that he is a womanizer who treats his paramour with utter disrespect, leading her on to thinking he will marry her, and then laughing behind her back about his conquest of her and her gullibility.  It is hard to see him as a perfect gentleman.

Finally, the conventional interpretation dismisses or disregards Iago’s complaints about being passed over for promotion and being cuckolded by Othello as insignificant or as contrived excuses for his evil actions.  In so doing, this interpretation overlooks the norms of personal loyalty and honor among military comrades that prevailed during this time, norms which Othello has breached in passing over Iago for promotion and in sleeping with Iago’s wife, which Othello did in my interpretation.

In the conventional view, the conflict in the play is between the good characters, Othello, Desdemona, and Cassio, against the bad character, Iago, with Othello’s social insecurity as the flaw which enables Iago to work his dastardly deeds.  This is essentially the version of the play that I saw in June, 2019 at the Stratford Theatre Festival.  Although the performance at Stratford was very well done, I don’t think this interpretation of the play does justice to Shakespeare’s characters or to the complexity of the drama.  Without justifying Iago’s actions, I think that a more nuanced interpretation would portray the other main characters as less than ideally good, especially Othello.

Othello: Less There Than It Seems.

In the view I am proposing, Othello is not a great and guileless warrior in full possession of his powers and eager for action.  He is a grizzled, over-the-hill war hero who is looking for a soft retirement.  Adulated in Venice for his past military prowess, he is an idol whose clay feet are starting to hurt.  “I am declined into the vale of years,” Othello complains. (III, 3, 265-266)  Burdened with the social disadvantages of being a plebian by birth and a foreigner, he is, however, a canny social climber who tells tales to impress his hearers and to gain prominence and power.  He has cultivated Brabantio with a purpose in mind, which is to marry into a rich noble family.  He seeks a pretty young wife and a nice dowry to enjoy in retirement.

It is in this context, I think, that you can understand why Othello eschewed the plebian Iago as his second-in-command and promoted instead the aristocratic Cassio.  In so doing, Othello sought to bolster his own social status through association with the high-born Cassio, and thereby make himself seem worthier of marrying into an aristocratic family.  It was not a good idea, to put it mildly, as it ultimately led to Othello’s downfall and death.  Brabantio was not impressed, Iago was enraged, and by placing the handsome, well-spoken Cassio as Othello’s second-in-command, it called attention to Othello’s relative unfitness as a match for Desdemona. Cassio was just the man for Iago to use to get back at Othello.

As Othello’s ensign, Iago had previously idolized Othello and repeatedly risked his own life to help his commander. (I,1,25-28)  Iago had been Othello’s flagbearer, the person who leads the army into battle and around whom the army rallies.  It is a very dangerous position because the enemy usually tries to kill the flagbearer first.  In passing over him, Othello enraged Iago, who reacted as an acolyte scorned.  It is, thus, Othello who set in motion the train of events that led to his own downfall.  In reaching too far, Othello fell over himself and into the abyss.

Othello, in this view, is not a vigorous young man at the height of his powers.  He is a middle-aged man in decline, and all of his stories are about long past glories.  “She loved me for the dangers I had passed,” he says in explaining Desdemona’s attraction to him.  (I, 3, 165-170)  But those dangers are all in the past tense.

Othello is clearly a man of two minds about himself.  On the one hand, he still thinks very highly of himself and believes in the heroic image he has created of himself, idolizing himself even as he is idolized by others.  On the other hand, he senses his decline.

When, for example, Brabantio comes to ask the Duke to indict and imprison Othello for seducing his daughter, Othello brags to Iago that “My parts, my title, and my perfect soul shall manifest me rightly” that is, his reputation for greatness and his usefulness to the Venetian government will stand him in good stead against even the aristocratic Brabantio. (I, 2, 33-35)  And when Brabantio makes his appeal to the Duke, Othello is able to parry Brabantio’s accusations in the face of the Duke’s desire to make use of Othello to stop a threatened Turkish invasion of Cyprus. (I,2, 90-230)  The Duke dismisses Brabantio’s complaint on the grounds that what has been done is done – a no-use-crying-over-spilt-milk rationalization.  Othello is then duly sent to intercept the Turkish fleet.  When the Turks are all drowned in a terrible storm, Othello gains a victory by default.  His heroic image is, nonetheless, further burnished. (II,1, 1-40)

But Othello also senses his fallibility and approaching senility.  He sees that Desdemona idolizes him but he isn’t sure he can sustain his iconic pose.  He struts about with an aura of self-importance, always speaking of himself in grandiose terms, but he seems to be covering over his social insecurity with bravado.  Othello’s egotism and concern for his public image coupled with his social insecurity make him easy game for fooling by Iago.  Othello needs flattery, and Iago gives it to him, but with a taunting edge to it.

Iago showers Othello with flattery that touches on sensitive spots.  He tells Othello, for example, that before marrying him, Desdemona had rejected “many proposed matches, of her own clime, complexion, and degree, wherewith we see all things in nature tends.”  (III, 3, 229-235)   While this statement can be taken as a form of flattery that highlights Othello’s specialness and greatness, in that Desdemona chose him despite his inferior social status compared with her and her other suitors, it also reminds Othello that he may be on shaky ground with Desdemona.  And it points up the threat of someone like Cassio as a more suitable match for her and, therefore, a potential rival.  Most important, Othello accepts Iago’s analysis and seems to agree.

Iago goes on to imply that there must be something wrong with Desdemona in having willfully chosen Othello over the others, saying of her that “One may smell in such a will most rank, foul disproportion, that’s unnatural.”  And, again, Othello does not object and seems to agree.  Although his underlying insecurity is pricked by Iago’s cunning description of him as socially unsuitable for Desdemona, Othello’s pride doesn’t allow him to admit there might be something wrong with him.  There must, instead, be something wrong with Desdemona. (III, 3, 229-235) Othello’s egoism makes him easy game for Iago, who leads Othello on from rejection, to suspicion, to certainty of Desdemona’s infidelity based on nothing but innuendo.

An indication of the extent of Othello’s egoism is that he seems totally unaware that Iago might be upset at having been passed over in favor of Cassio.  Othello apparently thinks Iago should be grateful just to have the honor of serving Othello.  And perhaps of sharing Iago’s wife with Othello as well.  And, so, Othello trusts Iago, repeatedly calling him “honest” – perhaps the word most used and abused in the play, as those considered most honest are generally the most dishonest.  Othello seemingly cannot imagine anyone not being in awe of him.

It’s the pique to his pride and the threat of being knocked off his pedestal that seems to bother Othello most about the possibility of Desdemona’s infidelity.  In an exchange in which Iago is cunningly driving the idea of Desdemona’s infidelity into Othello’s head, Othello moans “But alas, to make me a fixed figure for the time, for scorn to point his slow unmoving finger at.”  (IV, 2, 53-55)   Being mocked is his greatest fear.  The idea of wearing a cuckold’s horns for all to see for all time galls him to death.  And Desdemona has ostensibly dishonored him with his own second-in-command, a man that he appointed in order to furbish his image.  Insufferable.

