on of a kilted man with a red beard
and red knees, brandishing a claymore. At best, a sombre barbarian
doing nothing in particular. In either case, all the atmosphere, all
the character, all the poetry, all that makes Macbeth live for us, is
lost utterly. If these definite illustrations of Shakespeare's human
figures affront us, how much worse is it when an artist tries his hand
at the figures that are superhuman! Imagine an English illustrator's
projection of the weird sisters--with long grey beards duly growing on
their chins, and belike one of them duly holding in her hand a pilot's
thumb. It is because Corot had no reverence for Shakespeare's
text--because he was able to create in his own way, with scarcely a
thought of Shakespeare, an independent masterpiece--that this picture
is worthy of its theme. The largeness of the landscape in proportion to
the figures seems to show us the tragedy in its essential relation to
the universe. We see the heath lying under infinity, under true sky and
winds. No hint of the theatre is there. All is as the poet may have
conceived it in his soul. And for us Corot's brush-work fills the place
of Shakespeare's music. Time has tessellated the surface of the canvas;
but beauty, intangible and immortal, dwells in its depths
safely--dwells there even as it dwells in the works of Shakespeare,
though the folios be foxed and seared.

The longer we gaze, the more surely does the picture illude us and
enthral us, steeping us in that tragedy of 'the fruitless crown and
barren sceptre.' We forget all else, watching the unkind witches as
they await him whom they shall undo, driving him to deeds he dreams not
of, and beguiling him, at length, to his doom. Against 'the set of sun'
they stand forth, while he who shall be king hereafter, with the
comrade whom he shall murder, rides down to them, guileless of aught
that shall be. Privy to his fate, we experience a strange compassion.
Anon the fateful colloquy will begin. 'All hail, Macbeth' the unearthly
voices will be crying across the heath. Can nothing be done? Can we
stand quietly here while... Nay, hush! We are powerless. These witches,
if we tried to thwart them, would swiftly blast us. There are things
with which no mortal must meddle. There are things which no mortal must
behold. Come away!

So, casting one last backward look across the heath, we, under cover of
the rock, steal fearfully away across the parquet floor of the gallery.

'C