I was talking with a friend on his
land line in California the other
day, about the problem of whether
to load up and take along disused
old portraits, moving to another
house. It's a simple problem, but
a vexing one, which means that it
remains in place, and the old por-
traits are packed along. In the
evening, prompted by a remark in
a movie I was watching, I opened
an old copy of Troilus and Cres-
sida, to a speech of self-por-
traiture in the Third Act. This
is not a play of top-of-mind a-
wareness in daily life, but its
familiarity highlights that risk
of contempt which dogs assumption
that we know it, when in fact one
knew it only for what was needed
at the time. Not to be prosaic,
this is not a sustainable rela-
tionship with the works of that
writer, whose companionship (like
Mozart's) is so accepted as pre-
scient that there is no excuse
for surprise, except for not hav-
ing needed what he was saying. A
portrait from the walls where one
has always lived might not be less
a matter of such fertile waiting.
I am giddy; expectation whirls me round,
The imaginary relish is so sweet
That it enchants my sense: what will it be,
When that the watery palate tastes indeed
Love's thrice repured nectar? death, I fear me,
Swooning destruction, or some joy too fine
Too subtle-potent, tuned too sharp in sweetness,
For the capacity of my ruder powers:
I fear it much; and I do fear besides,
That I shall lose distinction in my joys;
As doth a battle, when they charge on heaps
The enemy flying.
William Shakespeare
Troilus and Cressida
1609
The Arden Shakespeare
Kenneth Palmer, editor
Methuen, 1982©