That it is the blow to his pride that most irks Othello is demonstrated by his explanation for why he killed Desdemona.  He claims that he is “An honorable murderer, if you will.  For naught did I in hate, but all in honor.” (V, 2 294-295) He is saying in this line that he killed her for the sake of his pride and reputation.  And showing that he is totally unable to fathom his own motives or to escape his egoism, Othello claims that when people speak of him, they should speak “of one who loved not wisely, but too well. Of one not easily jealous…”  Say, what?!

In conventional productions of the play, these lines about being “an honorable murderer” and having “loved too well” are taken at face value and played melodramatically.  As though Othello has experienced epiphanies and is revealing truths about himself.  But that seems like nonsense to me.  Loved too well, and murdered your wife as proof of that love?  Not easily jealous, but so easily tricked into jealousy by Iago that you fall over your own flattery?

These are great lines, sincerely said by Othello, but they are just part and parcel of his ongoing self-idolization and self-delusion.  He is trying to play the part of a tragic hero, but it’s an act that is belied by his actions.  A tragic hero is supposed to realize his tragedy before he falls.  He is supposed to have learned something.  That is not the case with Othello.  In the end, Othello has learned nothing and he dies as an old fool. (V. 2, 344-345)

Desdemona: More There Than Meets the Eye.

As I see it, Desdemona is not the selfless goody-two-shoes and not the perfect woman she is proclaimed by conventional interpreters.  She is a willful and wild child.  A spoiled child of privilege who wants what she wants when she wants it and expects to get it.  It is with this attitude that she deals with her father when he looks askance at her attachment to Othello, and it is the way she deals with Othello when he looks askance at her attachment to Cassio.  Her father objects to Othello as a son-in-law, so she elopes with him.  Othello resists her request that he pardon Cassio after Cassio has taken part in a drunken brawl, so she badgers Othello literally to death.

Desdemona is virtuous but not innocent, and she is chronically rebellious.  It has been said that when children rebel against their parents, they either reject something about their parents and go in an opposite direction from them, or they adopt something from their parents and push it farther beyond the limits of their parents.  Desdemona does the latter.  If her father is going to idolize Othello, she is going to marry him.  If her father objects to the marriage because Othello is from a lower social class and is a foreigner, she sees that as narrow-minded hypocrisy.  Likewise, if Othello is going to make Cassio his second-in-command, she is going make Cassio her best friend.  If Othello objects to their relationship, she sees that as an insult to her integrity.  She will not take “No” for an answer.  Desdemona is virtuous but she is not one to accept the deference to authority that a military man like Othello would naturally expect.  That is foolish.

Desdemona is also a mistress of deception, or so she thinks.  She successfully deceives her father in secretly courting with Othello and then eloping with him.  But she is unsuccessful in deceiving Othello about losing the handkerchief Othello has given her.  Her deceptions undo her.  When she goes off with Othello and leaves her father to die of a broken heart, her father warns Othello “Moor, if thou hast eyes to see. She has deceived her father, and may thee.”   (I ,3, 292-293)  Later, in the course of leading Othello into believing Desdemona is having an affair with Cassio, Iago repeats her father’s warning: “She did deceive her father marrying you,” he taunts Othello. (III, 3, 206-211)  She personifies the question that once someone has lied about something, how can you believe them about anything else?  Desdemona is virtuous, but she has foolishly helped create the appearances against her.

Finally, Desdemona is attracted to Cassio, not as a lover but as a chum, and as someone from the same upper-class background as she to whom she can relate in ways that she cannot with Othello.  She worships Othello.  But she can’t kid around with him.  He is not a kid and he is not a kidding sort of person.  Desdemona still is a kid, as is Cassio, and she thinks she can kid around and flirt with him in innocent ways.  She takes on a flirtatious tone in her interactions with Cassio, something that to her is just playing around but at which Othello looks askance.  She does not see this.  Virtuous but foolish.

Cassio: What You See Is What You Get, And That Isn’t Much.

About Cassio there is little to be said except that he is unwittingly the pivot around which the drama turns.  If Othello is a fool of pride who thinks he deserves adulation, and Desdemona is a fool of privilege, who thinks she is entitled to get her way when she wants, Cassio is a fool of fate.  He just happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.  He is from an influential aristocratic family, which is how he gets his position as Othello’s second-in-command.  But he has no military experience and is clearly unfitted for the position.  He is a gentleman by birth and education, but not behavior.  He is a callow cad who mistreats his mistress Bianca and publicly laughs behind her back at her belief that he will marry her. (III, 4, 180-200.  IV, 1, 101-140)  He is also clearly attracted to Desdemona but his adulation and fear of Othello keep him from making romantic advances toward her.  He is virtuous of necessity.

Iago: Seeing Is Not Believing.

Iago is the central character in the play and has the most time on stage.  Almost everything that happens during the play has been orchestrated by him except for his getting caught at the end.  He goes too far, trips over his own egoism, and will pay for his revenge with his life.  Iago is conventionally portrayed from start to finish as a devil who delights in doing evil and has no real grievances to account for his actions.  I don’t think that is a fair portrayal of him or is consistent with Shakespeare’s script.  I think that he descends into devilry but that he starts with real grievances against Othello.

The first half of the play can be seen, I think, as the fall of Iago, spurred by Othello’s mistreatment of him, and the second half can be seen as the fall of Othello, spurred by Iago’s mistreatment of him.  Both Iago and Othello unleash the evil in themselves.  To his credit, Iago is at least aware of what he is doing and what he has become.  “I am not what I am,” he admits when comparing his pose of honesty and loyalty to Othello with his deceitful efforts to bring Othello down.  (I, 1, 63)  Othello, on the other hand, is blithely unaware of the monster he has become in killing Desdemona, and sees himself as an iconic hero to the end.

Iago has two main grievances: being cuckolded by Othello and being passed over for promotion by Othello.  As to the first, Iago repeatedly claims that Othello has slept with his wife Emilia, complaining that “the lusty Moor hath leaped into my seat” and that “it is thought abroad that twixt my sheets he has done my office. (I, 1, 285-290; I, 3, 380-381, also I, 3, 334-335)

And I think it is pretty clear in the play that he is right.  In a long conversation about infidelity that Emilia has with Desdemona, she avows that she would be unfaithful with the right person.  And she defends the right and rightness of women who do, claiming that “I do think it is their husbands’ faults if wives do fall.”  (IV, 3, 60-100)  I think she has done so herself and Iago knows it.  And I would play her as making eyes at Othello when they are together in a scene.

As to the second grievance, Othello disregards Iago’s longtime service to him and Iago’s considerable military expertise in passing over Iago in favor of Cassio.  This is a breach of both the personal loyalty Othello owes to Iago and the professional loyalty Othello owes to Venice.  It is not just that Iago deserves the promotion, it is also that having a novice such as Cassio as Othello’s second-in-command puts the army and the city of Venice at risk.  Iago has previously idolized Othello as a great and noble military commander, and has repeatedly risked his life for Othello.  But Othello has betrayed Iago’s loyalty and the trust given him by Venice.  Othello is a god who has failed and, as a result, Iago has become an antitheist and, effectively, a deicide.

An Age of Idolatry: Trump and an Unholy Host of Other Tyrants.

Othello is a play about idolatry and its disastrous consequences.  It takes place in Renaissance Venice, which was almost perpetually at war or threatened with attack.  As the play opens, Venetian territories are threatened by a Turkish invasion and the Venetians’ fears are palpable.  They need someone to save them.  In that context, the Venetians turn to a famous military leader, Othello, and they anoint him as their savior.  As it turns out, it is the weather that saves them but that doesn’t diminish their adulation of Othello.  The rest of the play portrays the consequences of Othello’s self-idolatry and the Venetians’ idolatry of him.

Elevating a leader to a position above the mores and moral laws of ordinary humans, and idolizing him as the solution to society’s problems, can lead to the denigration of the very society you are trying to protect.  In the case of Othello, we see that the ruling Venetian Duke dismisses Brabantio’s complaint that Othello has violated the most sacred principles of Venetian custom and family law in eloping with Desdemona because the Duke wants Othello to confront the Turks.  All must bow and all laws must bend before the idol.  It is an example of undermining what you want to save in the name of trying to save it.

The danger of idolatry is a theme most appropriate to our time.  We seem to be going through an age of idolatry and it isn’t good, especially the tendency to idolize political leaders.  Looking for simplistic solutions to complex problems, people in many countries are turning to tyrants as saviors and giving them a free reign to do whatever they will.  In turn, these tyrants play on people’s fears to create cults of their own personalities, promising things they cannot possibly deliver, and demonizing weaker social groups.  Attempting to overcome their insecurities by dumping on those weaker than themselves – racial, religious, and ethnic minorities; immigrants; gays; whoever is different – people succumb to idolatry coupled with bigotry and demagoguery.  Creating what could be called communities of hate, tyrants denigrate others to elevate themselves.

Donald Trump is a leading example of this type of demagoguery and the dangers of idolatry.  An irreligious, immoral degenerate who represents almost all of the worst aspects of American society, he is regarded as a savior by many of the most supposedly religious people in the United States.  He is a fraud who would not be considered believable if he were presented as fiction.  But he plays to his supporters’ fears, exaggerates those fears, and clearly hates the people they hate.  That seems to be enough for them to idolize him as a messiah, some of them literally.  Fools and their liberty are soon parted.

Trump is, moreover, a fraud who has come to believe in his fraudulence.  But not entirely.  He is a man who is so consumed by insecurity that his self-importance seems to be a defense mechanism against himself.  Sometimes he seems to be a knowing fraud, other times a true believer in his self-proclaimed omnipotence.

And the irony is how easily Trump can himself be fooled by flattery and phony idolatry. Making a career of fooling others can open oneself to being fooled.  This was the case with Othello, who was so easily fooled by Iago, and also is the case with Trump.  Trump is so pathetic in his need for flattery and is seemingly so easily manipulated by flatterers, that he could almost be pitied for his insecurity if he wasn’t doing so much harm in the world.

Shakespeare has other plays about the dangers of demagoguery, idolatry, and tyranny. Coriolanus, for example.  Othello is particularly pointed because it portrays the way in which an iconic figure can be manipulated, unbeknownst to him or to his followers. That’s particularly dangerous, and that’s Trump.  Unfortunately, we still don’t know who may be pulling his strings.

But setting yourself up on a pedestal for all to idolize can make you prime for a fall.  It was Othello’s fate and, in his case, it was fatal to him and those around him. Writing this essay in July, 2019, I can only hope that Trump’s fate will also be to fall, albeit without fatality to him or others, but before he can do yet more damage to the world.  Abraham Lincoln once said that you can fool all of the people some of the time and some of the people all of the time, but you cannot fool all of the people all the time.  Lincoln offered the hope, the belief, that a sufficient majority of people will at some point in time refuse to be fooled any longer so that sense and sensibleness can govern public life.  Let’s hope that this point will soon be reached in our public life today.

B.W.

July, 2019

 

[1] Burton Raffel. “Introduction.” Othello. New Haven, CN: Yale University Press. Pp. XVII-XXXVI.  Isaac Butler. “Why is Othello Black?” Slate. 11/11/15.  Harold Goddard. The Meaning of Shakespeare. Chicago:  University of Chicago Books, 1951. Pp. 72-73. 88. Michael Wood. Shakespeare. New York: Basic Books, 2003.  Pp. 250-254.  Wikipedia. “Othello” Accessed 6/17/19.

[2] Mark Van Doren. Shakespeare. New York: New York Review of Books, 2005, P. 192.

[3] Harold Bloom.  “An Essay by Harold Bloom.” Othello. New Haven, CN: Yale University Press. P.213, 223.

[4] Harold Goddard. The Meaning of Shakespeare. Chicago: University of Chicago Books, 1951. P.93.

[5] Harold Goddard. The Meaning of Shakespeare. Chicago: University of Chicago Books, 1951. P.84.

[6] Mark Van Doren. Shakespeare. New York: New York Review of Books, 2005, P.195.

[7] Burton Raffel. “Introduction.” Othello. New Haven, CN: Yale University Press. P. XXXII -XXXIII.

Shakespeare’s “Henry VIII.” The Bard Takes a Stand Against Absolutism. A Morality/Amorality Play for our Trumpian Times.

Shakespeare’s Henry VIII.

The Bard Takes a Stand Against Absolutism.

A Morality/Amorality Play for our Trumpian Times.

Burton Weltman

 

Setting the Stage for Henry VIII: History Repeating.

Prologue:  A darkened stage.  An offstage voice reads the Prologue. The Prologue warns the audience that this is a sad play in which the mighty fall and the righteous don’t necessarily triumph.  The last lines are ironic and darkly humorous given Henry VIII’s many disastrous marriages, two of which ended with him decapitating his wives: “See how soon this mightiness meets misery: And if you can be merry then, I’ll say a man may weep upon his wedding day.”  The Prologue, lines 30-32.

As the reading of the Prologue proceeds, the lights gradually go up, slowly revealing a very fat man sitting with his back to the audience.  The man is eating noisily and occasionally shouting out “Off with their heads!  Off with their heads!”

When the stage is fully lighted, the man turns toward the audience and he turns out to be a Donald Trump look-alike, with a Trump facemask and an orange wig.  The man stands and faces the audience. He takes off the wig and the mask, dons a regal cape and a crown, and he becomes Henry VIII.  Lights down.  On with the play.

The Relevance of Henry VIII: A warning about James I and Donald Trump. 

Henry VIII is a tragic-comic take-down of King Henry VIII.  The play deprecates both the personal life and the political actions of King Henry, focusing especially on his lust for absolute power.  Henry is portrayed as a combination of childish buffoon and amoral evil genius, habitually manipulating others and making public policy to satisfy his own personal desires, and aiming always at expanding and exerting his personal power.  His reign is portrayed as a perpetual round of persecutions, prosecutions, and executions.  The play has a superficially happy ending, but it is an ending that Shakespeare’s audience would have known was historically the beginning of another round of turmoil and terror.

The thesis of this essay is that Henry VIII is a political statement by Shakespeare in opposition to absolutism and, as such, it is implicitly critical of King James I, the English monarch when the play first appeared in 1613, who claimed absolute power by divine right.  The play can also function as a criticism of President Donald Trump, whose personality and behavior are essentially similar to those of King Henry, and whose claims to absolute power are similar to those of Kings Henry and James.  Mimicking the claims of James, Trump is frequently proclaimed a divinely appointed President by his supporters, an anointment he has not denied.  The implicit comparison of Henry’s political pretensions to those of James made for the relevance of the play to Shakespeare’s audience.  The parallels between Henry and Trump make for the relevance of the play to us today.

As a corollary to his political statement, Shakespeare also makes a historical statement in Henry VIII that all is not necessarily well that seemingly ends well, and that an apparently happy ending is not justified by despicable means.  The play contains, in this regard, an implicit warning to Shakespeare’s contemporaries about the potential for political turmoil in seventeenth century England of the sort that prevailed during and after King Henry’s reign in the sixteenth.  Absolute power means absolute enmity which makes for perpetual conflict.  It is a warning that is also all-too-relevant to us today living through the reign of would-be-king Donald Trump.

The thesis I am proposing is an unconventional interpretation of the play.  It is based on an assumption that the play is best understood the way Shakespeare’s audience would have understood it, which is within the context of sixteenth and early seventeenth century history.  I think that understanding the play in this way makes it a better play and makes it relevant to our Trumpian world today.  That is what I will try to show in this essay.

Henry VIII in the Shakespearean Canon: Deserves better than it gets.

Henry VIII is a dramatization of the year 1533 in the life of the English King Henry VIII.  It was a significant year for Henry and for the future of England.  In the course of the play, Henry splits the English Church from the Catholic Church and makes himself the head of it, divorces his long-time wife Katherine, and marries his mistress Anne.  Anne then gives birth to the future Queen Elizabeth.  Henry also has several of his closest friends and advisors beheaded, including the Duke of Buckingham and Cardinal Wolsey.  It was a seminal year in English history.  A year befitting a play.

Henry VIII is made up of elements that one would think should make it a popular play. It contains the pathos of high-born people being brought low, some justly, others unjustly.  It features eloquent and moving speeches, particularly those by the doomed Buckingham and Wolsey and the deposed Katherine.  It includes biting and insightful personal and political commentary by observant characters, especially the Duke of Norfolk and his friends.  It is also full of pageantry that can make for an engaging spectacle.

The play has not, however, been highly regarded or widely performed.  It has been almost invariably disparaged by critics, including the likes of Samuel Johnson in the eighteenth century, Tennyson in the nineteenth, and Mark Van Doren and Harold Goddard in the twentieth.  Part of the problem critics have had with the play is that it was a collaboration between Shakespeare and John Fletcher.  Fletcher was a young writer in Shakespeare’s theater company with whom Shakespeare collaborated on several of his later plays.

Scholars have disputed for many years as to which sections of the play were written by Shakespeare and which by Fletcher.  Much of their disagreement has centered on the different poetic styles of the two writers and, particularly, the different meters they characteristically used.  The question of which of them wrote what is not important to this essay.  This essay focuses on the message of the play and not its meter.  The point is that irrespective of who wrote which lines, the overall meaning and message of the play would certainly have been set by the senior and widely celebrated writer, Shakespeare.

Harold Goddard summed up the opinion of most critics when he deprecated the play as “more pomp and pageantry than drama,” and complained that “Henry VIII is such an anti-climax” after The Winter’s Tale, The Tempest and the other great late Shakespeare plays.[1]  I think, however, that there is more drama and meaning in the play than is usually recognized, and that the biggest problem with the play has been the failure of critics to see it within its historical contexts, and to see it as Shakespeare’s audience would have.  Seeing it that way could make the play more interesting and illuminate its relevance for Shakespeare’s audience in 1613 and us today.

The Plot: All that glitters is not gold.

The plot of Henry VIII is fairly simple and quite compact.  While the play consists of five acts with a prologue and an epilogue, its action falls into three main parts.  The first part details the downfall and decapitation of the Duke of Buckingham. His demise is engineered by the power-hungry Cardinal Wolsey who is jealous of anyone close to the King.  Act I. Scene.2. Lines 170-200.

The second part describes the downfall and decapitation of Cardinal Wolsey, engineered in large part as revenge by some of Buckingham’s allies. Act III. Scene 2. Lines.1-13.  And the third part portrays the downfall of Queen Katherine, engineered by the King, and the rise of Queen Anne Boleyn, ending with the birth of the future Queen Elizabeth. The play closes with a boisterous celebration of the birth of Elizabeth and a prediction that hers will be a glorious reign.  As he leaves the stage at the end, Henry VIII is ecstatic.

In the conventional interpretation of the play, Henry VIII is portrayed as a brute but all is well that ends well.  In this view, Shakespeare was supposedly saying that Henry was a nasty specimen of a ruler but that since the glorious reign of Queen Elizabeth was the long-term result, Henry’s misdeeds were worth it.  A typical interpretation concludes that “The play ends with this great event [Elizabeth’s birth] and sees in it a justification and necessity of all that has preceded.  Thus history yields its providential meaning…”[2]

In this view, the celebration at the end of the play and the prediction that England’s future was secure are taken at face value. Shakespeare was supposedly saying that bad means can produce good ends.  I don’t agree.  And I think if that was all there is to the play, then the hostile critics may be right.  But I think there can be more to the play.  It’s a question of seeing the play within its contexts, that is, within the contexts of Shakespeare’s other history plays, the course of English history after 1533, and the state of English society in 1613 when Shakespeare wrote the play.

Henry VIII in the context of Shakespeare’s other history plays.

Henry VIII is one of Shakespeare’s last plays, and it is the last and the most contemporaneous of his history plays.  The reign of King Henry VIII was not ancient history to Shakespeare and his audience.  Shakespeare’s audience would have considered the reign of Henry VIII to be the beginning of the modern era, that is, their era.  They would have traced their present circumstances back to Henry’s regime.  This is significant because the play doesn’t just treat Henry VIII’s personal life with disdain, it treats his political decisions and pretensions to absolutism with contempt.  A pretension to absolutism that could be viewed as very similar to that of King James I.

Throughout the play, the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke of Suffolk and the Earl of Surrey comment on the action in the play as it occurs, almost like a Greek chorus. The play opens with Norfolk facetiously recounting a meeting of Henry with the King of France.  He mockingly describes two very obese figures, covered in gold, silver and silk finery, awkwardly dismounting from overburdened horses and embracing.  Norfolk laughingly says he “beheld them when they lighted, how they clung in their embracement, as they grew together; which had they, what four throned ones could have weighed such a compounded one?”  Act I, Scene 1, Lines 8-10.

Norfolk goes on from there to denigrate Henry’s policies as well as his person, policies that tend toward personal political absolutism, not unlike the pretensions of James I to monarchial absolutism.  Throughout the play, Norfolk and his companions complain that Henry is emasculating the nobility, taking their power, taking away their ability to check his actions, and making them into dandified courtiers.  Their powerless also leaves the nobles’ livelihoods and even their lives subject to the whim of the King.  Absolute power for the King, absolute insecurity for his subjects.

The result that we see in the play is a kingdom full of people conniving against each other for the King’s favor, even to the point of having competitors killed, and a King who can destroy anyone with the snap of a finger, whether or not the person is guilty of any wrongdoing.  Henry’s pretensions to absolute power leads to the turmoil that we see during Henry’s reign in the play.  Absolute power for the monarch, complete chaos for the country.

Henry VIII was the culmination of Shakespeare’s consideration of English history, his tenth play on the subject, and it seems to contain a verdict on that history.  I think that verdict is “Enough already.”  Enough of the power trips and power struggles, the persecutions and executions, the demagoguery and deceit, that permeated the English history that Shakespeare dramatized in his plays.  Shakespeare is known for his ability to portray both sides of most issues, leaving it to his interpreters to decide which, if any, side is in the right.[3]  Creative ambivalence was his forte.  Not so, I contend, in this play.

Taking a side does not make Shakespeare into some kind of radical.  To the contrary.  A tension between traditionalism and modernism, old ways and new, between what we might today call conservatism and liberalism, runs through Shakespeare’s plays, with Shakespeare generally seeming to tilt toward traditionalism.  That is the case here.

Monarchial absolutism was a recently developing phenomenon in Europe.  With the rise of a wealthy capitalist class from which kings could finance their governments and the development of guns with which they could raise armies of plebian soldiers, kings were gaining independence from the nobles upon whom they had previously been dependent for money and soldiers.  Kings began to assert control over unified nation-states as distinguished from the conglomerations of disparate fiefdoms over which they previously had presided.  In Henry VIII, Shakespeare came down against this radical innovation.

In a history play such as Henry VIII, the historical events that it does not portray can be as important to the meaning of the play as those that it does portray. This is especially the case if the author can assume the audience knows about those omitted events and that the audience will consider them part of the context of the play.  I think this is the case with Henry VIII.  It is a play in which the events that are portrayed point to events with which Shakespeare’s audience would have been familiar but that come after the play’s ending.

Henry VIII, Henry VIII and Sixteenth Century English History.

Henry VIII is a history play but it deals with events that members of Shakespeare’s audience would have considered the recent past or even part of the extended present, in the way that many people in America today consider the McCarthy witch hunts of the 1940’s and 1950’s.  Written during the years 1612-1613, it portrays events of the year 1533 that significantly changed the course of English history.  And it intimates the havoc that one man with too much power can wreak on a society.

During the year 1533, King Henry VIII undertook a series of selfish, self-centered actions for personal gain that effectively revolutionized English society.  Apoplectic that the Pope would not approve a divorce for him from his wife Katherine, Henry divorced England from the Catholic Church and made himself the head of a Protestant Anglican Church.  This set off battles within England between Protestants and Catholics, and between Anglican Protestants and so-called Nonconformist Protestants, that still resonate today and that were vehemently fought for some two hundred years after Henry’s death.

Having made himself head of the Church, Henry then made Church offices a matter of personal royal patronage, with bishops and archbishops coming and going at his whim. Over the long term, this patronage system made Church policy and practices depend on which political party or faction was in power, significantly diminishing the stature of the Church.  Henry also confiscated massive amounts of Catholic Church property, kept some for himself and gave the rest to his allies.  This had the effect of furthering the development of a capitalist economy in England, albeit a corrupt, crony capitalism in which monopolies for lucrative businesses were given to friends and allies of the King.

Henry centralized political and economic power in himself, developed a cult of personality in himself, and made everyone pay court to him.  He arbitrarily and summarily turned against allies, even prosecuting and executing many, so that everyone nervously and obsequiously hovered around him, seeking to stay in his favor.  Finally, Henry fathered a series of children who had conflicting claims to the throne.  This made for political turbulence and violence as each asserted his or her claims, and for political uncertainty and instability from Henry’s death down to Shakespeare’s present day.

Although we can see all these things developing in the play, and Shakespeare’s audience knew the unhappy denouement, the play ends on a boisterously happy note.  It is seemingly a moment of equipoise.  Henry has apparently established his dominance over church and state in England, has papered over the differences between those in his realm who remained loyal to the Catholic Church and those who were pushing England toward a Protestant Church, and has an heir in the person of the baby Elizabeth.  It’s a happy ending.  Or so it may have seemed in 1533.

The felicity at the play’s end is enhanced by an apocryphal prediction made by the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer.  Shakespeare invents for Cranmer a long speech in which Cranmer predicts that baby Elizabeth will grow up to become a sensational queen.  At this prediction, King Henry gushes “Archbishop, Thou hast made me now a man; never before this happy child did I get anything” and so forth for a dozen more gushing lines to end the play.  Act V. Scene 5. Lines 62-75.

But an ending is also a beginning, and a moment of equipoise is not forever.  We know today, and Shakespeare’s audience knew then, that Henry already had a daughter Mary, who was born of Katherine and who could have been his heir. But with the annulment of Henry’s marriage to Katherine, Mary had become an illegitimate child and not a potential heir to the throne.  Or so it was thought in 1533.  But Shakespeare’s audience knew better, and worse.  Mary was one day to become the Queen known as Bloody Mary.

From the vantage point of 1533, the play has a happily-ever-after ending.  But not so fast.  Shakespeare’s audience in 1613 would have known that in 1536, only three years after this happy ending, Henry would annul his marriage to Anne for failing to produce a male heir, and have her beheaded.  So, Henry really wasn’t as happy with the birth of Elizabeth as he may have appeared at the time or that Shakespeare made him appear at the end of the play.  And upon the annulment of Henry’s marriage to Anne, Elizabeth became an illegitimate child and was no longer a potential heir to the throne.  Or so it seemed in 1536.  Shakespeare’s audience knew better.

Shakespeare’s audience would also have known that Henry became paranoid in the years following 1533, afraid of both Protestant and Catholic opponents of his halfway religious reforms, and harried by a host of pretenders to the throne that his father had violently seized before him.  Henry proceeded after 1533 to kill off most of the most important people who were at one time close to him.  Of the characters in the play who were close to him in real life, Henry executed five during his lifetime: the Duke of Buckingham, Cardinal Wolsey, the Earl of Surrey, Thomas Cromwell, and Queen Anne Boleyn (spelled Bullen in the play).  Shakespeare’s audience would have known all of this.

Henry also ordered the execution of a sixth character in the play, the Duke of Norfolk, who was a main ally of Henry in reality and in the play.  Fortunately for Norfolk, Henry died before the decapitation could be carried out and Norfolk was saved.  A seventh character who is named in the play, Thomas More, another of Henry’s close confidents, was also subsequently executed by Henry.  An eighth character, Archbishop Cranmer, was under Henry’s suspicion for many years but survived his reign only to be executed later by Henry’s daughter Queen Mary.  As with the Red Queen in Alice in Wonderland, “Off with their heads” was the order of the day during King Henry’s reign and thereafter.

Finally, Shakespeare’s audience would have known that the death of Henry VIII unleashed a civil war between Protestants and Catholics in England, a bloodbath that continued for over twenty years and was still simmering in Shakespeare’s time.  Having veered back and forth between Catholic loyalists and Protestant reformers, Henry left them at each other’s throats when he died.

Upon Henry’s death in 1547, he was succeeded by his ten-year old son Edward, the product of his third wife, Queen Jane, the one after he had disposed of Anne.  Reigning as a mere child, Edward VI was guided by Archbishop Cranmer, an arch-Protestant who duly persecuted Catholics.  Edward died after only six years in office, having likely been poisoned by opponents of his religious policies.

Edward was succeeded in 1553 by his sixteen-year old cousin Lady Jane Grey.  She ruled as queen for nine days until she was overthrown and later executed by Edward’s sister, Bloody Mary. Like her mother Katherine, Queen Mary was a staunch Catholic.  She restored Catholicism as the religion of England, had Archbishop Cranmer killed, and had some three hundred other Protestants burned at the stake during her reign.

When Mary died in 1558, she was succeeded by Queen Elizabeth who ruled until her own death in 1603.  It’s at this point that the prediction that Shakespeare put into the mouth of Archbishop Cranmer in the play seemingly came true.  Elizabeth reigned long and well for England.  She began her reign with the enactment in the early 1660’s of a fairly generous Poor Relief Act.  Then she signed a peace treaty with France that finally ended some five hundred years of sporadic war over English claims to parts of France, which had been the subject or the background of several of Shakespeare’s plays.  And she oversaw the beginning of a very lucrative trade in African slaves that over the years became a foundation of English prosperity, albeit a disaster for Africa and Africans.

Elizabeth’s reign was not without conflicts and violence.  She outlawed Catholicism and restored Protestantism as the religion of the land.  There were ongoing persecutions during her time of Catholics in England and attacks by Catholic countries against England, including the famous Spanish Armada of 1588.  But these troubles were tame compared to the reign of Bloody Mary.  There were also prosecutions and executions of alleged plotters against Elizabeth, including Mary Queen of Scotts in 1587 and the Earl of Essex in 1601.  But, again, these were few and far between compared to the murderous reigns of Henry VIII and his immediate successors.

Forty-five years of stable government must have seemed a blessing to Elizabethan English people.  But at what price Shakespeare seemed to be asking?  Does Elizabeth’s reign justify the horrors of the reigns of Henry VIII and his successors before Elizabeth?  In making the last scene in Henry VIII a celebration her birth, I think Shakespeare was highlighting the horrors that had occurred during the play and that were yet to come after.

In this context, I think that the celebration at the end of the play, along with the pageantry elsewhere in the play, should be seen as ironic.  Shakespeare’s directions call for several scenes in which crowds of noblemen and noblewomen parade across the stage.  These scenes are usually staged as extravaganzas, with gorgeous costumes and sets, and seemingly accounts for complaints like that of Harold Goddard that the play is more pomp than drama.  The celebration at the end of the play is generally staged as though Shakespeare intended the audience to think this really is a happy ending.  But it isn’t, not if you know what happened next.  So, I would do things differently.

As a means of underling the shallowness of the King and his nobles, I would attire them in gaudy, garish, foolish-looking clothes and have them surrounded by a common people who are poorly dressed.  I would have the nobles parading around in ridiculously foppish and buffoonish fawning ways.  In this way, the ostentation can be seen as Henry’s, not Shakespeare’s, and the pomp can become part of the drama rather than a substitute for it.

This staging would be consistent with the complaint at the very beginning of the play by the Duke of Norfolk, a spokesperson for reason in the play, that Henry has dandified the nobility.  Although historically, as nobles became decreasingly needed as warriors, they increasingly became mere courtiers, Norfolk blames this dandification on the baleful influence on Henry of the French, which is something Shakespeare’s anti-French audience would have reacted viscerally against.  Act I. Scene 1. Lines 13-30.

Historical Message of Henry VIII: Power Corrupts the Powerful and the Powerless.

Shakespeare’s history plays are not historically precise and were not meant to be factually literal.  In these plays, Shakespeare took some historical figures plus some historical events and constructed a story out of them.  He took poetic liberty in delineating the main characters in the plays and in reconstructing the events.  The history plays were seemingly intended to convey messages about both history and current events, and to contain a moral to their stories.  Henry VIII is, I think, is no exception.

Commentators have frequently said that in his last plays, Shakespeare was trying to resolve and reconcile things that had perplexed him during his life.  In The Winter’s Tale, for example, which was written between 1609 and 1611, he deals with divisions and reconciliations among friends and family members.  In The Tempest, which is attributed to the years 1610-1611, he deals with the relation between life and art.  Prospero’s magic in The Tempest is generally seen as a metaphor for Shakespeare’s art, and Prospero’s abandoning his book of magic at the end of the play is widely regarded as a metaphor for Shakespeare’s abandoning the theater and moving toward retirement.[4]

Henry VIII is one of Shakespeare’s last plays.  If it falls into this category of bucket-list plays, what was he trying to say in it?  Michael Wood has opined that Shakespeare was trying to reconcile Catholics and Protestants.  In support of this contention, Wood notes that the two most sympathetic characters in the play are the Catholic Katherine and the Protestant Cranmer.[5]  I think that there is something to this suggestion but that there is also more to the play.

I think Shakespeare was trying to reconcile himself to the brutality and false promises of English history as he had portrayed it in his nine previous plays about English Kings.  In historical chronology, the plays started with King John, the regime in which the Magna Carta codified the rights of John’s subjects, and especially the nobles, against the King.  The plays dramatized an alternation of good and bad kings, with the hopes raised by the one being dashed by the next.  In Henry VIII, I think Shakespeare intended to show that the vicious cycle was still going around, even in his present-day.

Toward this end, Shakespeare invented an ostensibly happy ending to his play in which all the previous power struggles, persecutions, prosecutions, and executions had somehow been set aside and forgotten in the end.  A social equipoise had seemingly been achieved and a new beginning was ostensibly at hand.  Shakespeare, thereby, implicitly raised the question of what if Henry VIII had actually been satisfied with the situation he had engineered?  What if he had been content to be married to Anne and to have Elizabeth as his heir?  But he wasn’t.  And maybe he couldn’t be.

In Shakespeare’s plays, power generally corrupts and the desire for absolute power corrupts absolutely.  A power-hungry person can never have enough power.  There is always someone who has power he doesn’t have and must have to be satisfied.  But he can never be satisfied.  Because there is always someone threatening his power, and more power to be had.  That is what seems to drive characters such as Richard III and Macbeth in Shakespeare’s plays, as well as Henry VIII.  And Donald Trump today?

Shakespeare’s plays are full of examples of power turning people bad.  This was especially the case with royal children who were raised to be powerful.  In Henry VIII, the King’s personal satisfaction was his first and seemingly only priority.  A Trump-like, selfish, self-centered, self-willed person, Henry was so corrupted by power that he could not see past his own desires.  Having been born to royalty and raised to be king, Henry VIII was completely corrupted by the ability to have what he wanted when he wanted it, no questions asked.  He was the most powerful man in the kingdom, but with the mentality, desires and emotional control of an adolescent.  Sound familiar?

Portrayed in the play as a cunning capo, Henry ran his government like a mafia boss in charge of a mobster gang.  Loyalty to him and to whatever he wanted was all that counted.  That is why Archbishop Cranmer is saved at the end, despite facing charges similar to those that had brought others down:  Not for any religious, humanitarian, or other matters of principle.  He was saved because he was crucial in getting Henry his so-called divorce from Katherine.

While Henry is corrupted by possessing power, the nobles and others who hang around him in the play are corrupted by their proximity to power.  Many of them are high-born and powerful in their own right but they are like moths hovering around the more powerful King.  They woo Henry, giving him whatever he wants, and getting what they can out of the relationship.  But their well-being and even their lives depend on satisfying the whims of a capricious man-child.  Most of them eventually fail at this, and die for their efforts.  Anne Boleyn, for example, adamantly insists in the beginning of the play that she would not want to be queen and wouldn’t accept an offer of marriage from Henry. But, she does.  And she dies as a consequence.  Act II. Scene 3. Lines 22-40.

The nobles are corrupted by their proximity to power.  The masses of people are corrupted by their remoteness from power and their vicarious enjoyment of the King’s power.  Act IV, Scene 60, Lines 60-95.  Shakespeare portrays the common people as devoted to the King no matter how awful his behavior and how much damage he does to the country.  This is not unlike many supporters of President Trump in the United States today. Like Trump supporters, Shakespeare’s common people share a suspicion, envy, and hatred of those above them in the social and intellectual hierarchy of the day, and they love their leader for his attacks on those people.  They love him because he humiliates the people who humiliate them, even though they are also humiliated by him in the process.

Henry VIII, James I and Seventeenth Century English History.

In condemning Henry VIII’s power-tripping, I think Shakespeare was pointing to the pretensions to absolutism of King James I, and in highlighting the horrors that followed Henry’s reign, I think Shakespeare was raising doubts about the happy ending of his own time.  James I was not the philanderer and libertine that Henry VIII had been.  In fact, James was a narrow-minded, self-righteous pedant.  But he shared with Henry a lust for power.  Like Henry, James had been born and raised to be a king.  He became King of Scotland in 1567 at the age of eleven before becoming also King of England in 1603.  He had lived a life of power, with people bowing and scraping before him since he was a child, and he believed he was God’s special agent on earth.

When James became King of England, he commissioned a translation of the Bible that is called The King James Bible, the most popular English-language version of the Bible to this day.  A man with his own version of the Bible is likely to think well of himself.  And he did.  When James was still just King of Scotland, he had written a book entitled The True Law of Free Monarchies, published in 1598, in which he claimed that “The state of monarchy is the supremist thing upon earth; for kings are not only God’s lieutenants upon earth, and sit upon God’s throne, but even by God himself are called gods.”  Questioning a king who considered himself a god could be a risky business.  But Shakespeare did it, even if he could dare to do so only by implication.

When Shakespeare wrote Henry VIII, things were generally considered to have gone well in England during the reign of Queen Elizabeth and she had been widely idolized.  Overcoming the social and political turmoil that had been bequeathed to her by her father Henry VIII and her siblings Edward and Mary, and the complication of being a woman in a traditionally male role, she turned obstacles into opportunities and became the “Loved Ruler” and the “Loving Ruler.”[6]  Becoming beloved more than feared, she fared well.

King James sought reverence rather than love.  Although his reign up to the time of the writing of Henry VIII was tame compared to the reigns of Henry VIII and Henry’s immediate successors, but it was full of potentially ominous religious, class, and political conflicts.  I think Shakespeare was concerned about these signs of social problems and he took what I think can be seen as a series of sideswipes at James.

Religious differences reemerged as a major problem under James.  Unlike the tolerant look-the-other-way Elizabeth, James was a vehemently anti-Catholic Protestant who looked for reasons to persecute religious dissenters and found them.  In 1605, the Gunpowder Plot by a group of Catholics to blow up Parliament revived religious violence in England.  It was already illegal in England to be Catholic or Jewish, but now new penalties were enforced against Catholics and several people found to be Jewish were exiled from the country.  James also had a phobia about witches being agents of the devil, and during his early reign at least fourteen people were hanged as witches.  Even a pacifistic Anabaptist was burned at the stake for heresy in1612.

Shakespeare was no fan of religious extremism.  Measure for Measure, first performed in 1604, is a sendup of religious fanaticism.  If, as Michael Wood has suggested, Shakespeare was hoping to help reconcile Catholics and Protestants in Henry VIII, in particular by portraying the Catholic Katherine in sympathetic terms, that would have been an implicit criticism of the religious extremism of James.

Shakespeare’s implied criticisms of James extended to social policy, in particular the enclosure movement which had gained new impetus during James’ reign.  Enclosure was a legal process whereby landlords closed off land from peasant farmers who had previously cultivated it so as to raise sheep instead.  It had been ebbing and flowing for two centuries.  Peasants dispossessed of their farmlands ended up as vagabonds or worked as day laborers, much to everyone’s distress.

In 1607, the peasantry’s simmering discontent against enclosures came to a boil.  A group of some five thousand peasants known as the Diggers of Warwickshire addressed a petition to King James asking for help against the landlords.  Frequently citing the Bible to the publisher of The King James Bible, they claimed the enclosures were an offense against the King since they “deprive his most true harted (sic) communaty (sic)” of the right to live.  James responded by calling their petition “a wicked instrument” and sending out troops that slaughtered hundreds of the peasants.[7]

Shakespeare not only was aware of the events in Warwickshire but incorporated the arguments and the language of the Diggers’ petition into the opening scene of his play Coriolanus, first performed in 1608.[8]  In this scene, the requests by a group of peasants for justice are summarily rejected.  I think the scene is an implied criticism of James’ response to the peasants of his day.

Coriolanus can also be taken as an implied criticism of James’ political pretensions.  The play is a deprecatory portrayal of a demagogue who hoped to overthrow the newly founded Roman Republic in the fifth century BCE and make himself a dictatorial king.  The play can be seen as a backhanded rebuke of James’ dictatorial ambitions.  Similarly, in The Tempest, first performed in 1611, when Prospero at the end of the play abandons the magic which had given him absolute power over his island and returns to Milan as a seemingly constitutional duke, this can be seen as a rebuke to James’ insistence on absolute authority. 

In this context, Henry VIII can be seen as a critique of James’ politics in several ways.  James was in perpetual conflict with Parliament over the levying of taxes, which the King attempted to do unilaterally but which Parliament claimed as its prerogative.  Members of Parliament considered James’ spending to be extravagant and refused to grant him the taxes he wanted, so he took to refusing to call Parliament into session and began imposing taxes unilaterally.  This is something that Henry is portrayed as attempting to do in Henry VIII.   In the play, the Queen Katherine, a Catholic no less, convinced Henry to rescind his new taxes.  I.2.55-70.  II.2.20-40.  This scene can be seen as directed against James’ actions.

James was also at loggerheads with the Common Law Courts.  The Common Law was judge-made law that derived from judges’ decisions on disputed legal cases.  One judge’s decision on a type of case became a precedent for the next judge’s consideration in the next case of that type.  English common law dates from the eleventh century ACE.  James claimed that his decisions could override common law decisions.  Common law lawyers, citing the Magna Carta among other precedents, rejected the King’s claim.  In Henry VIII, Shakespeare implicitly criticizes James’ claims to absolute authority and to being above the law by having Henry go to great lengths to ensure that his divorce from Katherine was legally recognized.  Even he felt the need to pay homage to the law.

Finally, Shakespeare rejected in his plays a key assumption that is generally made by members of the comfortable classes in society.  That assumption is that what’s good for me is good for all, and for all time.  To those who are doing well, the present moment will seem to be in perfect equipoise, with all the forces of good and evil in balance.  To the well-to-do, all of history has seemingly tended toward this moment – both the good and the bad of the past – and this moment justifies it all and does so forever.  Shakespeare never bought that comfortable line of thinking and Henry VIII is a quintessential example of his rejection of it.  A joyously happy ending turns out to be a horrible beginning.  Could he have been warning that something similar might be happening in 1613?

If Henry VIII reflects Shakespeare’s discomfort with the way things were tending in England in 1613, as I think it does, he may have been prescientThe next half century was to witness violent religious and political conflicts, as England suffered through more power struggles, persecutions, prosecutions, and executions.

James I, after struggling through his own battles with Parliament, the courts and religious dissenters, bequeathed his pretensions to absolutism to his son Charles I.  It was a legacy that led to vehement political battles between Parliament and the King, and religious battles between Puritans and Anglicans. These conflicts eventuated in a civil war during the 1640’s that resulted in the temporary overthrow of the English monarchy, and cost Charles his head in 1649.

Order was not truly restored in English politics until the Glorious Revolution of 1688 when the new ruling monarchs, King William and Queen Mary, accepted the primacy of Parliament. This accord began a period of relatively calm coequal rule that was characterized as “the King in Parliament.”  Pragmatism of the sort that Shakespeare generally championed – particularly in Henry VIII – finally prevailed.  For a time.

Staging Henry VIII: Portraying the Historical Context.

If I am right in my surmise that understanding Shakespeare’s intentions in Henry VIII requires the audience to be aware of sixteenth and early seventeenth century English history, how can one stage the play for people today who don’t know that history?  I have two suggestions.

The first is to fill the Playbill for the play with helpful historical information.

The second is to take advantage of technology that enables a director to project images and words onto the back wall of a stage.  Many productions use this technology for various purposes.  The purpose here would be to fill in some historical gaps for the audience during the play, and possibly make the performance more dramatic.  To make the play even more clearly relevant to the political situation in the United States today, images of President Trump could be projected on the back wall during appropriate scenes.

In particular, during the last scene, while Henry and his court are celebrating the birth of Elizabeth, some highlights of the subsequent regimes of Anne, Edward, Mary, Elizabeth, and James could be projected in words and images on the stage wall.  While this is going on, characters in the play could gradually leave the stage until Henry is the last one left.

Epilogue: King Henry VIII is the last one to leave the stage, lingering as an offstage voice reads the play’s epilogue, which emphasizes that this is a play in which women are the virtuous characters.  The epilogue seems to point back to the virtues of the cruelly divorced Queen Katherine but also forward to the successful reign of Queen Elizabeth.

A Trump look-alike comes onto the stage, passing the King as Henry leaves.  Each scrutinizes the other and gives the other a small smile and a nod of recognition.  The Trump look-alike looks out at the audience and smirks.  The lights go out.

B.W.  5/3/19

Postscript:  Performance of Henry VIII at the Stratford Theatre Festival

I recently saw a performance of Henry VIII at the Stratford Theatre Festival in Canada.  The director cut from Shakespeare’s script the opening lines of the play in which Henry VIII is described as an overweight, overdressed, vainglorious fool and then proceeded to portray Henry as some kind of heroic figure.  The play did not make sense, and it was a very disappointing performance.  Oh well, you can’t win them all.

B.W. 6/18/19

Footnotes:

[1] Harold Goddard. The Meaning of Shakespeare.  Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1951. P.269.

[2] Shakespeare’s Poems and Plays.  Encyclopedia Britannica. britannica.com Accessed 4/22/19.

[3] Jonathan Bate.  The Genius of Shakespeare. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008.  P.218.

[4] Harold Goddard. The Meaning of Shakespeare.  Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1951. P.278.

[5] Michael Wood.  Shakespeare.  New York: Basic Books, 2003. Pp.331-333.

[6] Garry Wills. Making Make-Believe Real.  New Haven: Yale University Press, 2014.

[7] Steve Hindle. “Imagining Insurrection in Seventeenth Century England: Representations of the Midland Uprising of 1607.” University of Warwick, 2018.

[8] Michael Wood. Shakespeare. New York: Basic Books, 2003. P.298.